REVIEW: ‘Opus’ (2025) Drowns In Its Shallow Vision Of Fanaticism

To softly criticize a widely beloved music star is to invite a torrent of horrors so consuming it puts napalm to shame. The wrath of a terminally online, spectacularly sensitive fanbase may take the shape of a mild insult. Still, it can also manifest as something far more sinister, in which doxxing and death threats become second nature. Mark Anthony Green’s debut feature, Opus, seems poised to tackle this cult-like mentality of superstardom head-on, to dissect the intense relationship between idol and devotee. But this slick A24 horror feels like it was made with the same anxieties in mind, teetering on the edge of provocation but too afraid to delve headfirst into its promising ideas.

The result is a film that’s as tepid as its chills and as exciting as the intentionally bad songs of its central cult figure. Shallow commentary collides with soft intrigue to create an experience that is more interested in the strange aesthetics of cult culture than the fabric of its inner workings. With Opus, Green isolates what he wants to say—positing that our fascination with pop stardom is highly susceptible to cult-like obsession—but struggles to articulate it meaningfully.

What could have been a visceral, compelling murder mystery à la The Menu and Midsommar—a variety of media personalities are slowly picked off at the remote compound of a reclusive pop icon— Opus feels far too familiar to muster a singular voice. Not only does Green’s film draw too much from the drying well of an increasingly tired horror concept, but it lacks the bite to make the venture worthwhile.

John Malkovich adds necessary life and energy to the film.

The pop star at the centre of Opus is Alfred Moretti (John Malkovich) who, after decades away from the spotlight, is back with an album he claims is the greatest ever made. He invites a privileged few to his remote desert ranch for a lavish listening party—a TV host (Juliette Lewis), a podcaster (Mark Sivertsen), a paparazzo (Melissa Chambers), an influencer (Stephanie Suganami), the editor of J Magazine (Murray Bartlett), and, to everyone’s surprise, his junior editor Ariel (Ayo Edebiri).

She feels disillusioned with her role, pitching interesting pieces that are always assigned to other writers. Determined to make the most of this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, she finds herself surrounded by a community of robed devotees. Dubbed “levelists,” they believe in a doctrine that equates creativity with the sublime, turning their idol Moretti into a god-like figure. As Ariel dives further into the retreat, she realizes the true story is far darker than she imagined.

Opus is at its strongest in its opening moments, as it relates Ariel’s personal and professional miasma to a lack of life experience or, what her friend amusingly calls, being “middle as f___.” It’s a search for authenticity and perspective the film accompanies with real pop culture cameos from the likes of Wolf Blitzer and Bill Burr. However, these attempts at heightened realism quickly fall flat in a film that feels haphazardly concocted and fabricated, zapping any sense of immersion it aimed to foster.

Opus (2025) treads familiar ground but is too timid to go further with its various ideas.

Green’s quirky visual language is defined by overly lit, contrived construction, and this quality extends to the film’s horror-driven sequences. Full of plot conveniences and forced escalation, each jump scare and feigned twist teems with empty shock value. It is a last-ditch attempt to resuscitate a plot barely held together by one-off bits and head-scratching reveals. Much of Opus feels like the product of disparate, conflicting ideas stitched together to emphasize a clickable moment rather than a coherent plot.

Malkovich’s delectable turn as Moretti lends the film a much-needed pulse. He relishes every long-winded speech and ridiculous outfit, capturing a character who loves getting high off his supply. Yet, it’s also a performance that avoids heavy exaggeration, retaining a sense of moderation and believability that renders him both imposing, intoxicating, and exactly the type of man predisposed to feverish adoration.

But as the film assumes a darker timbre, Malkovich’s towering presence highlights the shortcomings of his co-star. Edebiri’s charming, lurching performance initially excels but quickly loses the plot. Her low-key persona feels distractingly at odds with the high-stakes danger of the last act, delivering mild frustration in place of crippling fear. For as likable as Edebiri is, she feels part of a completely different film.

Opus positions its myriads of violent twists and turns as mic drops, but they land more like light thuds. While not lacking in ambition, Green’s debut feels like the residue of its contemporary influences, replete with an easily marketable concept but none of the bravado and vision to make it memorable. There remains a snappier, more guttural version of this film, but it was left off Moretti’s guest list.

Opus is in theatres everywhere now.