There’s an edge to J.B. Mooney (Josh O’Connor), the sullen, soft-smiling sweet-talker at the heart of Kelly Reichardt‘s The Mastermind, a sly cool that screams—to the omniscient viewer, at least—thief. That couldn’t be further from the truth. As the rest of the film unfolds, that notion evaporates into thin air, and he’s revealed for the loveable, hollowed-out amateur that he really is, a character Reichardt has fleshed out in the name of every dissatisfied suburban someone who’s flirted with serious self-destructive risk to shock life back into action.
J.B. strolls casually through a regional museum like a local art appreciator, secretly casing the joint for a future job, his first. He clocks the low security standards, the narcoleptic guards, the easily accessible glass cases, the proper pieces for the heist, the escape route. It takes a minute to realize he’s there with his family. He nabs an ancient figurine, slips it into his sunglasses case, strolls over to his wife Terri (Alana Haim), and puts the case in her purse, making her the unwitting thief. They leave—his wife and twin sons first—but not before J.B. stops in front of the last line of defense to tie his shoe, looking off and on at the cop staring at him as if to say, “Something the matter, officer?”
Set in the early ’70s in Framingham, Massachusetts—an unremarkable American town in every way, the kind of place where a routine with no end in sight can feel like existential solitary confinement—and based on art heists from the nearby Worcester area around the same time, The Mastermind is a study of the mundane in the aftermath of murky life choices made in the wake of, well, nothing. That’s why they were made in the first place. That’s part of the charm of Reichardt’s picture, a film so pure in its simplicity, relatable in its banality, quiet in its captivation, that it pulls off a nearly impossible feat: It’s a heist film that can’t be called a thriller.
But The Mastermind is less anti-heist and more anti-Hollywood. Reichardt hits all the heist beats, but with none of the typically attached tropes. She doesn’t reject the genre; she simply swims upstream with it in tow, past Rififi, past Thief, past Inside Man, past all the Ocean’s. Like Jim Jarmusch did with Down By Law, Sofia Coppola with The Bling Ring, or Wes Anderson with Bottle Rocket, Reichardt whittles a singular model of a popular crime subgenre that only she could imagine, much less execute.
Where most heist films unpack the action—the extensive prep, the stunning trickery, that stylish zip that makes crime feel so cool—Reichardt meditates on the uncool. She lingers on the dry disillusionment of the everyday that leads us to the Pool of Poor Decisions to drink, the communal repercussions of a (hardly) successful first steal, and the cold-shouldered fallout of a man who simply doesn’t realize he has everything to lose.
A pretty pathetic guy too nice to heist with conviction but too spineless not to try, J.B. never gets more commanding than a terse mutter, followed by an apology for having too much coffee. It’s hard to imagine how he plans on leading the job, much less convincing anyone else to take part. He orchestrates his first and last operation so poorly that his teammates have to crank-roll the back window open mid-steal, cops in pursuit. The rest of the calamitous details of the broad daylight heist are, frankly, hilarious, a rare comic treat from Reichardt that deserve to be enjoyed in real time. After that—the “action” of the first act—it’s all downhill for the film’s lead sucker.
Once The Mastermind settles in your soul, it’s there to stay—an invasive species of Reichardtian genre-play that wiggles its way into your psyche, takes root, and leaves you wanting more of something you know you won’t be getting more of anytime soon, which makes the film even more of a treasure. It lives entirely in the mundane, yet, at 95 minutes, whisks by like a breeze. Even in its categorical aesthetic dreariness, it’s light as a feather.
Reichardt’s edit (she’s written and edited all of her features since 2006) is like a triple-distilled spirit—clear, neat, and strong enough to knock you on your ass. Not a single shot is wasted. The willowy pace is lean and delicate; her cuts, soundless incisions in the story, give the narrative fresh room to breathe and smooth out the flow almost undetectably.
It’s certainly fair to call the plotline minimalist, but the rest of the film is bursting with style. Take, for instance, the gorgeous muted cinematography, reminiscent of Bruno Delbonnel’s work on Inside Llewyn Davis. Regular DP Christopher Blauvelt draws out an antique color palette with a pewter center, gauzy halation, and a thick 35mm film grain that gives the picture a transfixing vintage fuzz.
The enveloping mood is grounded in the dour Northeasterly color that hangs over the colder months like a harbinger of depression, leading the mind to wander, outdoor shades ranging from the cozy warm colors of fall to the barren grey of winter. Rob Mazurek’s score, tailored to the time and place, is a thick cigar that goes down easy—a smoky, trumpet-heavy jazz arrangement led by a sizzling ride cymbal and meandering standup bass, the likes of which spell out trouble.
Hope Davis, Bill Camp, Gaby Hoffman, John Magaro, and Matthew Maher fill out an all-star auxiliary cast, delivering just the right amount of support, each coloring in the story only as much as they were asked to, their understanding of and ability to live into Reichardt’s preference for subtle choices on glowing display. Of particular note, regular Reichardt collaborator Magaro holds a gravitas like he hasn’t in past work. He possesses an assured calm, a mysterious approachability, and a vocal husk that suggests he’s slowly shape-shifting into a much younger but no less sage Chris Cooper.
After it’s all said and done, the title, at its sharpest, reads like sarcasm; at its softest, it’s a friendly chide, an empathetic “I told you so.” Either way, Reichardt’s affection for her characters and O’Connor’s pitch-perfect encapsulation of this one combine to engrossing effect. He might be despicable, but he always feels like one of us—just another person drifting through life, trying to get on top of it. Mastermindedness is nothing but a distant dream.
Director: Kelly Reichardt
Writer: Kelly Reichardt
Starring: Josh O’Connor, Alana Haim, John Magaro, Hope Davis, Bill Camp
Release Date: May 23, 2025 (Cannes)
