‘The Mastermind’ Review: Kelly Reichardt Channels the Spirit of New Hollywood

If someone claimed that The Mastermind was a long-lost film from the New Hollywood era of the 1970s—one that somehow slipped through history or never received a proper commercial release—it would be easy to believe. What Kelly Reichardt does here is not to painstakingly recreate the filmmaking styles of the period, but to distill their essence: the mood, the spirit, a lingering, unhurried tone even within a crime story, and a loose, immersive sense of being there, among taciturn characters and in small towns where nothing of consequence ever seems to happen.

Reichardt’s film could easily be a close relative of work by Peter Bogdanovich, Hal Ashby, Bob Rafelson, or other American filmmakers who used genre as a way of expressing the era’s pervasive disillusionment. It is a sensibility that fits the director of First Cow particularly well, given that her cinema has never been defined by contemporary pacing or fashionable stylistic choices. The Mastermind follows a robbery that goes wrong, carried out by clumsy characters who might have wandered in from an Italian film of the 1950s, certain Woody Allen movies, or even the Coen brothers’ universe. But Reichardt approaches the material without adhering to the genre’s textbook rules, instead honoring a tone and internal logic—both languid and faintly pathetic—that feel true to her characters.

Josh O’Connor leads the film, his gangly presence and slightly melancholic gaze perfectly suited to the story. The way he moves—slow, almost dragging his feet—suggests a low-grade dissatisfaction that could read as laziness or, perhaps, something more basic. Gradually, it becomes clear that the latter is closer to the truth: JB (O’Connor) sees himself as someone clever enough to fool anyone. The film opens in 1970, with him visiting a museum in Framingham, a small town about an hour outside Boston, along with his family. His wife —played by Alana Haim— watches as their children run freely through the galleries and JB quietly pockets small figurines and trinkets. The guards barely seem awake, let alone concerned.

These petty thefts turn out to be a trial run for something larger. JB plans to put together a distinctly unimpressive crew to steal a group of abstract paintings by Arthur Dove that are on display at the museum. The film’s first stretch is devoted to the awkward, often inept efforts of JB and his mismatched group of outsiders as they plan the job. It looks simple enough—two guards, one of whom is always asleep—but with incompetent people, nothing ever is. As a driving, jazzy score takes over, the group finally puts the plan into motion. Unsurprisingly, things do not unfold as intended.

They manage to steal the paintings, but the chaos they leave behind is excessive, and it is not long before the police close in. As the son of a judge, JB initially avoids serious suspicion. But evidence accumulates, and soon he has no choice but to run, setting off on an escape with no clear end in sight. His wife cuts him off, his children barely acknowledge him, and the only lifelines he has left are a few old friends and his mother—who, for reasons never fully explained, continues to support him financially even while knowing he is, in her own words, “good for nothing.”

An unmistakably ironic title, The Mastermind captures a place, a time, and a certain kind of life clinging to the fragile hope of “getting it right.” In the background loom Nixon, the Vietnam War, and the protests erupting across the country, but JB remains largely indifferent. The real world barely registers for him unless it becomes, at some point, tangentially useful. This is the oblique political angle Reichardt folds into her caper film: while JB and his accomplices obsess over small, practical details in their attempt to make a few dollars by selling stolen art, the world around them is quietly coming apart.

The robbery itself is played with a light comic touch, built around a series of mishaps: JB has to take care of his children because the school is unexpectedly closed; one partner drops out at the last minute; a car blocks the museum exit; one of the guards suddenly turns aggressive. But the film’s real focus lies in what comes after. As with any good heist story, the hardest part is not the crime itself but the aftermath—covering tracks, avoiding suspicion, and finding a way to sell the loot. It quickly becomes clear that JB gave little thought to any of that.

Although this is Reichardt’s most accessible and conventionally entertaining film to date, it still carries the dry, slightly absurd comic strain that began to surface in Showing Up. The movie may appear small, even minor, but its strength lies in how gently it draws viewers into its world, without ever forcing itself upon them. Like much of the cinema of the 1970s, it respects the rhythms of people and processes, and it does not assume that everything needs to be spelled out in the opening minutes. Still, within the context of Reichardt’s own filmography, The Mastermind comes close to functioning as a suspense or action film.

The strong supporting cast includes Hope Davis as JB’s understanding mother, Bill Camp as his sterner father, and John Magaro and Gaby Hoffmann as a couple JB encounters once he goes on the road, trying to stay ahead of the authorities. But the world—then as now—is a complicated place, and neither JB nor most of those around him truly know how to live in it. Stealing paintings may feel, especially in 1970, like an act of rebellion. But as the saying goes, there is no room here for the weak. One day luck is on your side; the next, it quietly sets about ruining your life.