“Your problem,” one character says to Ayo Edebiri’s Ariel Ecton in an early scene of Opus, “is that you’re middle.” Alas, in a cruel irony, while Opus has some strong stuff to recommend it, it never quite rises above middle-of-the-pack. Perhaps if it had been released ten years earlier, it might have at least felt a little bit fresher, having the misfortune of following eerily similar ‘social thrillers’ like Get Out, Midsommar, The Menu, Blink Twice, Don’t Worry Darling et al. There’s some fun to be had, but the plot — an unwitting protagonist visits a cult-like retreat, only to discover satirically sinister intentions — feels a little too well-trodden.
Our surrogate here is Edebiri’s Ariel, a diligent rookie journalist at a glossy New York magazine, doomed to be belittled and passed over by her veteran editor Stan (Murray Bartlett). Suddenly, opportunity knocks. A personal invitation to a listening party arrives for the decades-in-the-making, long-awaited new album from reclusive pop star Alfred Moretti, played with entertaining loopiness by John Malkovich.
With mock modesty, Moretti describes himself as “a simple songman”. In fact, ‘Mr Glamboyant’, as he is sometimes called, is ostentatious enough to make Bowie blush, prone to wearing diamond-encrusted velvet suits and six-inch heels while offering pretentious pearls like, “Let the music decant a little” — dialogue that sings in Malkovich’s uniquely theatrical diction.
The film holds its cards close to its chest before anticlimactically splaying.
Soon Ariel, her editor and a select group of journalists and influencers (a timely jab is made towards print media) make the lengthy journey to Moretti’s compound, where they learn not only about his 18th studio album, ‘Caesar’s Request’, but also the teachings of the ‘Levellist’ movement and its hundreds of acolytes. Ariel seems the only one who notices anything off — even after an act of extreme medieval violence.
First-time writer-director Mark Anthony Green, a former magazine journalist himself, cranks up the tension nicely enough, with some stylish visual choices and some lovely supporting turns (Prey breakout Amber Midthunder is silently, effectively creepy as a Levellist enforcer). Disappointingly, though, the film holds its cards close to its chest before anticlimactically splaying them all on the table.
The film’s central thesis, too, feels muddled and underbaked: as a skewering of cult-like celebrity-worship, it’s often contradictory; as a study of creativity, it’s hardly very original. Still, it’s encouraging to see Ayo Edebiri — humane and droll, as she always is — earn the lead roles she richly deserves; and it’s always a treat to see Malkovich chew scenery with the subtlety of a smashed disco ball.
