I Actually Liked Opus! A Lot!

Something my kid gets that few filmmakers get: fictional rock stars should be even cooler than the real ones. Often, when he shows me absurd, decades-long discographies for imaginary acts like an R&B/jazz group named Cappucino, a rapper named Department D.D., or a hard-rock band named Tokyö Starr (he had just learned about the umlaut), I think about how desperately my friends would be chasing down these albums if they actually existed. Sure, his Naomi Brown was inspired by Chaka Khan, but album titles like Noooooooo!, Comeback City and B-Days Are The Best! suggest Naomi Brown is capable of flights of fancy few real soul sisters would dare. Opus is the first film I can think of since the heydays of The Apple, Phantom Of The Paradise and Get Crazy to take a similar tack, inventing a musical legend we can only wish existed in the real world.

(Just FYI, I swear I didn’t force this nerdery on my Mini-Me. I’m relieved his teachers have noted that the multimedia nature of music, videos, album covers, liner notes, plus all the song lengths, years of release, etc, would naturally be captivating for precocious minds. It’s my fault so much of this stuff is in the living room, though. And Dad is always happy to discuss it.)

The mythic superstar Opus invents is Moretti, played with unapologetic, self-possessed panache by John Malkovich. The closest corollary to this enigmatic, androgynous pop icon would be David Bowie, whose former collaborator Nile Rodgers wrote the music for the movie along with The-Dream. But Bowie spent 1991 earning no cigar for Tin Machine’s proximity to grunge, while Moretti released “Dina, Simone,” a massive house-hit more vogue-worthy than “Vogue.” Bowie also didn’t disappear from public life for almost thirty years. But the retroactive fantasy of Moretti’s slippery sashay-shante is a hell of a lot more fun than Black Tie White Noise, or even that Nine Inch Nails tour. Moretti’s old outfits resemble Elton John’s, but this guy wouldn’t touch The Lion King with a ten-foot feather. 

When movies like Crazy Heart or Her Smell vainly suggest their lead characters are struggling with the curse of genius or authenticity, it can be distracting that we aren’t hearing either quality on screen. Was Jeff Bridges supposed to be outlaw country? A guy with actual hits? Someone outside the Nashville factory entirely? Why the hell did we have to watch Elisabeth Moss do a mediocre cover of “Another Girl, Another Planet” in full? Most movies about the agony of artistry punish viewers who actually know the related milieus. And as fun as those kitschy ‘70s musicals could be, their intent was more a critique of the record industry than a celebration of song.

Between those poles exists Velvet Goldmine, which put Rutles-level effort into Bowie homage and glam covers, while waffling between camp tribute and an earnest reflection on erotic fascination. Like Goldmine, Opus concerns a journalist unraveling the mystery a rock recluse. But instead of contrasting a provocative young firebrand and an obsessed, adolescent fan, Opus has a twenty-something writer ponder an elderly icon she appreciates from a critical distance. 

I can’t imagine a twenty-something today who could do “critical distance” better than Ayo Edebiri, perfectly cast as the least logical invitee to a listening party on Moretti’s compound. While her Ariel Ecton is lucky to be gainfully employed at a pseudo-Rolling Stone for the last three years, there’s no question she’s capable of achieving…whatever a young writer can hope to achieve today. Surrounded by privileged elders and their unquestioning lackeys in increasingly surreal situations, Edebiri is a thrill to watch deftly navigate the expectations of others, never capitulating unduly.  Though it’s not until late in the movie that we learn why Moretti chose her as a token youth alongside the established press and P.R. folk, it never seems misguided or arbitrary that he did. 

With Ariel’s bullshit-detector in the red long before we see actual malfeasance, Opus is almost Ok, Boomer: The Movie, where an early Zoomer boggles at the absurd last gasps of 20th century celebrity without being bowled over by it. Lacking any confidant and constantly trailed by an obsequious concierge (Amber Midthunder), Ariel is always forthright but measured in her conversations with Moretti, the staff, her casually parasitic editor (Murray Bartlett) and the ingratiatingly “hip” talk show host played by Juliette Lewis. Moretti’s new music is indeed more intriguing than 99% of actual comebacks, and his life with a sect of “Levelists” is the career-making story she’s dreamed of. But she hasn’t made it this far without being on top of her shit 24/7. If anything, she’s been preparing to survive societal collapse her whole life.

First-time writer/director Mark Anthony Green spent over a decade covering fashion at GQ, which explains Opus’ stylish verity and smart observations about celebrity culture. It also might explain why the film doesn’t move as confidently as it looks and sounds. Action sequences are fewer and less effective than you might hope, especially considering one involves Amber Midthunder and Ayo Edebiri in an ATV chase. Opus is the rare thriller that actually picks up during a long, explanatory epilogue: Malkovich and Edebiri having an expository chat is more rewarding than rewinding a frantically edited climax, trying to figure out who cut who free and why. 

Despite being rather immersed in music-crit, I don’t recall much talk about Opus yay or nay during its brief run in theaters, which might be due to A24’s lack of promotion. Most of the reviews were middling or negative, and maybe the film requires a degree of sympathy for both goofy horror films and pop culture fantasy that only the best of dorks, like myself, have. But even if you don’t love movies about the perils of music journalism and creative genius, Opus is still a memorable chance to watch Ayo Edebiri and John Malkovich cook. I know lots of people enjoy that.

If you want to remind me about another recent movie with awesome imaginary musicians, or share any other sentiments, type it up and send it to anthonyisright at gmail dot com. Though don't mention Popstar (great, but too ironic) or Inside Llewyn Davis (great despite Oscar Isaac's ahistorical voice). I thought of those!