Anyone who has ever been in a relationship gone sour knows that such failures almost universally come down to a breakdown in communication. This can happen for a variety of reasons, with infidelity being as often a cause as it is a symptom of the failed coupling. This is because, at its core, the definition of a relationship, insofar as romantic partner-hood goes, is when two people make the agreement to place their mutual honesty above all other things. Once such a trust is breached, it puts a caveat in front of every subsequent interaction: the one thing that was agreed upon not to happen has indeed happened, and no matter how much one party can assure the other it won’t happen again, such words carry considerably less weight than before.
It’s a broken dynamic, and it soon has both parties engaged in their own form of espionage. Be it the keeping of secrets or the sniffing out of the other’s dishonesties, the fact of the matter is that the two lovers are now opponents, working to stay one step ahead of the other, lest things get worse, with “worse” being a more relative term than ever before. Neither party wants to be caught with their pants down, so to speak, while clinging to an arrangement that hasn’t been beneficial to either of them for a long time.
And to think, all they really needed to do was have a conversation.
It’s this descent into compartmentalization that fuels the talkier end of the spy movie genre, which focuses not on cool gadgets and specific drink orders, but on the nuts and bolts artistry of deception, information gathering, and the keeping of a stiff upper lip. When I think of spies I think of the Cold War, and the emphasis in my mind is on “cold.” A spy’s life is one devoid of warmth, because to embrace warmth is to show vulnerability, and to show vulnerability is to swallow a cyanide capsule dissolved in your drink by your very best friend.
It’s the dichotomy between the requirements of a career in espionage and the requirements of maintaining a healthy human relationship which is at the core of Black Bag, 2025’s second collaboration between director Steven Soderbergh and writer David Koepp. It’s a minimalist script, shot with the clinical precision and tight editing of everyone’s favorite “retired” filmmaker. The story follows George Woodhouse (Michael Fassbender), a legendary intelligence agent who has recently been given a list of five names, each of whom could possibly be a double agent. Should be an easy task to smoke out a mole, but unfortunately for Woodhouse, one of the names on the list is his wife and fellow legendary intelligence agent, Kathryn St. Jean (my wife, Cate Blanchett). Should be easy enough for a professional, but not so much for a devoted and trusting husband…
Black Bag is a relatively light, low-key film that operates at a near-constant simmer. It’s filled to bursting with twists, turns, and surprises, but none upon which the entire film’s value hinges. A casual glance, a pointed bout of side-eye, or a choice selection of words are what moves the story forward in the place of more bombastic plot thrusts. I don’t think a single character ever even raises their voice. Yet for all its inherent flightiness, the script has a ton of meat on its bones. In the tradition of John le Carré, it requires an active viewer in order to keep up with the layers of convolution, some of which, if not for their entertainment value, could be read as arbitrary. But even if you can’t meet it beat for beat (I’ll admit I was quite tired during my screening), one gets the sense that the ending (which I adored) is very well-earned and supported by what came before. The big “here’s how it all went down” speech is as minimalist as the script itself, and even if the viewer is a few steps behind, the rhythm of the film ensures a feeling of satisfaction. One thing is for damn sure: this is going to be a fun one to rewatch for a few reasons, chief of them to see all the pieces fall into place in real time.
Black Bag is also one of the outright sexiest movies of recent memory, but, again, in a minimalist sense. To reuse the perfect term: it simmers, and the unerringly hot supporting cast is all dialed into the same “we saw you from across the bar and we really dig your vibe” vibe. The standout of the ensemble is Marisa Abela, a relative newcomer, who stands strong alongside Fassbender and Blanchett, two of the best to ever do it. You probably haven’t seen Back to Black, but even if you hate it (it’s better than you’d expect), you should check it out on account of the impossibly good performance from Abela. She’s a hell of a talent, and here in Black Bag she … simmers.
Soderbergh has, ever since announcing his retirement many years ago, continued to produce an idiosyncratic filmography that spans all genres, including the spy thriller. Even so, Black Bag is a new mode for the filmmaker, whose Haywire and Out of Sight both feel adjacent to his latest, while also hearkening back to the minimalist films that first put one of America’s greatest filmmakers on the map.
Welp, gotta go. My wife, Cate Blanchett, is calling me. We have an art gala to attend. We will enjoy the art while also secretly making cutesy snide comments about it since we understand each other.
Directed by Steven Soderbergh
Written by David Koepp
Starring Cate Blanchett, Michael Fassbender, Gustavo Skarsgård, Naomi’s Harris
Rated R, 93 minutes
