Opus: A reheated mess without a voice of its own

The latest in a string of horror films that have aimed to dominate the cultural space through a blend of elevated horror and thinly veiled social commentary, Opus feels like the culmination of this exhausted trend in all the worst ways. With a generic overarching plot that contains tedious, shallow commentary on celebrity worship and a lack of visual flair or intrigue at any turn, the film rarely sparkles, let alone shimmers with the ‘opulence’ its title promises.

Our entry point into the newest iteration of this formulaic story is Ariel Ecton (Ayo Edebiri), a unsatisfied music journalist who is consistently overlooked by her peers and feels unable to realise her true potential. In a turn of events, she is given a once in a lifetime opportunity to attend a private listening party, alongside five others, for the long awaited new album of the elusive and decades-in-hiding pop star, Alfred Moretti (played by a joyfully unhinged John Malkovich, who is the film’s saving grace). As the weekend of Moretti’s party commences, it is quickly revealed that something more sinister is at play. In the musician’s absence, he has transformed from legendary pop icon to head of a new age cult. As if this bafflingly on-the-nose attempt at satirising celebrity worship wasn’t tired enough the first time, Opus continuously forces upon the viewer slightly tweaked variations of this same self-satisfied premise for what is essentially the entirety of its run time.

It doesn’t help that the performances in the film consistently feel to be drowning in a sea of paper-thin characterisation, resulting in often stilted and awkward line deliveries. Unfortunately, Ayo Edebiri is the worst culprit of this – a woeful shame for someone with such wide-ranging performance talent. However, she’s forced to walk a tightrope here, which is as narrow as Ariel’s character development and one she never quite seems to balance. She is simultaneously tasked with pointing out the absurdity and ridiculousness of the cult’s actions, but also grounds them in reality to highlight their genuine threat. Ariel does this by reacting to the cult with horror, which results in an incredibly confused and disjointed performance.

The same can be said for the rest of the cast, who feel criminally underused and confined to their respective horror movie archetypes. In particular, Murray Bartlett, whose typical magnetism is completely squandered by his complete insignificance as the unlikeable journalist head. It is only the work of Malkovich, who manages to come out unscathed by thriving off his charisma and unbelievably exaggerated demeanour, existing on an entirely independent tonal level to what the rest of Opus strives for. However, this admirable commitment by Malkovich, which is not to be sucked into the bland, unfocused mess that is the rest of the film, also means that his interactions with characters like Ariel feel incredibly mismatched. In a confrontation between the two towards the very end of Opus, this duality becomes agonisingly apparent as Malkovich dramatically plays up the absurdity of the pseudo-intellectual monologue he’s delivering, whilst Edebiri feels incapable of rising above the shackles of her undefined character.

This lack of thematic weight and underdevelopment as a social satire would be more acceptable if the film had any personality or direction in its visual style

This all feels particularly disappointing with knowledge of the background of its first-time writer and director, Mark Anthony Green. He previously worked as an editor at GQ, giving him a first-hand account of the parasitic nature of journalism and its perpetuation of the god-like status that the celebrities being covered receive. However, none of this valuable insight feels translated into the film which instead settles for the most surface level and redundant versions of this messaging.
This lack of thematic weight and underdevelopment as a social satire would be more acceptable if the film had any personality or direction in its visual style. Instead, Opus feels like the work of a person desperate to show off their competency as a filmmaker without any concept of where to put it, producing an aimless and at times dissonantly bizarre visual aesthetic, which ranges from under to overly lit and contains an inexplicably bright colour palette, producing a deep disconnect between Opus’ content and presentation.

Its attempts to shock the viewer also largely fail to be impactful in any sense of the word. For example, an early sequence involving a dinner ritual, where each member of the party must take a bite of a singular bread roll, results in a saliva covered monstrosity by the time it reaches Ariel, which feels particularly indicative of the lack of imagination and depravity in Opus to shock the viewer on even the most remote level. These moments never feel connected to the narrative or thematic ideas at work, nor are they shocking enough on their own to warrant their inclusion, instead feeling like attempts by Green to distract the audience from the lack of substance in the story itself, which feels as chewed out as the bread roll.

There is nothing horrifying or significant about Green’s presentation of these brief flashes of violence

The violence which sporadically takes place in the film feels equally weightless. While the gruesome nature of actions are flinch-worthy, such as a cult member accidentally stabbing himself with a knife whilst being forced to search through hundreds of oysters for a pearl, there is nothing horrifying or significant about Green’s presentation of these brief flashes of violence. As a result, they are left feeling like cheap, unconnected jump-scares designed to enhance the bizarreness of the environment, rather than grounding them in the ideas Green seems so desperate to explore. Not once does the film lean into the relation between these unsettling actions and the devoted follower carrying them out simply for the pleasure of their idol, leaving these moments incredibly hollow.

The unbearably slow unfolding of the plot is therefore detrimental to any tension that may have otherwise been present in the film due to its reliance on the first two acts. These acts included a few brief, ineffective moments, aiming to disturb the viewer and with the occasional mention that a supporting character has gone missing. Green himself seems aware of this, as there is an incredibly strange tonal shift in the third act following a puppet show, where it feels as though Opus becomes aware of how little progression has been made in the plot. It suddenly bursts into random fits of unsatisfying gore which leave no time for the viewer to sit with or even process the fact that Plot Device #4 has died.

There is a monologue delivered by Ariel’s friend near the start of the film in which they note Ariel’s lack of perspective or insight; she has nothing new to say – a bewilderingly astute critique of the film itself and one that feels so self-reflexive. It is astonishing that the rest of Opus feels so painfully unaware of its irrelevancy. Maybe it should have taken its own advice.