Opus

Fans will blindly accept a lot because no one wants to admit that their favorite actor, musician, fashion icon, or athlete is a lousy person. They will overlook a lot—wasteful excess, private jets and yachts, cults, surgery addiction, problematic behavior, alleged crimes, and private amusement parks named after fictional islands—all in the name of fandom. Celebrities shape what we wear, listen to, and watch, and we want them to reflect the entertainment they create. But to what degree does fawning over superstars leave people exposed to manipulation? Opus, written and directed by former GQ columnist Mark Anthony Green, presents an indictment of celebrity culture and worship, exploring how loyal fans, even journalists, will accept all manner of weird and troubling behavior in deference to the importance our society places on fame. Having more than a little in common with Midsommar (2019) and last year’s Blink Twice, Opus is another entertaining, fucked-up thriller about an ill-advised trip to an idyllic sanctuary with some insidious secrets. 

The celebrity in question is Alfred Moretti (John Malkovich), an Elton John-esque musician known as “Mr. Glamboyant” and the “Wizard of Wiggle.” We’re told that, in his heyday, he dated Cindy Crawford, achieved unprecedented fame, and released the 1991 hit “Dina Simone”—the rare, genuinely catchy song written for a movie. However, Moretti has been out of the spotlight for 27 years. His eighteenth studio album, “Caesar’s Request,” will be released soon, and the private, enigmatic star has invited a select group of media representatives to his isolated desert compound. Among the handful of Moretti-picked invitees is Ariel (Ayo Edebiri), a young, perspectiveless journalist who dreams of using celebrity interviews as a gateway to becoming a published author. But she’s spent three years kowtowing to her editor Stan (Murray Bartlett), who also received an invite. Why Ariel, of all people, was selected is the film’s enduring mystery, and its answer is among the least satisfying aspects of Opus.  

After a journey by private plane, followed by a four-hour bus ride, the six chosen journalists arrive, among them a TV personality (Juliette Lewis) and a podcaster (Mark Sivertsen) who have previously criticized Moretti. Welcomed by a “creepy greeter,” Jorg (Peter Diseth), most of the group accepts the oddball situation as “pure Moretti”—the fenced-in hideaway, the community of hundreds of blue-clad followers, their devotion to an obscure religion called Levelism, and the mandate that requires visitors to turn in all devices. Ariel finds the situation unnerving but keeps her reservations quiet, taking a cue from the other, bemused journalists who seem unalarmed despite some eventual disappearances in their group. The cultish vibes in Moretti’s veritable Jonestown grow ever more conspicuous behind the façade of his devoted community of artists, each with bizarre scars on their hands and a worshipful reverence of their leader. 

Green implants no end of comical, chilling details that raise our internal alarms, from the unexplained dolls made to resemble the visitors to Moretti’s insistence that each of the journalists receive a personal concierge, stylist, and genital shaving. A notably disgusting dinner finds Moretti sharing a communal loaf of bread, from which everyone must take a bite. By the time it reaches Ariel, it’s a saliva-soaked sponge. At first, Ariel and the others write off their discomfort as owing to Moretti’s genius eccentricities. As one character in the film explains, “With talent comes forgiveness. The bigger the talent, the greater the forgiveness.” Meanwhile, the viewer feels thoroughly unsettled by what is obviously a messed-up ordeal. When the journalists begin to go missing and experience freak accidents, Ariel suspects there’s more than just an ultra-exclusive media event at play—she’s determined to do more than follow Stan’s order to “just take notes;” she intends to investigate the Levelists and Moretti’s influence over them.  

Part of what makes Opus enjoyable is the off-kilter quality of everything in the compound, a Neverland Ranch-esque abode where something’s off. Green messes with his audience, partly because watching Malkovich chew the scenery as a sociopathic performer—who claims he’s godlike when creating—is so entertaining. Moreover, unlike most fictional band music in movies, Moretti’s songs have an authentic quality. Produced by Nile Rodgers and The-Dream, they recall David Bowie’s last two albums in their wounded honesty and popish playfulness. Production designer Robert Pyzocha and costume designer Shirley Kurata craft engrossing, sinister details, from a morbid puppet show where Billie Holiday is interviewed by decrepit rat reporters to a ceremonial pearl-diving yurt. Ernie Gilbert’s editing keeps the viewer unbalanced, while the crisp lensing by cinematographer Tommy Maddox-Upshaw conveys the allure of Moretti’s bizarre style and the inherent foreboding of his community. 

Edebiri’s congenial screen presence smooths over some of what doesn’t work about Opus; she’s genuine and instantly likable, and thanks to FX’s The Bear and 2023’s Bottoms, her talent is becoming more and more apparent. Green uses Ariel to comment on how celebrities thrive on media attention and vice versa, even if sometimes the two parties resent the dynamic. It’s a vicious, enabling circle that Green compares to a religion or cult, with the talent as charismatic but predatory leaders and the media as their sycophantic buzz machine. As a critic who avoids interviewing celebrities to instead focus on the quality of their work, I found Green’s takedown refreshing, if somewhat outlandish and absurdist. Moretti’s master plan and ability to brainwash so many to his cause prove the least convincing aspects of the movie. Yet with several involving performances, along with a slew of cameos and delightful songs, I enjoyed the experience. Unlike a visit to Moretti’s compound, Opus is a little uneven but well worth the trip.