“Opus” delivers yet another entry in the tired “invitation to hell” horror subgenre, complete with all the predictable beats: the isolated compound, the eccentric artist, and the slowly dawning realization that everyone is utterly screwed. While it desperately wants to be the next “Midsommar,” what we get is more like a bargain-bin knockoff with delusions of grandeur.
The setup is textbook: Ayo Edebiri (shining beautifully bright after “The Bear”) plays Ariel, a low-level journalist who somehow lands an exclusive invite to the comeback event of reclusive musical genius Alfred Moretti (John Malkovich, flaunting purposely to the sound of droning “celestial” beats). Moretti claims to have created an album so revolutionary it will “change music forever.” Spoiler: It won’t. And neither does this movie.
Ariel joins a ragtag group of “special” guests—each more thinly written than the last. There’s Clara (Juliette Lewis), whose entire character is “was hot once”; Bianca (Melissa Chambers), who might as well be a potted plant for all she contributes; Emily (Stephanie Suganami), the obligatory influencer with the personality of a Twitter bot; and Bill (Mark Sivertsen), the only one with a vaguely defined purpose. These characters aren’t so much developed as they are vaguely gestured at before being fed into the meat grinder.
From the moment they arrive at “Commun” (read: cult headquarters), the film expects us to be shocked—shocked!—that something’s off. The residents stare just a little too long. The rituals feel just a little too intimate. Moretti’s music—a laughable attempt at haunting profundity—sounds like a Gregorian chant filtered through a broken synthesizer. Yet somehow, Ariel is the only one who clocks the danger, because apparently everyone else left their survival instincts at home.
When the horror finally kicks in, it’s less “disturbing cult revelation” and more “Wikipedia page on brainwashing read aloud by a theater kid.” Moretti’s rants about “balance” and “artistic purity” are the kind of pseudo-profound nonsense that sounds deep after three bong hits but evaporates under scrutiny. Edebiri’s performance is the only anchor—her expression of exhausted disbelief mirrors exactly how the audience feels by the halfway point.
The third act collapses under the weight of its own pretension. Ariel’s realization that she’s been groomed to spread the cult’s message isn’t a twist—it’s a foregone conclusion. The final interview scene, where Moretti barks about “saving creativity” through authoritarianism, plays like a bad TED Talk. And the music? The supposed masterpiece we’re told will redefine art? It’s the aural equivalent of a lava lamp—vaguely trippy but utterly empty.
Verdict: “Opus” is a slow burn without payoff, a cult thriller without thrills, and a commentary on art that has nothing to say. Watch it for Edebiri’s magnetic performance or to laugh at Malkovich’s unhinged maestro act, but don’t expect anything you haven’t seen done better elsewhere.
