by Tim Gordon
Opus begins like a fever dream wrapped in velvet, alluring, curious, and more than a little off. The feature directorial debut from Mark Anthony Green, this A24 thriller draws viewers into the surreal world of a reclusive pop star’s twisted comeback.
It’s a bold swing that boasts a killer cast and a striking premise, but despite moments of style and sharp satire, Opus ultimately succumbs to its self-importance, a cautionary tale about ambition in more ways than one.
John Malkovich stars as Alfred Moretti, a fictional 1990s pop icon who abruptly emerges from decades-long silence with a new album and an exclusive listening event at his remote Utah compound. Invited are a handpicked group of media personalities, journalists, influencers, critics, and talk show hosts, including rising writer Ariel, played with signature wit and weariness by Ayo Edebiri. From the jump, Ariel is the skeptical voice in a room of sycophants, and Edebiri’s deadpan energy serves as the audience’s tether as things spiral into cult-laced madness.
At first, Opus carries the energy of a razor-sharp satire, aiming at celebrity worship, media obsession, and the performative rituals of pop culture. The guests arrive, cell phones are surrendered, robes are issued, and bizarre traditions (pearl harvesting, full-body makeovers) are explained by Moretti’s “Levelists,” a cheerfully unnerving group of cult members dressed in beige and devotion. The setup is pure A24: minimalistic design, exaggerated stillness, dread pulsing beneath the surface.
Malkovich, in full grand-weirdo mode, leans into Moretti’s contradictions, equal parts messiah and megalomaniac. He is mesmerizing in moments, delivering monologues about artistic purity and societal decay with theatrical gravitas. It’s the kind of performance only he could pull off. But as Opus leans further into horror-thriller territory, even Malkovich struggles to keep the film from collapsing under its own weight.
Where the first half brims with promise, tightly constructed suspense, biting commentary, and moments of real visual elegance, the third act goes entirely off the rails. What starts as a slow burn devolves into tonal chaos: ritual violence, puppet shows, acid-tongued satire, and cult spectacle blur together in a finale that tries to do far too much. The climax is chaotic but not cathartic, shocking but not especially meaningful. It feels like the film is trying to scream its message just in case we missed the whisper, but the result is noise.
That’s not to say Opus is devoid of merit. Edebiri grounds the story with sharp timing and emotional restraint, even as the screenplay gives her increasingly less to work with. Juliette Lewis, Amber Midthunder, Tony Hale, and Murray Bartlett round out the ensemble, and all seem game for the wild tonal shifts, though few are given real arcs to follow. In particular, Lewis’s screen presence is underused, a missed opportunity in a film where performance and artifice are central themes.
Visually, Opus excels. The design of the compound, the cult-like aesthetic of the Levelists, and the staging of Moretti’s “art” lend the film an eerie, off-kilter beauty. The cinematography and sound design work overtime to sustain tension, and at its best, the film hums with satirical potential somewhere between The Menu, Eyes Wide Shut, and Get Out. But unlike those films, it doesn’t fully earn the social critique it gestures toward.
In the end, Opus wants to be a profound commentary on media complicity, celebrity excess, and the dangerous hunger for meaning. But its ambition outpaces its coherence. What could have been a sharp, terrifying indictment of cultish fandom and corrupted artistry ends up as an overcooked allegory lost in its own maze of metaphors.
Grade: C-
