The year is 1970. The counterculture is cracking, protest signs flood the streets, and the Vietnam War burns in the background of American life. In The Mastermind, Kelly Reichardt seizes this setting not for adrenaline but for reflection. For JB Mooney, played by Josh O’Connor, neutrality is his rebellion.
Surrounded by a generation of voices demanding change, he chooses inaction, plotting a museum theft as a distraction rather than a mission.
Adapted loosely from the 1972 Worcester Art Museum robbery, the film trades genre thrills for philosophical unease. JB, a designer sleepwalking through family life in Massachusetts, dreams up a crime half-heartedly. He recruits three small-time partners with minimal conviction.
The audience senses it from the start: this theft won’t end well, not because of the law but because of moral inertia. Reichardt treats JB’s indecision as both a character flaw and a political statement, questioning whether anyone can really remain untouched by their times.
Cinematographer Christopher Blauvelt frames 1970s New England in muted amber tones, creating static images that echo the stillness of Arthur Dove’s paintings, the very works JB intends to steal. Dove, America’s first abstract painter, functions as JB’s silent mirror.
Where Dove distilled natural forms into motion, JB reduces motion into meaninglessness. The irony is clear: he’s a copyist chasing art’s residue without believing in creation itself.
Throughout, Reichardt’s direction exhibits her signature restraint. Every decision unfolds slowly, each scene thick with silence that threatens to snap. JB moves through the film like a ghost, a man who thinks apathy might protect him from chaos. Yet his refusal to choose makes him complicit in everything he ignores.
JB Mooney: The Architect of Avoidance
Josh O’Connor’s performance captures the fragile absurdity of detachment. JB is intelligent, charming, perhaps even talented, but comfortable in permanent hesitation. He isn’t driven by greed. The heist is a dare to himself, a test of feeling in a world that has numbed him.
His wife Terri, played warmly by Alana Haim, sees the void behind his calm. Their home scenes buzz with tender distance; love exists, but purpose has long escaped them.
JB’s father, portrayed by Bill Camp, embodies another kind of avoidance. A respected judge, he condemns crime at the dinner table yet fails to recognize the small moral erosions around him.
His comment about “not understanding how anyone expects riches from theft” lands with an irony that cuts deep once we know who’s listening. JB’s crime comes not from poverty but from paralysis, a rebellion against significance.
His crew, Ronnie (Javion Allen), Larry (Cole Doman), and Guy (Eli Gelb), function less as accomplices than reflections of his instability. Ronnie’s impulsiveness drives the group toward chaos, while Larry and Guy hesitate, sensing the emptiness beneath JB’s plan.
When Ronnie later cracks under pressure, betraying JB’s name to the police, it feels like the only logical outcome of an operation led by someone allergic to conviction.
Reichardt situates these misfits inside carefully composed frames that repeatedly obstruct the viewer’s gaze. JB is filmed through curtains, reflected in mirrors, or dwarfed by windowpanes, reinforcing his psychological isolation.
Even when surrounded by people, he behaves as if moving through an aquarium, visible yet untouched. The film’s physical texture becomes psychological space, a portrait of a man wrapped in the fabric of his own indecision.
Cornettist Rob Mazurek’s jazz score teases at the energy the film refuses to release. Initially airy and ironic, it grows darker as JB’s house of cards collapses. The music, like JB himself, pretends sophistication while masking dread.
When the robbery finally takes place, it’s framed with dry humor: an elderly couple mistakes the crew for janitors, and a lone security guard is barely conscious. The absurdity undercuts the tension, reminding us that the act itself is meaningless. There’s no pursuit of greed or justice, just motion without direction.
Kelly Reichardt’s Political Sleight of Hand
Reichardt’s greatest trick is disguising a moral essay within the shell of a genre film. On the surface, The Mastermind appears to be a slow heist set in the pre-disco seventies. Yet underneath the stillness lies a critique of political avoidance that feels painfully relevant.
The Mastermind (Credit: Netflix)
Throughout her career, Reichardt has dissected American quietude, from Wendy and Lucy’s economic despair to First Cow’s dreamlike capitalism. Here, she shifts from the rural Northwest to suburban Massachusetts, trading pastoral settings for patterned carpets and sun-faded wallpaper.
Yet her preoccupation with moral inertia remains. JB’s decision to remain uninvolved during a decade defined by activism mirrors modern reluctance to confront societal collapse. The 1970s setting feels less nostalgic than cyclical, suggesting that every era produces its own brand of apathy.
The director’s patience allows meaning to accumulate through details rather than dialogue. A television quietly broadcasts footage of Cambodia while JB hides in a boarding house.
Later, he waits near a bus stop illuminated by a military recruitment poster. Each image whispers the same message: history keeps knocking, even when one refuses to answer.
When JB ultimately flees to the rural retreat of Fred and Maude, played by John Magaro and Gaby Hoffman, Reichardt presents him with an escape hatch, an invitation to a commune across the border where draft dodgers, feminists, and artists coexist.
Fred calls them “nice people,” offering him a way to belong. JB declines. His neutrality, by then, feels pathological. He interprets safety as passivity, mistaking resignation for freedom. His refusal signals that apathy itself has become ideology.
The film’s title grows increasingly ironic. JB is no criminal genius but a void surrounded by thinkers and rebels. The real mastermind is Reichardt, using the framework of theft to expose how privilege permits withdrawal. For JB, refusing to commit to politics, art, or family is not peace; it’s moral decay disguised as calm.
A Study of Stillness and Consequence
By the time The Mastermind reaches its closing scenes, JB is stripped of illusion. His makeshift team has imploded, his family drifts away, and his elusive neutrality collapses into absurdity.
When he finally pauses to breathe, it’s in shadow, the soft hum of television static filling the silence. Nothing explodes. No chase unfolds. The punishment for apathy, Reichardt suggests, is simply emptiness.
The film’s pacing requires patience but rewards introspection. Even its humor carries melancholy, highlighting how human folly thrives in banality. An art theft becomes a mirror for indecision.
A jazz score doubles as self-mockery. Every quiet beat drips with irony, building toward the revelation that doing nothing is itself a moral choice.
Reichardt’s aesthetic mastery makes The Mastermind one of her most sophisticated works to date. Every frame feels deliberate, every silence engineered.
Josh O’Connor, whose performances often channel suppressed emotion, proves an ideal fit. His JB is a man performing calmly while drowning beneath it. The performance anchors the film’s subtle rhythm, balancing humor with ache.
Ultimately, The Mastermind asks a question that still lingers in modern times: can one ever stay truly neutral when surrounded by injustice?
Reichardt’s answer is a quiet but firm no. Neutrality, she argues, is an illusion, a luxury that collapses under the weight of reality. JB’s tragedy lies not in failure but in absence. He becomes a ghost in a story that never demanded his death, only his choice.
Phil Johnston’s The Twits is far from a typical children’s film. Based on Roald Dahl’s beloved 1980 novel, this 2025 Netflix animated adaptation dives headfirst into outrageous gross-out humor balanced with biting social satire.
Mr. and Mrs. Twit, voiced by Johnny Vegas and Margo Martindale, are proud tricksters who rail against government rules and flaunt their disregard for the environment during a time when communities face economic hardship and instability.
Set in the once-thriving town of Triperot, the Twits dream of resurrecting the place’s lost glory by opening a bizarre amusement park named Twitlandia. However, the park’s immediate condemnation for structural and sanitary failures sets off a chaotic chain of events.
The duo retaliates with mischief that floods the town with neon-green, radioactive, liquid hot dog meat, literally mucking the streets and throwing the town into havoc. This act of revenge and greed displays their indulgent vengeance, underscoring the film’s core critique of people who exploit society’s cracks for selfish gain.
Though outwardly a goofy, slapstick comedy heavy on fart jokes and absurd pranks, The Twits carries a deeper message about the corrosive effects of cruelty, greed, and political manipulation, making it more than a mere children’s story.
Instead, it becomes an allegory on modern-day selfishness and corruption that divides communities while rare acts of empathy struggle to survive.
The Twits: Grifters and Villains with a Wink
Mr. and Mrs. Twit are completely unredeemable, even reveling in their nastiness. Their relentless pranks on one another reveal a toxic marriage built on spite and pettiness, while their schemes to dominate Triperot through Twitlandia show reckless selfishness.
Voiced with perfect cantankerous humor by Vegas and Martindale, these characters embody the worst traits of those who exploit systems for fun and profit.
The Twits’ antics escalate from petty tricks to full-blown attacks on the town, including intentionally contaminating the water supply with explosive hot dog meat goo, an act that leaves innocence disrupted and the community in chaos.
Their courage to openly admit and even brag about their wrongdoing is unsettling, evoking disturbing parallels to real-world figures who shamelessly defy public welfare for personal gain.
Their adversaries in this story are not only the righteous townsfolk but also two orphans, Beesha (Maitreyi Ramakrishnan) and Bubsy (Ryan Anderson Lopez), whose courage and kindness weave through the narrative.
The Twits, in stark contrast, are proud champions of chaos, empowered by their followers despite their harm. Their bid to run for mayor highlights the dangerous popularity of divisive agitators in politics, making the film’s satire pointed and timely.
The Power of the Orphans and the Muggle-Wumps
Beesha and Bubsy offer a heartfelt antagonist to the Twits’ cruelty. As orphans with a belief in justice and change, they represent hope and innocence amid the film’s darker themes.
Their quest to challenge the Twits’ destructive influence is bolstered by the magical creatures known as the Muggle-Wumps, a family of upside-down monkeys once prisoners of the Twits.
The Muggle-Wumps personify the abused and silenced. Kept in a cage and exploited to power the amusement park, their plight reveals the cost of the Twits’ greed. Beesha’s ability to empathize with these creatures unlocks a rare connection, encouraging viewers to consider the importance of compassion toward the vulnerable.
The animated interactions between children and creatures add warmth to a story loaded with mischief and malice.
The Twits (Credit: Netflix)
Despite moments of slapstick and silliness, the narrative never loses its emotional core. The kids’ bravery and determination to free the Muggle-Wumps and expose the Twits’ schemes bring a sense of justice and triumph.
This opposition also fuels the film’s “prank war” escalation, creating a chaotic but ultimately hopeful battle between cruelty and care.
Animation, Humor, and Deeper Meanings
Animated by Jellyfish Pictures, The Twits strikes a distinct tone that mixes the tactile charm of stop-motion and bold character design reminiscent of Aardman Studios. The visuals amplify the film’s grotesque humor but also its personality, delivering quirky and exaggerated characters that entertain both children and adults.
The soundtrack, featuring music by David Byrne and Hayley Williams, flirts with whimsy but feels occasionally forgettable compared to the energetic visuals.
Nonetheless, the film thrives on its humor, ranging from sophisticated satire to delightfully juvenile fart jokes, maintaining a lively, laugh-out-loud pace that acknowledges its young audience without underestimating their capacity for understanding complex messages.
Though it can bog down in the latter half with episodic retaliation sequences, The Twits trusts its audience. It grapples with themes of mob mentality, political ambition born from selfishness, and the resilience required to face those who wield cruelty as power.
The movie’s refusal to shy away from less polished humor, including revolting and pranking behavior, underscores its faith in children’s enjoyment of the absurd and grotesque as well as their ability to grasp social critique beneath it.
A Bold Adaptation with a Balanced Message
Phil Johnston’s longtime affection for Roald Dahl’s unrepentant miscreants shines through in this film. While some critics note it is not without flaws, including pacing issues and a sometimes unrelenting focus on gross humor, the story’s sharp observations offer unexpected depth.
It challenges its viewers to recognize real “twits”: those who exploit divisions and use cruelty to maintain control.
In the story’s final moments, the film gently warns that hatred is easy and warns young audiences against letting bitterness consume them. Beesha’s resilience embodies the film’s true heart: the courage to maintain empathy and kindness even in a world rife with selfishness.
Sometimes, a well-timed fart joke is enough to remind us that humor and hope can coexist with harder truths.
The Twits is an unusual but thoughtful blend of lowbrow fun and highbrow ideas, making it a lively watch for families who want a mix of laughs and a dose of social reflection. It stands out as one of the cleverest animated films of the year, proving that even the nastiest twits can teach us something worth remembering.
