In The Mastermind, acclaimed filmmaker Kelly Reichardt ventures into the familiar terrain of the heist movie… and then quietly rewrites its rules. Set in early 1970s Massachusetts, the film follows Josh O’Connor as J.B. Mooney, a once-aspiring architect turned husband and amateur criminal who hatches a plan to steal abstract paintings from a local art museum. But this isn’t Ocean’s Eleven: the glamour is stripped away, the stakes feel muted, and the aftermath is as mild and inconspicuous as the heist itself.

Catch The Mastermind in theaters beginning Friday, October 24th at the Laemmle Glendale, Town Center, Monica, Claremont, and NoHo 7.

Reichardt, whose past work has often focused on the imperceptible leaps of its lead characters—on a road trip, in a forest, in a lapsed mechanic’s shop, etc.—now applies that same contemplative lens to a genre whose mechanics have traditionally demanded speed and spectacle. She directs the film with her signature minimalism: restraint in gesture, economy in dialogue, and an eye trained on the void behind ambition for ambition’s sake. As in Showing Up and First Cow, the roar of a larger world remains just off-screen, yet its presence is felt in every muffled scene or stray whorl of cigarette smoke.

What distinguishes The Mastermind is that the so-called heist barely registers as its focus. The robbery unfolds almost incidentally, stripped of both glamour and tension. Instead, Reichardt lingers on the quiet details: the faint clink of museum glass being lifted, the awkward thud of stolen chairs crammed into a car, the weary stillness of J.B. returning home, where he drifts through the world of his judge father and socialite mother like an unmoored ship, steered by forces outside his reckoning. The film’s true intrigue lies not in the crime, but in its aftermath; the emotional debris left behind once that initial thrill has already faded.

O’Connor delivers an unexpectedly subdued performance. His J.B. has zero swagger, simply a quiet entitlement and a suggestion that he deserves something for nothing. Surrounding him are rich supporting performances from Alana Haim (his wife), Bill Camp (his father), and Hope Davis (his mother), each anchoring the film’s emotional weight without stepping into melodrama. Reichardt’s long-time cinematographer Chris Blauvelt and composer Rob Mazurek combine to deliver a vintage jazz score, each sax note and 16-mm texture suggesting more than what’s actually shown.

If The Mastermind feels slow, starved of the genre’s usual arrests, explosions, and triumphant escapes, that’s precisely the point. Reichardt aims to observe a man who planned to rob a museum and ultimately robbed himself. What remains is the humdrum tragicomedy of a life unraveling. And yet, in its stillness, the film finds its own power exploring such ideas as privilege, desperation, and craft hovering in the background of a genre made for thrill.

“A masterclass in the director’s own unique philosophical take on life.” – Amelia Harvey, ThatHashtagShow.com

“Reichardt has unerringly located the unglamour in the heist.” – Peter Bradshaw, The Guardian

Rarely does a film carry the quiet anticipation that surrounds The History of Sound, Oliver Hermanus’s latest queer period romance. Hermanus—already celebrated for works like Beauty (2011), Moffie (2019), and Living (2022)—has built a reputation for telling intimate stories with hefty moral weight, exploring identity, repression, and the varied textures of longing. In The History of Sound, he turns his gaze from South Africa to early 20th-century America to examine how love and music intertwine when both must be framed in shadow.

Catch The History of Sound in theaters beginning September 19th at the Laemmle NoHo, Glendale, Claremont, Town Center, and the Monica Film Center.

The film begins in 1917, with America on the brink of entering the First World War. In Boston, the New England Conservatory of Music buzzes with disciplined energy, its classrooms and practice halls filled with young musicians devoted to mastering their craft. It is here that Lionel Worthing (Paul Mescal), a shy, musically gifted farm boy from Kentucky, first encounters David White (Josh O’Connor), a more worldly and charismatic student whose flair for piano and song draws immediate attention, thus marking the beginning of their deep, unconventional bond.

Leaving behind the conservatory’s structured walls, the story advances to the rolling backwoods of Maine, where the two men embark on a summer expedition to record local folk music on wax cylinders. Camping under the stars, both Lionel and David relax into a profound intimacy born as much from their shared sensibilities and musical devotion as from romantic desire. In this transitional era, where the old world’s simplicity meets the looming pressures of a global conflict, it is ironically such intangibles as love, art, and music that the film holds up as unlikely exemplars of consistency and groundedness.

Ultimately, The History of Sound is an intimate character study of two men brought together by music, intellect, and the rare alignment of sensibilities. Some critics have drawn comparisons to Brokeback Mountain, noting the restrained, repressed tone and the early 20th-century setting, but the resemblance stops at this superficial level. For where Ang Lee’s film dramatized social pressure and the peril of being discovered, Hermanus’ work is far more concerned with the private, almost sacred interiority of desire than with overt drama or societal conflict. The war looms, but the heart of the film lies in what’s preserved: love, song, memory, and the myriad fruits of their timeless intermingling.

“[A] meditative tale about longing and the connection that music, as well as other art forms, can create between people.” – Ben Rolph, Discussing Film

The History of Sound is a work willing to live and die by its emotional heft.” – Will Bjarnar, In Session Film

“A slow-burn kind of picture.” – Mike McGranaghan, The Aisle Seat