If I were a lesser critic than I wish to be, I would use the title of this film as an opportunity to sardonically riff on how it’s anything but. There is, sadly, truth to such a sentiment; , the feature directorial debut of one Mark Anthony Green, is safely one of the creakiest films in the entirety of A24‘s library, and especially far from what it ostensibly styles itself as — not an opus, per se, but a revelatory finger on what I would call a crucial pulse.

But if Opus isn’t exactly worthy of praise, it certainly doesn’t deserve to be lacerated. Simply put, Green needs to continue to make movies — the subject matter that he’s shown an interest in here is requisite to a widespread, necessary form of healing, and the sooner he becomes a more confident filmmaker, the sooner we can well and truly benefit from his contributions to that conversation. But at this current juncture, his filmography (meaning Opus) fatally locks itself in its own sauce, all while insisting a handful of poisonous ingredients be part of the recipe, so to speak.

The film stars Ayo Edebiri as Ariel Ecton — a small-time journalist with big dreams and a bigger obstacle in the form of a boss (Murray Bartlett) who won’t give her writing the time of day. She gets her big break when she’s invited to a listening party hosted by Alfred Moretti (John Malkovich), a legendary 90s pop icon who has come out of retirement to release a brand new album. The announcement takes over public conversation, newscasts, and every other corner of the cultural zeitgeist, and there are many Moretti fans around the world who wish they could be in Ariel’s shoes. Ariel, however, arrives at the listening party on Moretti’s private, sprawling property — teeming with blue-robed Moretti devotees — and very quickly wishes that she was not in her own shoes.

As alluded to earlier, Opus is packed with big ideas — some of which will be touched on in a moment — but the lack of writerly and directorial discipline on Green’s part (he’s here as writer, director, and producer) undermines them quite severely. With a deliciously shrewd Malkovich as his primary vehicle, Green offers monologues upon monologues of philosophy pertaining to not only our obsession with celebrities, but where that obsession comes from, and what we can learn about ourselves and each other by examining that origin. This subsequently spins out into such topics as who is capable of making an impact on the world, and who has the courage and lucidity to even try.

The ideas are undeniably rich, and some of them are even actionable, but by rendering them as several long, cumbersome, verbal maxims, it becomes very difficult for us to get a grip on what Opus believes is its primary emotional and cerebral core. Without that grip, the plot beats cannot thematically unfurl with any sort of coherence — a plot beat might have thematic significance, but there’s no way of knowing which of Opus‘ many ontological monologues it might pertain to.

Indeed, the great irony of Opus is that it ostensibly champions our individual ability to create something, no matter how insignificant our name or brand might be or feel to ourselves. And yet, it’s so fixated on verbally prescribing us its dizzying manifesto, that it denies viewers the opportunity to bring themselves to the viewing experience and subsequently create an emotional interpretation of the film. Opus‘ screen is not a shared space, but a soapbox; usually valid grounds for mudslinging, nullified in this case by the nutrition of the film’s subject matter.

In all likelihood, this is a casualty of Green’s inexperience as a filmmaker. It’s clear as day how passionate he is about getting these ideas across — as he should be — but he’s too precious about the purity of his ideas, and thereby too dismissive of the role that the audience plays in bringing those ideas to emotional life. A more disciplined version of Opus would have focused on one of these maxims and allowed it the space to breathe, flirt, and be discovered/interpreted by the audience.

Succeeding that, Green could have explored more branches of his overarching ideology with another film a la Ti West’s X trilogy (also from A24). Instead, in his eagerness to relay these ideas, Green forgot to pace himself, and also forgot to let the ideas take on a more cinematic life outside of himself.

But even then, the mechanical storytelling instincts here are highly questionable in their own right. It’s no spoiler to say that Opus takes a turn into horror territory, the specifics of which I’ll leave you to discover on your own. But — and perhaps this is a secondary symptom of Opus‘ incongruent identity — the horror elements flatten whatever sparks of digestible insight do make it through. Why platform a tangible, antagonistic evil in your narrative when the most compelling indictment you make is towards the role we play in building our own mental prisons of worship?

That, dear readers, is far more terrifying and pertinent; it’s one thing to face an enemy, it’s another to face yourself, but both are incomparable to facing yourself by detaching from what you think gives you life. What is gained by cheering for your favorite pop star at a concert? What, if anything, are you actually cheering for by doing so?

This fallible narrative unfortunately compromises both Edebiri and Malkovich, albeit not totally. Edebiri, ever the specialist of casual awkwardness, pilots the envious Ariel superbly, and contrasts with Malkovich’s alien-like guru in a way that, in a different cut of Opus, would have been the film’s greatest weapon. Ariel speaks and stumbles like an everyday person, whereas Moretti sets himself apart from everyone else with language, intonation, and a speaking pace that make him strategically enrapturing and socially unassailable — a celebrity, in other words.

In this way, there is no interaction between these two that would cause them to connect on a human-to-human level — there is no emotional benefit to be had by either party. And I ask again; what, if anything, do we gain from pouring out our energy to a pop star at a concert?

There’s not a doubt in my mind that Green has some sort of answer to that question. Frankly, I have little trouble believing that he has an answer to many questions; pressing, intense questions that can and should be rendered on the big screen in the form of sincere storytelling.

Communicating via sincere storytelling, however, requires a filmmaking maturity that Green has demonstrated a current lack of with Opus. To evoke cliché, it’s a film whose reach far exceeds its grasp, but it’s also a prime example of a film whose reach needs to be encouraged, and which should be applauded for identifying that reach in the first place. Keep going, Mark Anthony Green — your opus will come yet.

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