With his new spy thriller Black Bag, Steven Soderbergh handily demonstrates that intelligent, made-for-adults entertainment isn’t yet dead. It’s been some time since an American film has made us sit up, lean in and follow a plot that puts us through the paces, and keeping up with Black Bag—about a handful British secret agents trying to ferret out an enemy within—is a whole lot of fun. In a sharp and satisfying 93 minutes, Soderbergh and screenwriter David Koepp fashion a gripping espionage thriller chock full of fine acting, high stakes tension, twisty reveals and oh-so sleek style.
London is the movie’s home base (but like any good spy pic it traverses its share of exotic locales), the picture opening on a suspected double agent operating within the National Cyber Security Center, a top secret outfit that uncovers and defuses dangerous global espionage. A terrific Michael Fassbender—back in super-cool-under-pressure mode as in David Fincher’s The Killer—plays intelligence operative George Woodhouse, given one week by his impatient boss (Gustaf Skarsgård) to crack the suspect’s identity. That boss promptly ends of dead, but not before sharing a list of five potential suspects, a murderer’s row of genius-level operatives. At the top of that list is George’s wife Kathryn St. Jean, played by an exquisitely game Cate Blanchett, also a career fixture in the agency’s intelligence bureau.
George and Kathryn have a bulletproof marriage—intellectual, carnal, devoted and, as they tell each other without reservation, they’d kill to keep their monogamous equilibrium. This sets up the movie’s actual story, one of marital trust issues when two lives are cloaked in the secrecy of the “black bag” ops, spy lingo for covert missions never to be discussed, even with your spouse. This dictates that the pair lead separate lives, Kathryn frequently jetting to other locales—and their love and trust is forced to stretch across continents, unexplained schedules and any semblance of transparency. When you can’t talk about the things that define your every day, how much of each other can you really know? But in what, exactly, is Kathryn perhaps ensnared? Turns out NCSC has developed a lethal software program named Severus, which can infiltrate and mobilize a country’s nuclear arsenal and cause tens of thousands of casualties.
George, so devoted to his job that he once spied on and turned in his own father, issues a dinner party invitation (the key extra main course ingredient is truth-telling serum) for the four other suspects—ambitious protege on the rise James Stokes (Rege-Jean Page); Stokes’ girlfriend and agency shrink Dr. Zoe Vaughan (Naomie Harris), who keeps a steel trap on client-privileged secrets; passed over for promotion agent and professional lothario Freddie Smalls (Tom Burke); and Freddie’s girlfriend, the younger Clarissa (Marisa Abela), a global satellite expert and absolute pro at beating a polygraph.
George’s wicked roundelay exposes a few skeletons and violent triggers; still, the mole’s identity remains hidden. But after the discovery of a mysterious movie ticket, dubious dash to Zurich and the revelation of a secret Myanmar bank account of millions point to Kathryn—George springs into action as both agent and husband, determined to protect his beloved even as she may be arming a disaster (Putin and Russia-Ukraine are heavily intimated). Breathing down the rogue conspirator’s neck is agency director Arthur Steiglitz (an authoritative Pierce Brosnan), a sort of company “M” who suffers no fools in his determination to swiftly bring the “traitor” to justice.
Every moment of Black Bag hums with the kind of refined, adult storytelling that’s a rare thrill these days, starting with a note-perfect Fassbender, so good at playing things close to the vest; the apex of his poker-face comes as he struggles to process a troubling revelation during a tense, top secret briefing, superbly conveying a deeply adoring husband and company man careering toward a love-duty collision. And the coltish Blanchett, with dark brown mane and earthy zest (exuded, not acted) brings such allure to the role—exerting a gravitational pull, whether leather-clad strutting around Zurich’s Limmat or coolly pulling everything to her during a terse psych evaluation and climactic dinner confrontation. Together, the deliciously super-sized pair reminds us what adult chemistry and movie star aura used to be. They don’t make ‘em like this anymore, folks.
The surrounding ensemble performs with the same precision, staring with Harris, who never makes a false move in any picture and here tears into several meaty exchanges, including a cold-as-ice breakup; Bridgerton’s impossibly handsome Page personifies savage overconfidence; and the smooth Burke (The Souvenir) excels at manipulative gamesmanship. But it’s newcomer Abela, terrific as the doomed Amy Winehouse in last year’s Back to Black, who more than holds her own with the heavyweights. She’s vulnerable, tough and as her Clarissa becomes increasingly ensnared, calculating as all get out.
Directing his second film this year—following January’s novel, subjectively told ghost movie Presence—Soderbergh, perhaps the most prolific of Hollywood directors (he also shoots and edits his films under pseudonyms) still in the game after nearly four decades, has made a trim, stylish movie, framed in handsome widescreen and, as ever, lensed with a cooly muted color palette by now unmistakably his own. And David Holmes’ propulsive score is pure paranoia and tick-tock tension. This is scaled down, cruise missile economy without excess or waste, as is Koepp’s lean and mean screenplay, which comes at us with set-ups, shifting allegiances and labyrinthine, “who did what to whom?” misdirection that requires us to stay alert until the film’s very last scene; like the characters, we can never assume that cleverly doled out clues should be taken at face value.
For those who prefer the larger scale spy movie thrills of a certain daredevil star throwing himself from a mile-high cliff or, say, those of an iconic Mini Cooper hurtling breakneck across narrowly confined Parisian byways, Black Bag may be too artfully composed, too dependent upon words over deeds or altogether too cerebral of a ride. But for the rest of us, Soderbergh and company have quietly tucked the best spy thriller in a long time into an unassuming first quarter movie year, giving adult moviegoers reasons to rejoice—stars, smarts and style in equal measure. Go now.
4 stars
