Illustration by Michael DiMilo
★★★☆☆
Starstruck: Review of Opus
By Geoff Carter
A24 has become synonymous with originality, daring, and independence in the film industry. It is also typically synonymous with quality. With quirky and beautiful productions like Queer, Ghost Story, The Witch, Midsommar, and Oscar winners like Ladybird, Moonlight, and Everything Everywhere All at Once—and dozens more great films—it is doubly disappointing to see such a deeply flawed movie come out of the A24 studios.
Not that everyone can hit homeruns all the time, and, granted, some A24 productions are uneven, but they are almost always reliably innovative and thought-provoking. The studio seems to prioritize new and sometimes disturbing visions of the world.
To say Mark Anthony Green’s debut horror thriller Opus falls short of expectations is an understatement. Featuring outstanding actors like John Malkovich, Ayo Edebiri, Juliette Lewis, and Murray Bartlett, the viewer would expect—well, an opus. Instead, the audience is presented a formulaic cult horror film mashed up with satirical jabs at our celebrity worship culture.
Ariel (Edebiri), and ambitious young journalist is invited with her clueless boss Stan (Bartlett) to attend the newest album release of Alfred Moretti (Malkovich) a pop star we are to believe is bigger than Michael Jackson, Prince, Taylor Swift, and Elton John combined. Four other journalists, including paparazza Bianca (Melissa Chambers), influencer Emily Katz (Stephanie Suganami), talk-show host Clara (Lewis) and shock jock Bill Lotto (Mark Sivertsen) have also been invited, ostensibly to cover the new album.
When they arrive at Moretti’s secluded compound which is populated by dozens of his followers all dressed in identical blue robes. Each guest is assigned a “concierge” 24/7 to be at their service. Ariel is a little disturbed to discover Bella (Amber Midthunder) never leaves the door of her room.
Moretti hosts sumptuous dinners and treats the guests to eccentric anecdotes and weird sorts of performance art pieces. He dresses in sarongs, velvet robes, other exotic wear (like any self-respecting pop megastar) and enjoys constant attention and service from his minions.
While presenting a new song to his guests, he brings them into a specially designed space and delivers it in a dynamic multi-media presentation. With Alfred Moretti, everything is completely over the top. His unique and quirky—to put it mildly—personality is a not-so-subtle parody of our celebrity culture.
While the others are completely invested in the Moretti experience, Ariel alone is suspicious of the intentions of Moretti and, as she terms it, his cult. When she runs across him lounging at his pool, she asks him about the brochure found in their welcome back outlining the precepts of the compound’s “Levelist” philosophy, which champions art as humanity’s highest and best aspiration. Moretti takes Ariel to a yurt where an acolyte is busy shucking oysters. Moretti explains they are searching for pearls—only those found by members will be made into jewelry.
Ariel becomes increasingly suspicious after Bill Lott disappears. Then, when Emily begins coughing and choking and is removed to the infirmary, Ariel ditches Bella and does some serious investigating reporting—the only one of the group who seems to know what that is. What she uncovers is shocking, (although, in this type of horror narrative, it is only expected) and she asks to leave. Moretti accedes but insists she watch the children’s puppet show first. Ariel agrees.
In it, a Billie Holliday puppet is beset by rats posing as reporters, asking her increasingly personal and intrusive questions. During the middle of the performance, Emily makes a very unexpected entrance, and Moretti’s plan for vengeance against the journalists who mocked and belittled him becomes apparent.
Cult films are a horror genre staple. Children of the Corn, Rosemary’s Baby Midsommar, and Hereditary are only a sampling. They can be sophisticated or formulaic, profound or (as in Children of the Corn) just plain goofy.
By almost every possible metric, Opus misses the mark. It is not a good movie, but it is tantalizingly, frustratingly close to being a good one. Maybe even a great one. John Malkovich’s turn as Moretti is playful over-the-top satire which he pulls off only as an actor with his monumental self-regard can. The philosophy of the Moretti cult—the Leverists—while only glossed over in the film, is quite interesting, especially as Moretti explains from his prison cell.
He explains that power and control mutating from brute force to left brain works is how he believes the human race has evolved. Okay. I can buy that. His concept that the next step of evolution is that artists—the right-brained dominance—should be king. In and of itself—beyond the silliness of this film—that is a profound idea. Artists as a rule seem to have a more empathic and compassionate sensibility towards other humans. That’s what makes good art. Unfortunately, except for the ending revelation of what happens to Moretti’s followers, this point is glossed over. It should have been a—or the—centerpiece of the movie.
It is also unfortunate that so much acting talent went to waste in this film. Except for Malkovich, who looks like he’s having a ball, the supporting cast does not have much to work with. Ayo Edeberi was reduced to a one-dimensional depiction of a frustrated young reporter. Juliette Lewis had almost nothing to work with. Bartlett’s smarmy Stan is nothing more than that—an asshole boss. The production design, costumes, and cinematography were all lavishly done. The puppet show scene was probably the highlight of the movie, but even when the script hits a high point like placing Billie Holliday at the center of media persecution (Why her? Why not Princess Di or Marilyn Monroe? What connection did Moretti feel with Holliday?) The cheap schlocky horror thrills like someone popping out of a beanbag chair or the replica of Moretti’s childhood house (shades of Psycho) just don’t pull it off.
I’m not sure what Opus was trying to do, or what type of film it was trying to be. Mark Anthony Green’s screenplay hit some good notes with Moretti’s oddball monologues which were dead-on Prince/Michael Jackson weird and with the pearl shucking scene or the Billie Holliday puppet show, but he fails to complete the connection between the artist, the pernicious media, and the Levelist concept of artistic vision as the ultimate guide to human fulfillment.
Some films have been able to pull off multi-leveled narratives. Most recently, Sinners was able to mash up a historical drama with a vampire flick—and pull it off. Green is not quite there yet, but it’s probably only a matter of time before he puts it all together. And I’m sure A24 will be there to help him do it.