The last few days have seen a flurry of news about the recent jewelry heist at the Louvre Museum in Paris. Ironically, the $100 million theft coincides with the world premiere of Kelly Reichardt’s latest film, “The Mastermind.” The film was inspired by the 1972 heist at the Worcester Art Museum in Massachusetts, where two thieves lifted four works in broad daylight — not unlike the Louvre thieves, who conducted their daytime getaway on scooters.
While the fictional theft in Reichardt’s star-studded film did not spark the same global shockwaves as the Louvre heist, “The Mastermind” does offer a quiet condemnation on a rapidly growing culture of instant gratification. But the film’s message is so quiet that, at times, it crosses the line from committed commentary into convenient indifference.
Set in the ’70s, the film follows James Blaine Mooney (Josh O’Connor) — a seemingly stereotypical family man — and his suburban stay-at-home wife, Terri (Alana Haim), the parents of two “boys-will-be-boys” sons. While James is officially an architect, he is also a wannabe art thief who is equal parts pathetic, conceited and lacking in self-awareness.
Financed by his parents for a “new architectural project,” James plots to pay two petty criminals and a driver to steal four Arthur Dove paintings from the fictional Framingham Museum of Art. How will he pawn them off? Probably a question James should have thought through pre-heist.
“The Mastermind” is a heist movie, but not in the thrilling way an audience would expect. The film is unembellished and unostentatious, cast in muted pastels and accompanied by an unaffected soundtrack. In Reichardt’s signature slice-of-life style, guns and guards are as unglamorous as can be.
In the role of James, O’Connor is charming but pitiful as he deals with the aftermath of his “genius” plan, which forces him to go on the run. The audience never knows exactly why James can’t just play his part as the quintessential American father. Perhaps, with all the monotony of suburban life, James craves excitement. Perhaps he is a combination of idiot and narcissist. Yet, the film is less about explaining James’s actions and more about how his self-obsession threatens domestic perfection.
In “The Masterpiece,” going on the run does not entail riveting car chases and dramatic characters. Instead, James begs for money on public telephones and commits petty crimes. He stays with his old friend Fred (John Magaro) and his wife, Maude (Gaby Hoffman). Maude makes it clear James has no place in her home, and that the danger he brings is unwelcome. Fred, on the other hand, idolizes James, ecstatic to be in such close proximity to rebellion.
James is relegated to perpetual tedium, while the other characters’ lives continue on unperturbed, a narrative choice made even more poignant against the backdrop of ’70s America. Nixon’s presidency, the Vietnam War and other significant events play no part in the characters’ insulated world. “The Mastermind” is an accurate portrayal of suburban isolation, but it’s also complicit in perpetuating that same insulation. Perhaps purposefully, the result is sterile, white and weirdly complacent, exacerbating social harms and romanticizing American history.
Throughout the film, the sheer existence of multiple people of color, social unrest and the radical energy that defined ’70s America is deliberately erased. Conveniently, that omission works with the film, reinforcing the privilege of the characters’ ignorance. It comments on the cultural capacity for self-absorption and the ease with which comfort outweighs complexity. In the film, the lack of depth becomes its own kind of depth. The danger is that, in recreating this exclusion so faithfully, the film also perpetuates it.
At moments, “The Mastermind” is funny. But the humor appears in the way the camera lingers on James in his hopeless ineptitude. It’s funny through Reichardt’s consistent deadpan, subtle ridicule of each shenanigan. It’s funny, too, in how the film strips all glitz and glamour from the action of the heist itself — a phenomenon typically coupled with attractiveness.
The recent Louvre heist overflows with that exact allure, which modern media can’t resist. There’s something irresistible about an art theft: priceless artifacts plucked from a high-security attraction, masked riders weaving through Parisian streets on electric scooters. Objects revered for their cultural significance are chosen for their material value, and that, in turn, increases their cultural significance. After all, the Mona Lisa was never famous until its attempted theft. The heist itself is a symbol of how easily decades of artistic value are discarded in favor of instant, tangible rewards.
“The Mastermind” parallels this obsession with instant gratification with a style of film that actively counteracts the overstimulating content audiences now so regularly consume. Its pacing, visual restraint and deliberate slowness makes the film, quite frankly, boring. “The Mastermind” forces the audience to feel the emptiness without immediacy.
