Melania Doc Sparks Music War: Greenwood and Anderson Cry Foul Over Stolen Score

Mia Reynolds, 2/10/2026Music from Jonny Greenwood's score for "Phantom Thread" unexpectedly surfaces in the documentary "Melania," raising concerns about artistic ownership and intent. Greenwood and director Paul Thomas Anderson protest the misuse, highlighting the tension between creative vision and corporate exploitation in Hollywood.

So it’s more than a little jarring when those familiar strains—crafted for the hushed tension of postwar London—suddenly crop up in the backdrop of the new "Melania" documentary. The feeling is difficult to put into words; but imagine stumbling upon a family heirloom at a neighbor’s yard sale, precious and oddly out of place. The music’s context has been upended, transformed from an intimate language into set decoration.

Curiously, both Greenwood and director Paul Thomas Anderson hadn’t been informed of this repurposing. Instead, like many, they learned after the fact that Greenwood’s distinctive score was padding out a glossy portrait of First Lady Melania Trump—not exactly what was envisioned when he stitched together those fluttering piano motifs. Universal, it turns out, holds the copyrights here, not the composer. Thus, the music—though unmistakably Greenwood’s own fingerprints—is now in the hands of those making the licensing deals.

A measured protest emerged: “Jonny Greenwood does not own the copyright in the score, Universal failed to consult Jonny on this third-party use which is a breach of his composer agreement.” The open letter lands with a wince. What’s more, Anderson and Greenwood made clear their wish for the music to be removed from the "Melania" project. Sometimes, artists must raise their voices not out of ego, but out of reverence for the very spirit of their work.

Some might see this as a strictly legal matter—a question for contract lawyers arguing in stifling boardrooms, not the wider world. But for anyone sensitive to storytelling—the way music gives shape to emotion—it’s a peculiar kind of wound. Score is so much more than background; it’s character, pulse, subtext. In “Phantom Thread,” Greenwood’s melodies shimmer, always delicately at odds with expectation. Variety’s Owen Gleiberman once put it: “We’re all too aware that something ominous has to be lurking in the shadows... and the plangent pull of Jonny Greenwood’s musical score, rapturous with longing and anxiety, summons an unmistakable ‘50s-Hitchcock vibe.” These are not idle words.

Against all this, the "Melania" documentary itself feels almost beside the point—but the spectacle cannot be ignored. Ratner’s vision veers toward polished surfaces and elusive depths, a portrait some critics likened to peering through frosted glass. And then there’s the budget, which nearly beggars belief: Amazon MGM racked up $40 million for acquisition, joining forces with a marketing team reportedly splurging another $35 million. For comparison’s sake, even many award contenders fight for a third of that kind of support. The film’s audio lineup reads like a rock and roll hall of fame—Rolling Stones, Aretha, Elvis, the whole gang. If music licensing had a Super Bowl, this might be it.

Yet, scratch the surface and suspicions simmer. Was all this largesse purely about catching cinematic lightning in a bottle—or could it be an overture to certain political circles, especially in this post-2024 era? Amazon’s own distribution chief hints the theatrical release is but the tip of an iceberg, with Prime Video poised to reap the longer-term rewards in a subscription-fueled streaming race that, in 2025, grows ever fiercer.

Somewhere between business calculus and creative vision, pressure mounts. At heart is a question—who truly steers the soul of a film? Not the accountants, surely. Greenwood’s position captures a tricky paradox for composers and artists everywhere: work woven with painstaking care becomes, once signed away, just another asset in the vast corporate warehouse. The rules of ownership may be clear, but the logic of artistic legacy lingers in murkier territory.

Of course, Hollywood thrives on this tension: art versus industry, inspiration held up against the bottom line. It’s an old dance, but every so often—like in this re-use of a score—something tugs too hard, the cord snaps, and anxieties bubble into public view. What was meant for one specific narrative, tailored to the silences between lovers in a London atelier, ends up patching holes in a slick, political hagiography.

Yet the issue extends beyond the particulars of Greenwood, Anderson, or "Melania." It’s about the stewardship of art in a world relentless in its commodification. Soundtracks aren’t widgets; they’re not meant to be shuffled from one scene to the next at the whim of executives. They carry history and intent. Perhaps more than ever, in 2025’s landscape of algorithm-driven “content,” the threat to artistic legacy doesn’t always scream; sometimes it just hums quietly in the background, waiting for someone to notice.

There’s little satisfaction in such conflicts, of course. Greenwood has always seemed less about drama, more about craft. Still, he and Anderson remind us of something persistent: the true heart of a film or a score isn’t easily replicated, and when its context is erased, something vital goes missing. These aren’t just insider squabbles. They’re public lessons—stubborn reminders that, now and then, art has a mind of its own and, if you listen carefully, a way of making itself heard above the noise.

Sometimes a piece of music attaches itself to a film so completely, it’s hard to imagine one existing without the other. Jonny Greenwood’s score for "Phantom Thread" is precisely that sort of rare phenomenon—its elegant, melancholy passages settle in the air long after the story’s final frames, curling through memory like a half-remembered lullaby. There’s a certain magic in how those notes shape Daniel Day-Lewis’s world on screen: gentle piano chords trailing the sweep of a silk dress, strings trembling beneath the spoken word.So it’s more than a little jarring when those familiar strains—crafted for the hushed tension of postwar London—suddenly crop up in the backdrop of the new "Melania" documentary. The feeling is difficult to put into words; but imagine stumbling upon a family heirloom at a neighbor’s yard sale, precious and oddly out of place. The music’s context has been upended, transformed from an intimate language into set decoration.Curiously, both Greenwood and director Paul Thomas Anderson hadn’t been informed of this repurposing. Instead, like many, they learned after the fact that Greenwood’s distinctive score was padding out a glossy portrait of First Lady Melania Trump—not exactly what was envisioned when he stitched together those fluttering piano motifs. Universal, it turns out, holds the copyrights here, not the composer. Thus, the music—though unmistakably Greenwood’s own fingerprints—is now in the hands of those making the licensing deals.A measured protest emerged: “Jonny Greenwood does not own the copyright in the score, Universal failed to consult Jonny on this third-party use which is a breach of his composer agreement.” The open letter lands with a wince. What’s more, Anderson and Greenwood made clear their wish for the music to be removed from the "Melania" project. Sometimes, artists must raise their voices not out of ego, but out of reverence for the very spirit of their work.Some might see this as a strictly legal matter—a question for contract lawyers arguing in stifling boardrooms, not the wider world. But for anyone sensitive to storytelling—the way music gives shape to emotion—it’s a peculiar kind of wound. Score is so much more than background; it’s character, pulse, subtext. In “Phantom Thread,” Greenwood’s melodies shimmer, always delicately at odds with expectation. Variety’s Owen Gleiberman once put it: “We’re all too aware that something ominous has to be lurking in the shadows... and the plangent pull of Jonny Greenwood’s musical score, rapturous with longing and anxiety, summons an unmistakable ‘50s-Hitchcock vibe.” These are not idle words.Against all this, the "Melania" documentary itself feels almost beside the point—but the spectacle cannot be ignored. Ratner’s vision veers toward polished surfaces and elusive depths, a portrait some critics likened to peering through frosted glass. And then there’s the budget, which nearly beggars belief: Amazon MGM racked up $40 million for acquisition, joining forces with a marketing team reportedly splurging another $35 million. For comparison’s sake, even many award contenders fight for a third of that kind of support. The film’s audio lineup reads like a rock and roll hall of fame—Rolling Stones, Aretha, Elvis, the whole gang. If music licensing had a Super Bowl, this might be it.Yet, scratch the surface and suspicions simmer. Was all this largesse purely about catching cinematic lightning in a bottle—or could it be an overture to certain political circles, especially in this post-2024 era? Amazon’s own distribution chief hints the theatrical release is but the tip of an iceberg, with Prime Video poised to reap the longer-term rewards in a subscription-fueled streaming race that, in 2025, grows ever fiercer.Somewhere between business calculus and creative vision, pressure mounts. At heart is a question—who truly steers the soul of a film? Not the accountants, surely. Greenwood’s position captures a tricky paradox for composers and artists everywhere: work woven with painstaking care becomes, once signed away, just another asset in the vast corporate warehouse. The rules of ownership may be clear, but the logic of artistic legacy lingers in murkier territory.Of course, Hollywood thrives on this tension: art versus industry, inspiration held up against the bottom line. It’s an old dance, but every so often—like in this re-use of a score—something tugs too hard, the cord snaps, and anxieties bubble into public view. What was meant for one specific narrative, tailored to the silences between lovers in a London atelier, ends up patching holes in a slick, political hagiography.Yet the issue extends beyond the particulars of Greenwood, Anderson, or "Melania." It’s about the stewardship of art in a world relentless in its commodification. Soundtracks aren’t widgets; they’re not meant to be shuffled from one scene to the next at the whim of executives. They carry history and intent. Perhaps more than ever, in 2025’s landscape of algorithm-driven “content,” the threat to artistic legacy doesn’t always scream; sometimes it just hums quietly in the background, waiting for someone to notice.There’s little satisfaction in such conflicts, of course. Greenwood has always seemed less about drama, more about craft. Still, he and Anderson remind us of something persistent: the true heart of a film or a score isn’t easily replicated, and when its context is erased, something vital goes missing. These aren’t just insider squabbles. They’re public lessons—stubborn reminders that, now and then, art has a mind of its own and, if you listen carefully, a way of making itself heard above the noise.