‘The Mastermind’ Review

Kelly Reichardt has always been a filmmaker who pays close attention to the quiet corners of human behavior. Her stories breathe through small gestures, minor failures, and the private catastrophes that people carry without ever saying out loud. Her latest film fits comfortably into that world but also pushes against it. It is a heist story without the usual thrill of a heist, a character study wrapped in the fragile skin of a crime film, and a look at a man who keeps trying to grab hold of something meaningful even as everything he touches slips away. It is a strangely tender portrait of a thief who steals with confidence but lives with none.

The film follows an amateur thief who is convinced that his big break is only one job away. He treats every setback as a temporary pause, every mistake as something the world has unfairly placed in his path. There is something engrossingly tragic about watching a person who cannot see himself clearly. He chases opportunity with the restless energy of a man who refuses to admit that he is the reason his life keeps collapsing. Reichardt builds her story around this tension. She lets us sit with a character who switches between charm and nervous desperation, between confidence and panic, between hope and a quiet fear that grows each time he realizes he has no real control over anything he does.

Josh O’Connor gives the performance that holds the film together. His character is not a bad person in the traditional sense. He is simply a man who keeps trying to outrun every responsibility in his life. O’Connor uses his physicality to reveal more than any line of dialogue ever could. He looks like a man who is always half a second away from spilling whatever secret he is trying to keep hidden. He fidgets. He stalls. He forces smiles that feel like they are made of paper. Yet he also brings warmth to the character. The audience never feels pushed away. We see the pieces of a decent man underneath, but those pieces never lock into place.

Reichardt frames him within a seventies set world that feels beautifully lived in. The design has the worn and familiar charm of a time when ambition often collided with a harsh and indifferent reality. The production design does not lean into nostalgia. It settles into authenticity. Nothing feels polished. Every set, every costume, every object feels used and handled by people with real histories. The cinematography embraces this approach with unhurried compositions that allow moments to unfold without force. The camera never lunges for attention. It quietly observes. This patience suits Reichardt’s style. She allows awkward silences to bloom. She lets embarrassment linger. She trusts discomfort to say something honest.

The film is most engaging when it follows the thief on the ground level of his ambitions. His small plans carry the weight of big dreams. Reichardt approaches these moments with gentle humor. She never mocks him. Instead, she captures the comedy that exists naturally in a life where nothing seems to go right. His aspirations grow faster than his ability to handle them. He tries to control outcomes with a confidence that is almost sweet, even when the outcome is clearly falling apart in front of him. Reichardt understands that failure can be heartbreaking and funny at the same time, and she leans into both sides without sacrificing the dignity of her characters.

The supporting cast adds texture rather than noise. Alana Haim in particular brings a grounded emotional intelligence to her role. She seems to understand O’Connor’s character better than he understands himself, and her presence reveals the emotional gap he keeps trying to fill. Their scenes together carry a gentle ache. She is someone who wants to believe in him but can no longer ignore the pattern that shapes his choices. Their relationship is never exaggerated. It simply feels true. That truth adds weight to every decision he makes.

Reichardt’s direction thrives in the small defeats that accumulate over the course of the film. The heist itself is not the point. It is the illusion of control that becomes the real story. The thief believes that this one job will fix everything, but Reichardt keeps reminding us that fulfillment does not come from shortcuts. It comes from understanding the parts of yourself you have been unwilling to face. The character keeps trying to sidestep that understanding. The result is a story that never needs loud stakes. The quiet ones hurt more.

One of the most striking qualities of the film is its rhythm. Reichardt never rushes toward the next plot beat. She lets moments hang in the air long enough for the audience to feel the weight of the choices being made. The pacing mirrors the protagonist’s internal battle. He moves through life with the frantic belief that everything will work out if he can just keep moving. Reichardt slows the world around him so that his panic becomes more visible. It is a smart choice that deepens both the character and the story.

The film also explores the way men construct their identities around ideas they have never fully examined. O’Connor’s character believes in the myth of self-invention, but he is trapped inside a life that does not bend to his desires. Reichardt uses humor to reveal the fragility of that myth. She finds quiet comedy in the space between who he thinks he is and who he actually is. It is never cruel. It is simply observant. She understands that the funniest moments often come from watching someone try to hold together a version of himself that keeps slipping.

Despite its gentle pacing, the film builds toward a conclusion that feels both inevitable and deeply human. Reichardt refuses to simplify the emotional truth of the story. She does not offer easy resolutions. The characters leave us with the sense that they will continue to make choices shaped by their fears and hopes, and those choices will tug them in directions they cannot predict. It is a quietly powerful ending because it honors the complexity of their lives.

Reichardt’s film might not satisfy viewers who expect a traditional heist story. It is not built on suspense or action. It is built on character, vulnerability, humor, and the slow unraveling of a man who cannot understand why his life refuses to align with the image he has built for himself. It is a deeply compassionate film. It asks the audience to look at a flawed person without judgment and to see the soft humanity inside the chaos he creates.

It also captures something tender about failure. Reichardt has always been drawn to people who live on the edges of their own capability. Her characters often try to reach for something better even when they have no clear path toward it. This film fits perfectly into that tradition. It does not ask us to root for perfection. It asks us to root for someone who is still learning how to live with himself.

In the end, the film lingers not because of its plot but because of its soul. It invites the audience to sit with a character who is messy, confused, hopeful, selfish, and sincere. It reminds us that people are often more than the sum of their mistakes, even when those mistakes feel constant. And it leaves us with a simple, quiet reminder.

Catch The Mastermind in Theaters.