Opus (2025)

Score: 1 / 5

We could spend hours picking apart every little problem with A24's most recent theatrical release, and I imagine most people who see it will do so. Before we get to my comparatively brief laundry list of complaints, however, it's important to impress on you -- in case you're wanting to see this film -- how exceptionally, suffocatingly unentertaining Opus was to me. I was so bored in the auditorium that I started counting the little lights that line the aisle and, as no one else was in the screening, I discovered that a total of 317 little tiny lights were dimly shining along the floor of this particular room. One might have been burned out.

Some films work by referencing others like itself, honoring and citing what has come before. Opus seems, rather, to think quite profoundly of itself, despite the obvious and better films to which one should readily compare it. Essentially, in the story, a journalist summoned to an enigmatic pop icon's isolated compound learns quickly that his worshipful cult has big plans for her. Titles like the cult-y The Wicker Man and Midsommar and The Sacrament come to mind, along with healthy doses of ritualized abuse like in Blink Twice or even White Lotus and Nine Perfect Strangers. There is some indication of pop art and/or celebrity status being used as a byproduct and shield of sorts of trauma mirrored in, for example, Vox Lux and The United States vs. Billie Holiday. The clearest point of connection, to me, was Ingrid Goes West, which plays with tone to a much more satisfying result.

Any invitation that includes the verb "luxuriate" should be accepted, so we're right there with journalist Ariel (writer and actor Ayo Edebiri, The Bear, What We Do in the Shadows, Theater Camp, Inside Out 2) when she's a bit excited for this otherwise weird summons. Her boss, Stan (Murray Bartlett of Looking, White Lotus, The Last of Us, Welcome to Chippendales), is also invited, and he educates her on their host. Aging pop superstar Alfred Moretti has announced a new album, years after his retirement. To drum up buzz, he has invited six notable journalists for a listening party at his private compound in Utah. "Journalists" is a stretch; the others include a talk show host (Juliette Lewis), an influencer, a radio shock jock, and a paparazza. Moretti himself is a mystery, but all the characters have long covered his fame in their lines of work or are personal fans. He occupies a mythic status far beyond that of mere artist, like one imagines the aura of Madonna and Elton John to be in life or the aura worshipped by devotees of Prince or Elvis in death. 

The main problem with the film is that we are given no reasons to believe or understand Moretti's greatness. By the time the characters have met and arrive at their desolate destination, it is immediately clear that Moretti is the figurehead of a cult, surrounded by sycophantic disciples tending to the compound. If Moretti's PR representative who announced the album (played by a delightfully unhinged Tony Hale) wasn't enough indication, the filmmakers include news footage of the global outburst upon news of Moretti's return. But the phenomenon of celebrity and "cult status" is herein literalized, and Ariel seems to be the only person present with an ounce of suspicion.

It's maddening, and only gets worse from there. The cultists all wear blue robes, and the visitors are pampered and prepared to meet with Moretti as if he's medieval royalty about to choose one as his concubine. An awkwardly funny sequence indicates that the visitors -- each constantly chaperoned (read: surveilled) by an attendant -- are freshly bathed, fed specific rations, shaved in specific private ways, and finally presented to their leader in the most elegant and unlikely of attire. While Stan gobbles up the experience like a greedy child, we're pushed to side with Ariel, clearly the only clear-eyed and competent guest, on whom will doubtless fall the responsibility of whistleblowing when things go tits-up.

And indeed they do. In predictable beats, the guests are treated to their glorious fantasy: a private musical performance from their host. Enter John Malkovich, in his uniquely bizarre brand of personality, dressed in what appears to be plates of mirrors that sorely hinder his movement, jerkily thrusting his way around the encircled chairs of his press. The "music" is grating and immaterial, and watching Malkovich pressing his crotch against Juliette Lewis in a big wig and red sequined gown was not my idea of a good time.

Yes, this seems excessive, but is it all meant to be too much? Could that be its aesthetic? A worthy question, dear reader. Apart from its pointed casting, the film does take big swings in odd moments. Moretti is never dressed the same way twice, and some of his outfits are genuinely dazzling. But Malkovich sometimes completely changes his wardrobe between adjacent scenes where the characters go directly from the threshold of a building to a dining venue or to a performance room, a space of time in which he simply could not have changed such elaborate ensembles. Camp? Maybe, but camp only works if it's about something, and something serious at that.

There's a curious subplot between Stan and Ariel. Though she was specifically invited to Moretti's gathering, Stan instinctively (or selfishly) delegates to her the task of taking notes of everything they experience. The article, "the story of this place," is Stan's alone. It's an infuriating first note to their dynamic, seeing his callous conceit and her automatic acquiescence. One could trace through Opus to connect the points of journalistic ethics and make some kind of point about paparazzi and the decadence of celebrity culture and the problems of parasocial relationships with emotionally-charged superstars. But despite being about that, generally, the film never offers insight into these phenomena. No sympathy, no empathy. No reason. By the film's disappointingly predictable climax, Moretti reveals the mass suicide plans for his cult and his motivation: wanting to stop critics. He seeks revenge for anyone whose artistic creativity has been hindered or crushed by the negative opinions of others.

The eye-roll-inducing basis for these doldrums revealed, I left this bitter viewing experience wondering only what this film is trying to say, and to whom. It's not funny, except in a few forced ways and a few awkward ways. It's not scary. If it's in defense of artists, its locus of horror is severely misplaced by making the artist a stand-in for Jim Jones. If it's in defense of press, it mistreats its characters by grossly misrepresenting their profession. If it's in criticism of celebrity culture and fan worship, where are its targets? Weirdness can work by and for its own purposes, but not in otherwise tepid and pointless material like this.