OPUS [Review]
Everyone wants to be famous, but no one wants to be famous.
We’ve all seen how fame isolates people and distorts their reality. I remember reading about the time Michael Jackson had a grocery store closed down just for him so he could live out a mundane fantasy of being an ordinary person. For him, the simple act of picking up bread before heading home—without being mobbed by thousands of screaming fans—was a rare escape. Watching footage of the 44-year-old Michael, childlike and gleeful as he wandered the aisles, feels surreal. What’s mundane for most of us was, for him, an unattainable dream.
Famous people aren’t like us. They don’t understand our struggles, relate to our lives, or see the world through the same lens. For them, the universe revolves around their every whim. When they command it, the world stops and starts. This is the world of Alfred Moretti (played by John Malkovich), the enigmatic figure at the center of the film Opus. Moretti is a megastar, on the level of a Michael Jackson, who has vanished from public life for decades. After years of silence, he decides to release a new album and invites six people to a private listening session. Among them is Ariel Ecton (played by Ayo Edebiri), a struggling music journalist whose career has hit a wall. When she arrives at Moretti’s secluded compound, she steps into the bizarre world of the “Levelists,” a cult that has grown around Moretti and his celebrity. And this is where the story begins to unravel.
By now, we’re familiar with the tropes of the “cult movie,” thanks to films like Midsommar, The Invitation, and The Menu. Cult-themed horror has become incredibly popular in recent years, almost a trend unto itself. Opus reveals early on that it, too, is a cult movie, but with a twist: it focuses on the music celebrity. Unfortunately, that’s where its originality ends. From the opening title lettering (reminiscent of Saltburn) to the haunting flute music that greets visitors at the compound (à la Midsommar) and the dynamic between Ariel and Moretti (echoing The Menu), the film feels like a patchwork of every cult horror you’ve ever seen. The actors and locations may differ, but the beats are all too familiar. Every predictable twist unfolds exactly as you’d expect, and even the moments of gory shock feel like cheap attempts to startle, akin to a desperate carnival sideshow.
In an era defined by the Church of Kanye West and Taylor Swift’s exclusive, mystery-shrouded listening parties, Opus fails to engage with any of this. It doesn’t offer a meaningful commentary on the parasocial relationships we form with celebrities—relationships that often border on obsession or even mental illness. Instead, the film skirts around any definitive statement about celebrity worship, settling for a shallow “celebrity bad” message. This is surprising, given director Mark Anthony Green’s background as a former GQ editor. Few people have as much insight into celebrity culture as someone who’s worked at a publication like GQ, yet Green seems to have little to add to the conversation. It feels like he made this film not because he had something to say, but because he felt the need to say something.
Opus is Green’s feature directorial debut, and it’s remarkable that his first film boasts such an impressive cast and is distributed by powerhouse A24. [Sidenote: A24 has been slipping lately. My 3 least favorite films from last year—Y2K, The Brutalist, and The Front Room—were all A24 releases. Whoever was responsible for acquisitions during their golden era needs to come back.] While I don’t want to disparage anyone’s first film (you’ll never get the link to my Vimeo page), I can’t help but feel that a quieter, smaller debut would have been more appropriate. A lower-stakes project would have allowed Green to work out the kinks of filmmaking. Not everyone can be Jordan Peele right out of the gate (and even Peele honed his craft for years on Key & Peele before directing Get Out). I’m baffled by how this film, with a first-time director and a $10 million budget (for comparison, Get Out cost $4.5 million), even got made. Money, like fame, isn’t a cure-all—and in some cases, it can make things worse.
Opus introduces several narrative threads—dolls, clams, coochie shaving, puppet theater—and then abandons them without resolution. Unlike films like Midsommar, where every detail serves the story (think of the tapestry that foreshadows the entire plot), Opus tosses in elements with no narrative significance. The characters are equally underdeveloped. Even Edebiri’s Ariel, who serves as the audience’s proxy, feels hollow. Throughout the film, I kept wondering, “Who is this girl? What drives her? Why does she want to be a writer? Why should I care?” The side characters are even more thinly sketched. One character, a paparazzo, plays a pivotal role in the story, but their backstory is mentioned only in passing. When their fate is revealed, it’s delivered through exposition, robbing the moment of any dramatic impact.
Opus doesn’t live up to its name. Despite its stellar cast, the actors are given little to work with. Amber Midthunder is wasted, as are the comedic talents of Juliette Lewis and Murray Bartlett. The film borrows heavily from more cohesive cult horror movies but adds nothing of its own. It makes no unique or transformative statement about celebrity worship in the modern age. That said, I will give credit where it’s due: the two featured songs, 35mm and Dina, Simone, are absolute bops. Produced by Nile Rodgers and The-Dream, they’ve been on repeat since I saw the film. Sadly, these tracks are attached to a movie that doesn’t deserve them.
1/5 Clam Shells
