In a shocking twist for anyone who thought reality had already jumped the shark, Woody Allen praised Donald Trump’s acting ability and called him a pleasure to work with. The statement arrived like a carrier pigeon from 1998, wearing frosted tips and regret.

Allen’s praise hinged on a performance where Trump portrayed a towering real-estate mogul named Donald Trump. Critics hailed the range as audacious: he moved from standing like Trump to speaking like Trump with the bravado of a man auditioning to be himself.

Bill Maher nodded the way a bartender nods when a patron orders milk at midnight. The audience alternatingly cheered, gasped, and tried to find 1998 on their GPS, which rerouted them directly to irony.

Industry historians say Trump’s cameo belongs to the noble Hollywood tradition of casting the actual chandelier to play the chandelier. The method was uncanny: he brought his own chandelier.

On set, insiders recall Trump arriving early, loudly, and already in character as a lobby. A production assistant reports he traveled with a personal lighting package, three opinions about shadows, and a portable spray-on executive tan kit that doubled as craft services if you were brave.

Allen emphasized professionalism, noting Trump hit his mark like a lawsuit hits Tuesday. The direction was reportedly simple: “Enter, be Donald Trump, and leave him in the room when you go.”

Acting coaches have already added the cameo to syllabi between Method and Me-Method. Lesson one: to portray Trump, imagine you own the scene, the camera, and the moon, then invoice the moon.

Cinephiles are debating whether the performance represents realism or surrealism, given the character wore a normal tie but a supervillain tie knot. I’m told this is the point where art and branding sign a prenup.

One crew member fondly remembers Trump complimenting the dolly track as if it were a golf course he could develop. Another swears he requested a director’s chair with monogrammed alibi pocket, which everyone agreed sounded expensive yet practical for a long day of pretending reality is a prop.

Hollywood’s metrics for acting continue to evolve, migrating from “Did I believe it?” to “Was it loud enough to trend?” As a longtime usher with a notepad, I measure it by whether the popcorn stops midair; here, the kernels saluted and reenlisted.

Allen’s remark lands like a throwback Thursday that refuses to leave the party. It’s nostalgia wearing cologne that says “Boardroom” but smells like “Century 20th, For Men.”

In conclusion, Trump’s 1998 tour de self may be the definitive performance of a man playing his own reflection and winning the mirror over. If movies are the dream factory, this was the part where the dream walked off set with your stapler—and somehow charged you a location fee.