Bumbling 'Opus' is a setup without a payoff
A24
When you consider which actor over 50 is best suited to playing a musician once known as the “Wizard of Wiggle,” who had 38 No. 1 hits in the ‘90s and used to date Cindy Crawford, only one name comes to mind: Malkovich.
Um, maybe not. But more important than the question of “Is John Malkovich shockingly wrong for his role in ‘Opus’?” (Super yes) is “Does it matter?” Cast Brad Pitt, Idris Elba, Steve Coogan, whatever, and writer-director Mark Anthony Green’s feature debut still not only lacks originality but the drive to sufficiently explore its ideas.
The premise is both grabby and instantly tired, feeling a bit like Ari Aster’s take on “Juliet, Naked” as well as “Blink Twice” and many more. Legendary pop star Alfred Moretti (Malkovich, never finding eccentric menace like Hugh Grant in “Heretic”) hasn’t released an album in 27 years, and to debut his just-announced comeback (“Caesar’s Request,” ugh) he invites a small and rather conspicuous group of media to an extremely isolated community in Utah, including Ariel (Ayo Edebiri of “The Bear” and “Bottoms”), a young magazine writer who’s barely published anything; Stan (Murray Bartlett of “The White Lotus”), who is Ariel’s boss and hardly a beacon of integrity; and Clara (Juliette Lewis), a TV host whose inclusion already should be a red flag nearly as ominous as Moretti also inviting a sleazy photographer (Melissa Chambers) and another media figure (Mark Sivertsen) with whom he previously had sizable beef. It is, well, blatantly obvious that this situation doesn’t pass the smell test, but Green seems to think that celebrity obsession is enough to eliminate common sense and safeguards and turn fandom into blind obedience.
Certainly the notion of entertainers with cult followings is, uh, not outdated, and Green has a great eye — even when “Opus” stalls narratively it impresses visually. Yet the film needs a closer study of pretty much everyone and everything in it, from Ariel’s ambition to Moretti’s enigmatic stardom (he doesn’t really resemble any of the actual ‘90s pop stars) to theories about reclusive artists, desperate outlets, and the ability for hollow messaging and unexamined adoration to brainwash. Watch “Martha Marcy May Marlene” if you haven’t in a while.
But ideas about a modern world losing its grip on creativity don’t feel connected to the actual reasons that sometimes feels true, and the view of celebrities with thin skin toward criticism brings to mind “Lady in the Water,” which is never a good thing.
Sure, we might all think we’re looking for pearls in the oyster, and it’s compelling to consider what gives Moretti such a hold over people, whether his supposedly inclusive thoughts on the accessibility of greatness or his music’s ability to spark widespread joy and a nearly involuntary push toward natural movement and pleasure. Why this guy in particular, though, or why people overlook that which strikes others as horrifying, or the creation and danger of a world that doesn’t absorb difficult material, remains not out of reach but left alone in favor of awkwardly smashing together hot-button issues and expecting everyone to be shocked.
C
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