PARK CITY, Utah — The sword proves mightier than the pen in A24’s messy slasher “Opus,” one of the buzzier films at this year’s Sundance. The thin comedic stab-fest is the debut feature of former GQ staffer Mark Anthony Green, who started the script while profiling such artists as the Weeknd and Kid Cudi. “Opus” is a knife in his own back, a dig on the smarmy relationship between press and talent. It has good style and a handful of fun ideas, but it’s ultimately as superficial as the puff pieces it’s attacking.
The setup is that a reclusive ’90s pop superstar named Moretti (John Malkovich) has invited six journalists to his rural compound for an ultra-exclusive (and eventually ultra-violent) listening party of his first album in 27 years. Upstart writer Ariel (Ayo Edebiri), “The Bear’s” similarly ambitious young chef) is the trip’s most unexpected and least important guest. The lowest name on her entertainment magazine’s masthead, Ariel hopes that writing about famous people will get some of their shine to bounce back on her. Even her own semi-boyfriend (Young Mazino) thinks she’s boring.
Ariel has received the same deluxe gift-basket summons as the other attendees: her editor (Murray Bartlett), a TV host (Juliette Lewis), a veteran paparazza (Melissa Chambers), a gossip-hound (Mark Sivertsen) and an influencer (Stephanie Suganami). But she’s no equal — her boss wants to hog the byline for himself. At the first group dinner, she sits meekly in the boonies of the banquet room alongside a couple dozen of Moretti’s acolytes waiting for the head table to pass down a shared bread roll for everyone to take a bite. The gigglingly gross metaphor is that she’s expected to settle for crumbs.
Moretti receded from the public eye the year Ariel was born. Perhaps that’s why she’s the only person in the entire movie immune to his fame. She’s also the only outsider concerned that Moretti’s followers have formed their own creativity-worshipping religion. His disciples, the Levelists, wear cobalt uniforms and collect pearls — they are, quite pointedly, a Blue Oyster Cult. Yet Moretti seems half-amused by Ariel’s suspicions. Peeking over her shoulder at her notes, he tuts, “Doesn’t sycophant have an ‘o’?”
Everyone else loves Moretti. The movie kicks off with two playful montages of his global fan base, and they’re as eclectic as a junk drawer. Headbangers, hipsters, all languages, all ages — every demographic on Earth appears to adore his music — and so do we from the opening thuds that introduce us to his echoey, body-moving beats.
Green smartly entrusted Moretti’s three songs on the soundtrack to hitmakers Nile Rodgers (“Like a Virgin,” “Let’s Dance”) and the-Dream (“Umbrella,” “Single Ladies”). Each track is sung by Malkovich personally, and each is a total banger.
Malkovich invests the icon with confidence and sexuality, like a disco remix of his seductive Vicomte de Valmont from “Dangerous Liaisons.” He manages to convince us that even after decades in absentia, Moretti’s gyrations are enthralling. He’s 80% charisma, 20% peacock, who takes his fashion cues from tin-pot dictators and Elton John. (The costumes are by the talented Shirley Kurata.) Moretti must have an ego — his license plate reads CLAP4ME — but his vanity is more visible. He’s introduced having his head powdered and orders the journalists to undergo makeovers to look better in his presence. One of the guests’ many handlers (Tamera Tomakili) insists that all visitors must shave their nether regions. It’s a funny scene, but we’re unclear on the point. Is he a germaphobe or a control freak? Does he genuinely care or is he just exposing their cravenness?
The director comes with hard-earned and believable insights into the awkward pas de deux between a celebrity and a journalist. The dance goes like this: The star wants compliments, the writer wants access. Difficult questions get side-stepped as the writer gets feted until they forget they’re there to do a job. For most of the movie, both sides just smile at each other politely. The facade doesn’t crack until Moretti mocks questions he hates — rude ones and vapid ones alike. The takeaway could be that bad journalism drove the genius into hiding. But its hard to make that theme stick when not one of Ariel’s fellow journalists is asking Moretti anything. They’re just there to drink his wine until their punishment begins.
A trickster genius with a mean moral code, Moretti turns out to be the music world’s Willy Wonka, complete with a mysterious throng of live-in devotees carrying out his revenge. The movie is essentially “Willy Wonka & the Hot Take Factory.” But the script lumps the journalists into a pile and barely bothers to reveal the individual sins they’ve committed. It’s the vaguest of vengeance.
The plot gets choppy once the neck-severings begin. Yet the movie starts strong with impressive cinematography by Tommy Maddox-Upshaw, particularly a long take that starts on a tour bus and zooms up into the air. Editor Ernie Gilbert also has a good rhythm for how long to hold a shot, as we take in life on Moretti’s compound, itself a clever mix of stern and silly where the background is cluttered with painters and sculptures and people doing archery and tai chi.
Alas, Green’s intentions are as cryptic as Moretti’s — he’d rather avoid just saying what he means. Green appears to think all parts of the media machine are ridiculous. Yet he buries his ledes so deep into the script that he leaves himself only a couple minutes to try to tie things up at the end. At one point, we see a close-up of all of the questions in Ariel’s notepad. Few ever get asked, much less answered. Maybe his next film will be more of an exposé.
