If you were to compile a list of filmmakers suited to the adrenaline-fueled, stopwatch-ticking precision of the heist genre, Kelly Reichardt would likely sit somewhere near the bottom, comfortably nestled between Bela Tarr and Hirokazu Kore-eda. And yet, with "The Mastermind," she has not only entered the genre but quietly dismantled it, rearranging the pieces into a shape that is distinctly, unmistakably hers.
This is not a film about the thrill of the steal, or the art of the chase; it is a slow, sedate, and devastatingly wry evisceration of the entitlement that fuels it. At the center of this 1970s tableau is J.B. Mooney, played with a sort of crumpled, boyish magnetism by Josh O’Connor. Mooney is an unemployed carpenter in a sedate Massachusetts suburb, a man who views himself as a dormant genius waiting for the world to catch up and recognise his potential. He is the son of a judge, a detail Reichardt drops with the weight of an anvil, suggesting that his venture into crime is less about desperation and more about a boredom-induced delusion of grandeur. He doesn't want the money so much as he wants the narrative of the outlaw.
O’Connor is nothing short of hypnotic here. He wears Mooney’s arrogance like a slightly ill-fitting vintage coat—comfortable enough to move in, but visibly borrowed. Watching him case the local art museum is a masterclass in physical comedy; he moves with the exaggerated stealth of Inspector Clouseau, oblivious to the fact that the only thing protecting him is the sheer banality of his surroundings. When he pockets a small figurine as a trial run, it’s not slick; it’s petty, and hilariously sad.
The film’s brilliance lies in its refusal to rush. Reichardt operates at her signature laconic pace, forcing us to sit in the uncomfortable silences that a typical crime thriller would edit out only to usher in some razzle dazzle. The heist itself—a plan to liberate a set of Arthur Dove paintings—is less Ocean’s Eleven and more Waiting for Godot with a getaway car and a couple of incompetent nitwits. The sequence involving a ladder in a barn is perhaps the funniest thing Reichardt has ever filmed, a moment of slapstick so dry it threatens to chafe. It serves as the perfect visual metaphor for the film’s central thesis on the folly of man: a guy trying to reach high places with zero foundational stability, thwarted by gravity and his own incompetence.
Supporting this folly is a cast that understands the assignment perfectly. Alana Haim, as Mooney's wife Terri, offers a performance of quiet exasperation that grounds the film’s flightier moments, while Reichardt regulars John Magaro and Gaby Hoffmann arrive later to provide a counter-cultural friction that Mooney can’t quite navigate.
Visually, the film is a sumptuously vintage treat. Christopher Blauvelt’s cinematography captures the pale blues and institutional yellows of 1970 Framingham with a texture you can almost smell—stale cigarette smoke and damp wool. The backdrop of the Vietnam War and Nixonian disillusionment isn't just set dressing; it’s the hum in the air, a constant reminder of a nation losing its innocence while Mooney tries to manufacture his own importance. Rob Mazurek’s jazz score doesn't propel the action so much as circle it, adding a layer of improvisational anxiety that fits Mooney’s crumbling plans perfectly.
When it comes down to it, "The Mastermind" is a film about the gap between who we think we are and who we actually are. It is a quiet shattering of the illusions of the American male, subverting the cool criminal trope to reveal the messy, entitled reality underneath. It doesn't end with a bang, but with a dissolution—a fading into the crowd that feels both inevitable and profoundly lonely. It is a rare thing: a crime film that leaves you not with a racing heart, but with a racing mind, turning over the pieces of a puzzle that was never meant to be solved, only observed.
8/10
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