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The Independent
13-03-2025
- Entertainment
- The Independent
A24's cult thriller Opus is yet another superficial riff on Midsommar
Opus desperately wants to be a part of the moment. It has the look: the hard lines and clinical wide shots – Stanley Kubrick as a viral aesthetic – that have dominated high-concept horror of late, especially any fellow productions acquired by distributor A24. It's how last month's Companion was styled, and Zoë Kravitz's Blink Twice before it. It has the star: Ayo Edebiri, whose relatable nonchalance on the comedy-drama series The Bear and goofy, yet sardonic humour off camera have made her one of the hottest rising stars of late. And it has the 'salient themes': celebrity worship, the media, the rise in cult-like behaviours. But this is all superficial stuff. There's not much about Opus, really, that fully convinces. Edebiri, with that same relatable nonchalance, plays Ariel, an overlooked Gen Z writer at a music magazine, whose ideas are appropriated by her editor Stan (The Last of Us and The White Lotus 's Murray Bartlett), and passed off to white, male writers. Opportunity knocks when she unexpectedly receives an invite, alongside Stan, to the remote compound of pop star Alfred Moretti (John Malkovich), the 'Wizard of Wiggle' who delivered a string of No 1 singles in the previous century and then practically evaporated off the face of the planet. He's back now, with what his publicist (Tony Hale) promises will be 'the greatest album of modern times', Caesar's Request. It's set to debut at an exclusive listening party attended by Ariel, Stan, talk show host Clara (Juliette Lewis), influencer Emily (Stephanie Suganami), paparazzo Bianca (Melissa Chambers), and Moretti's former pal Bill (Mark Sivertsen) – and, also, the entire population of his compound, blue robed-zealots who call themselves Levelists, shuck oysters for pearls, and take bites out of the same loaf of bread at dinnertime. Opus may be the debut feature of former GQ writer Mark Anthony Green, but his experiences in the field provide a frustrating lack of insight. No one particularly needs to be told that celebrity fandoms and real-deal cults exist mere inches apart, or that the relationship between media and power is one of adulation in return for access. There's a sliver of promise when it comes to Ariel herself, ultimately a wannabe set on personal fame, whose closest friend (Young Mazino) calls her 'middle as f**k' because she's never experienced poverty, addiction, or heartbreak. She swears by authenticity and journalistic rigour, yet what does it say when she turns up to the compound dressed exactly like her weaselly editor? That level of interrogation is swiftly tossed aside for routine images of cult quirks, from the mysterious tent in the middle of a field, to the demand that Ariel has her nether regions groomed to a specific standard – there, seemingly, to assure audiences that the Levelists are just as spiritually and sexually fanatical as the creeps in Midsommar (2019) or Eyes Wide Shut (1999). Amber Midthunder's cultist character Belle, meanwhile, hews uncomfortably close to the racist stereotype of the mute but ferocious Indigenous woman. Malkovich, certainly, can make a meal out of Moretti's vanity, in the theatrical twirl of his jewel-coloured sarongs or the peculiar, unplaceable patter of speech that seems to only manifest in those who have dedicated their lives to art. But Green fails to pin down what this performative eccentric, beyond his thundering tunes about sex and luxury (written by Nile Rodgers and The-Dream), offers his devoted listeners. An escape? An identity? A promise? Opus offers no revelation. Dir: Mark Anthony Green. Starring: Ayo Edebiri, John Malkovich, Juliette Lewis, Murray Bartlett, Amber Midthunder, Stephanie Suganami, Young Mazino, Tatanka Means. 15, 104 minutes.
Chicago Tribune
12-03-2025
- Entertainment
- Chicago Tribune
‘Opus' review: John Malkovich and Ayo Edebiri match wits in an album release party gone wild
Cultlike celebrities of a certain size sometimes cross the line between unsettling narcissism and unsettling narcissism with top notes of pathology. This may not be news, even if they make the news fairly regularly, but the frustrating new film 'Opus' treats the toxic intersection of fame and infamy as a big reveal unto itself. It's a sleek enough experience visually, and the songs composed for 'Opus' by Nile Rodgers and The-Dream are pretty tasty. This is the first feature from filmmaker Mark Anthony Green, who wrote and directed and undoubtedly pulled a few ideas for 'Opus' from his ego-navigation experience as a celebrity journalist. Premise: After a nearly 30-year hiatus shrouded in mystery, the '90s pop legend known throughout the world as Moretti — bigger than Dylan, a pale white Prince with a wardrobe inching toward the interstellar — has produced his magnum opus, an album so major it's almost too special for human ears. Moretti launches this album by way of a lavish but exclusive junket held at his remote Southwestern compound, which is staffed by serenely puttering acolytes in thrall to the Scientology-esque religion Moretti subscribes to, known as Leveling. (His followers are Levelists.) The half-dozen who were lucky enough to be invited include five media poseurs Moretti has known a while, including the sycophantic editor of a Rolling Stone-type music magazine. For reasons unknown, a low-mid-level staffer of that same magazine, Ariel, has been invited as well. She's played by Ayo Edebiri (of 'The Bear'). Moretti is played by John Malkovich, because who else? Consigned to providing her boss with a few atmospheric details for his story, Ariel can't help but notice just how strange the goings-on appear. Cellphones are collected from everybody, with the promise of a return later. Moretti likes his guests unshaven, all over, so there's a non-negotiable grooming policy enforced. From there it's one small step to the first disappearing-guest act, and 'Opus' lurches from a satirically insufferable album-release party to a bloody nightmare. It does this while letting the audience get dangerously ahead of the narrative developments. Malkovich certainly holds his own, though there are times when his singular, sidewinding performance energy has a way of sapping a scene's overall rhythm and pace. The supporting cast is a good one, with Murray Bartlett, Juliette Lewis and others filling in the blanks of their thinly conceived characters. Edebiri's the anchor here, but the material is the material, and the material only goes so far. It's a familiar set-up by now: take a swank, remote compound, add an ultra-exclusive guest list and an escalating barrage of bloodletting, a la 'The Menu' or last year's undervalued 'Blink Twice.' 'Opus' has its moments. But even the surprises aren't especially surprising. 'Opus' — 2 stars (out of 4) Running time: 1:43 How to watch: Premieres in theaters March 13
Los Angeles Times
28-01-2025
- Entertainment
- Los Angeles Times
Sundance: In 'Opus,' John Malkovich plays a pop star in a sloppy slasher that spills blood and ink
PARK CITY, Utah — The sword proves mightier than the pen in A24's messy slasher 'Opus,' one of the buzzier films at this year's Sundance. The thin comedic stab-fest is the debut feature of former GQ staffer Mark Anthony Green, who started the script while profiling artists like the Weeknd and Kid Cudi. 'Opus' is a knife in his own back, a dig on the smarmy relationship between press and talent. It has good style and a handful of fun ideas, but it's ultimately as superficial as the puff pieces it's attacking. The setup is that a reclusive '90s pop superstar named Moretti (John Malkovich) has invited six journalists to his rural compound for an ultra-exclusive (and eventually ultra-violent) listening party of his first album in 27 years. Upstart writer Ariel (Ayo Edebiri, 'The Bear's' similarly ambitious young chef) is the trip's most unexpected and least important guest. The lowest name on her entertainment magazine's masthead, Ariel hopes that writing about famous people will get some of their shine to bounce back on her. Even her own semi-boyfriend (Young Mazino) thinks she's boring. Ariel has received the same deluxe gift-basket summons as the other attendees: her editor (Murray Bartlett), a TV host (Juliette Lewis), a veteran paparazza (Melissa Chambers), a gossip-hound (Mark Sivertsen) and an influencer (Stephanie Suganami). But she's no equal — her boss wants to hog the byline for himself. At the first group dinner, she sits meekly in the boonies of the banquet room alongside a couple dozen of Moretti's acolytes waiting for the head table to pass down a shared bread roll for everyone to take a bite. The gigglingly gross metaphor is that she's expected to settle for crumbs. Moretti receded from the public eye the year Ariel was born. Perhaps that's why she's the only person in the entire movie immune to his fame. She's also the only outsider concerned that Moretti's followers have formed their own creativity-worshipping religion. His disciples, the Levelists, wear cobalt uniforms and collect pearls — they are, quite pointedly, a Blue Oyster Cult. Yet Moretti seems half-amused by Ariel's suspicions. Peeking over her shoulder at her notes, he tuts, 'Doesn't sycophant have an 'o'?' Everyone else loves Moretti. The movie kicks off with two playful montages of his global fan base and they're as eclectic as a junk drawer. Headbangers, hipsters, all languages, all ages — every demographic on earth appears to adore his music — and so do we from the opening thuds that introduce us to his echoey, body-moving beats. Green smartly entrusted Moretti's three songs on the soundtrack to hitmakers Nile Rodgers ('Like a Virgin,' 'Let's Dance') and The-Dream ('Umbrella,' 'Single Ladies'). Each track is sung by Malkovich personally and each is a total banger. Malkovich invests the icon with confidence and sexuality like a disco remix of his seductive Vicomte de Valmont from 'Dangerous Liaisons.' He manages to convince us that even after decades in absentia, Moretti's gyrations are enthralling. He's 80% charisma, 20% peacock who takes his fashion cues from tin-pot dictators and Elton John. (The costumes are by the talented Shirley Kurata.) Moretti must have an ego — his license plate reads CLAP4ME — but his vanity is more visible. He's introduced having his head powdered and orders the journalists to undergo makeovers to look better in his presence. One of the guests' many handlers (Tamera Tomakili) insists that all visitors must shave their nether regions. It's a funny scene, but we're unclear on the point. Is he a germaphobe or a control freak? Does he genuinely care or he just exposing their cravenness? The director comes with hard-earned and believable insights into the awkward pas de deux between a celebrity and a journalist. The dance goes like this: The star wants compliments, the writer wants access. Difficult questions get side-stepped as the writer gets feted until they forget they're there to do a job. For most of the movie, both sides just smile at each other politely. The facade doesn't crack until Moretti mocks questions he hates — rude ones and vapid ones alike. The takeaway could be that bad journalism drove the genius into hiding. But its hard to make that theme stick when none of Ariel's fellow journalists are asking Moretti anything. They're just there to drink his wine until their punishment begins. A trickster genius with a mean moral code, Moretti turns out to be the music world's Willy Wonka complete with a mysterious throng of live-in devotees carrying out his revenge. The movie is essentially 'Willy Wonka & the Hot Take Factory.'. But the script lumps the journalists into a pile and barely bothers to reveal the individual sins they've committed. It's the vaguest of vengeance. The plot gets choppy once the neck-severings begin. Yet the movie starts strong with impressive cinematography by Tommy Maddox-Upshaw, particularly a long take that starts on a tour bus and zooms up into the air. The editor Ernie Gilbert also has a good rhythm for how long to hold a shot, as we take in life on Moretti's compound, itself a clever mix of stern and silly where the background is cluttered with painters and sculptures and people doing archery and tai chi. Alas, Green's intentions are as cryptic as Moretti's — he'd rather avoid just saying what he means. Green appears to think all parts of the media machine are ridiculous. Yet he buries his ledes so deep into the script that he leaves himself only a couple minutes to try to tie things up at the end. At one point, we see a close-up of all of the questions in Ariel's notepad. Few ever get asked, much less answered. Maybe his next film will be more of an exposé.
