John Malkovich’s Alfred Moretti isn’t just a character—he’s a living critique, a distorted reflection of the pop stars we worship in modern media. In Opus, director Mark Anthony Green’s directorial debut with A24, he attempts to dissect the relationship between fame, power, and blind devotion. In its ambition, the film never quite sets a distinct tone between satire and horror, feeling almost shallow in its message.
In the film, Ayo Edebiri plays Ariel Ecton, a journalist attending “the event of the century,” Morreti’s highly anticipated return to the public eye. Among an influencer, a paparazzi, a rockstar-turned-podcaster, a TV-show host, and a magazine editor, it comes to the viewers’ surprise when an inexperienced writer, longing for her moment in the spotlight, receives a basket inviting her to the Caesar’s Request secluded listening retreat.
As the event unfolds, it becomes clear that Moretti’s intentions extend beyond a simple listening party. Rather, the entitled ’90s pop star had created a compound for dark-blue uniformed disciples, who call themselves Levelists. The guests fail to realize their role as players in the movement, yet Ecton senses the cult-like atmosphere from the very beginning.
Opus leans heavily into its critique of influencer culture and media manipulation. Moretti’s disdain for the digital age is evident in his mockery of social media personas and empty celebrity worship. This idea is juxtaposed with the guests who treat his words as gospel, while the celebrity uses his influence as a source of manipulation.
At one point, the guests—each assigned a personal concierge—go through the process of fashioning, or “making you look like the best version of you,” as the Levelists would call it. From wardrobe requisites to how much the attendees should be shaved, we could infer Moretti had complete control over the situation, but we never really understand why or how.
Moretti might insist that the most creative minds should rule under the beliefs of Levelists, but without restraint, even the grandest visions can collapse under their own weight.
Moretti himself is a contradiction—both a prisoner and a tyrant of his art (or at least he would like to think that). The album title, Caesar’s Request, hints at his motivations all along: a ruler held hostage by the adoration of his people, much like Julius Caesar. The film suggests that Moretti’s torment is self-inflicted, a commentary on artists who get to resent the fame they once craved.
Additionally, Opus stumbles in its commitment to the horror elements. The film presents deeply disturbing imagery, such as a shed filled with animal skins and the decapitated body of a guest, raising unsettling questions about the compound’s tendencies. While visually striking, these moments lack the emotional impact necessary to make its commentary truly land, leaving the audience longing for 45 additional minutes of film.
Ecton’s arc throughout the movie—progressing from insecure writer to survivor to unwilling supporter of Moretti’s legacy—is the most compelling thread in Opus and the only thing setting it apart from traditional cult horror.
At the start, it was clear that Ecton’s character didn’t have much to say. After barely escaping the chaos, she resurfaces years later with a compelling story to tell.
The film ultimately leaves the audience with a message, not about the horror of the intentions of Levelists but about the power of an idea that never truly dies.
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