‘Opus’ Gives us John Malkovich, Pop Superstar
Back in the 1990s, there was no bigger musical superstar than Alfred Moretti. “Global” doesn’t begin to describe his level of fame. His particular brand of old-school glam rock, new-school electro-pop and sheer charisma meant he topped every chart imaginable. He reinvented genres, cavorted with presidents and popes, broke Cindy Crawford’s heart. The man’s fans were legion. Moretti went by many nicknames: The Debutante, The Velvet Collar, Don Diva, The Wizard of Wiggle. Mostly, he was simply Moretti, a God-tier artist artist that earned his place in the mono-monikered–celebrity canon next to Cher, Madonna, Prince, and Fabio.
And suddenly… Moretti was gone. No interviews. No public appearances. No new hits. The singer behind the massive, omnipresent single “Dina. Simone.” was M.I.A. Rumors swirled as to his whereabouts and activities. For close to 30 years, the most innovative force in music was radio silent. Then, out of the blue, Moretti’s longtime publicist announces that he’s dropping a new album entitled Caesar’s Request. Even better: The artist has handpicked an elite group of mucky-mucks to experience his masterpiece before the rest of the world will hear the single most groundbreaking collection of tunes ever recorded. These lucky few just need to come to his compound in the Utah desert for a weekend of extreme luxury and some possibly nefarious deathcult activities to hear it.
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As far as setting up both a celebrity-culture satire and a potentially bonechilling horror movie à la A24, you could do a hell of a lot worse than the high-concept scenario behind Opus. Writer-director Mark Anthony Green’s debut feature was Hot Sundance Ticket No. 1, partially because it suggested the same sense of smart subversive thrills and chills that’s characterized the company’s genre work and partially because of the WTF nature of its Pop Godhead casting. (Coming back to that in a minute.) Ayo Edebiri is Ariel — you may consult your copy of The Tempest regarding the significance of that name — a young and hungry Gen Z writer slogging away at a magazine filled with big stories and bigger egos. Green, it should be noted, knows of what he speaks in terms of print-media sausage-making, as he logged in long tenure as a style columnist for GQ; we naturally assume that any resemblance to other IRL legacy titles that focus mainly on musicians and other famous folks is totally and completely coincidental.
Ariel is frustrated that her pitches either get assigned to other scribes or are outright stolen by the mag’s editor-in-chief, Stan Sullivan (The White Lotus/The Last of Us MVP Murray Bartlett). She’s also one of the first people at her job to get the scoop that Moretti may not only be coming out of retirement, but has decided to allow journalists, influencers, and few of his old frenemies to participate in its elaborate unveiling. That select group includes TV talk-show host Clara Armstrong (Juliette Lewis), online lifestyle guru Emily Katz (Stephanie Suganami), the queen of the paparazzi Bianca Tyson (Melissa Chambers), Moretti’s former BFF Bill Lotto (Mark Sivertsen), and Sullivan. What’s shocking is that Ariel has also received an invitation as well. But her boss is happy to have her on the trip, because hey, she can take notes for his cover story!
Once they are collectively greeted at the airport by Jorg (Peter Diseth), Moretti’s personal majordomo, the group is whisked away to the singer’s massive middle-of-nowhere estate. Ariel immediately clocks a few things: the blue uniforms worn by the compound’s staff have a distinctly cult-like feel to them; the fact that phones and laptops have been confiscated means the visitors are cut off from the outside world; Belle (Prey‘s Amber Midthunder), the personal concierge who’s been assigned to shadow her, seems inexplicably watchful and menacing. And there is the book that’s been included in their gift baskets, Meditations of Level, which is less like a self-help book and more like a primer for a Scientology-lite religion. They’re even called Levelists by their leader. Celebrity has a way of blinding some people to eccentric or unacceptable behavior. For others, it’s a chance to throw themselves into a belief system that puts their personal Jesus at the center of the universe.
Finally, we get to meet this messiah with the platform boots and endless haute couture outfits, and lo, it was good. You need a very special actor to portray the exact combination of talent, ego, faux-humility and charm that makes controlling the masses seem like second nature. To be perfectly honest, we don’t know that John Malkovich would have felt like an immediate, no-brainer choice. Thankfully, Green was smart enough to know this would be a perfect fit, and with the possible exception of his performance as John Malkovich in Being John Malkovich, this was the role John Malkovich was born to play. He gives Moretti a little bit of Bowie, a little bit of Kanye, a spoonful of Manson (Charles, not Marilyn — though “Antichrist Superstar” would be an accurate description of the character). You can detect a few borrowings from his mascara-wearing pontiff in The New Pope, a.k.a. the renamed second season of Paolo Sorrentino’s The Young Pope, as well.
But the Oscar nominee brings such a singular sense of chaos energy and cult-figure presence, making Moretti seem both larger-than-life yet intimately tuned in to whomever he’s addressing, that he draws you in as much as his acolytes and admirers. Malkovich also does his own singing and dancing here, and he does justice to the haunting, deliriously catchy original songs written by Nile Rodgers and The-Dream. The director has said in the press notes that even if his film isn’t seen as a social course correction, “at least we’ll always have John Malkovich hip thrusting in a metallic space suit.” Truer words have never been spoken. Don’t discount the thrill of the actor convincing you he could quit his day job and play Glastonbury with these 21st century-techno-meets-T.Rex bangers.
Unfortunately, Malkovich thrusting in a metallic space suit may indeed be the sole takeaway of this attempt at a social thriller. He nearly saves Opus from its own worst instincts and confused stabs at commentary. The key word here, however, is “nearly.” Not that Edebiri isn’t great at playing an ambitious Nancy Drew-type who knows that this cracked Eden isn’t all that it seems; she brings the same combo of bewilderment, wit, stressed-out tension and can-do survival instincts that helped make The Bear the instant classic that it is. You hope she bags a lot more lead roles after this. Or that Midthunder’s ability to channel unstoppable resilience in the film’s last act should secure her the title role in a future Terminator franchise entry. Or that costume designer Shirley Kurata doesn’t deserve 22 awards for Malkovich’s outfits alone.
It’s just that Opus‘s scattergun attack doesn’t help the overall aimlessness of its Bigger Picture message-mongering. You can tell that the film has things to say about tribalism, fandom run amuck, the allure of false prophets, how the media can be co-opted into complicity — sometimes unwittingly, often willingly — and the way that modern celebrity can curdle into something far more sinister with the greatest of ease. As to what those statements are besides a generic “Unclean!” is a bit of mystery. The conception is not helped by the execution, and you’re left with just a muddled pitch for a possible Malkovich Eras tour. The ambition is impressive. The title, alas, ends up being slightly misleading.
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