Tobacco and Quiet Corners

Kelly Reichardt uses the same method to steal genre movies as J.B. does when stealing paintings because she works with stealth and determination until the missing elements become apparent. The Mastermind presents itself as a heist movie but it actually functions as an anxiety dream that uses corduroy as its outer layer.

Josh O'Connor slouches through 1970 Massachusetts wearing ratty sweaters that cost more than my rent, playing James Blaine Mooney with a particular kind of dampness. The surface shows dampness instead of any indication that it has gotten wet. Like laundry you forgot in the machine. The whole film feels this way. Christopher Blauvelt shoots autumn like it's already rotting, all mustard yellows and browns that Amy Roth matches in polyester and wool blends that probably smell exactly as terrible as they look.

J.B. decides to steal four Arthur Dove abstracts from the local museum. Not Rembrandt, not Monet. Arthur Dove. "I'll steal the artists that only real artists know about," he tells someone, and the film gets stuck on this narcissism like gum on a shoe. Actually, wait. His self-description creates an impression of him being more impressive than his actual worth. J.B.'s the guy who ties his shoe in front of the museum guard after stealing a wooden figurine, riding the high of shoplifting a candy bar. O'Connor plays him with this unbearable combination of entitlement and incompetence that makes you want to shake him.

The entire heist operation occurs at a fast speed. Too fast. Reichardt gets it over with like ripping off a bandage because she's interested in the festering wound underneath. The jazz score by Rob Mazurek presents this absurdity through his drumming which combines skittering beats with brushwork that mimics the sound of someone attempting to suppress laughter at a funeral.

The thief took pantyhose masks before he used a hand-cranked station wagon window to break into the building. This is not Ocean's Eleven. Not even Ocean's Three.

The museum building itself stands as the main source of my death. The galleries built by Anthony Gasparro show signs of abandonment because sleeping guards and students do their homework in spaces where artwork used to be displayed. Everything's brown or orange or that specific green that only existed in 1970. You know the one. Hospital waiting room green.

Alana Haim shows up as the wife and then basically disappears, which feels criminal but also perfect for this film where women exist mainly to watch men make terrible decisions. The hippie friends, though. John Magaro and Gaby Hoffmann playing stoned philosophical farmers feels like Reichardt suddenly remembered she was having fun and decided to stop.

(Can we talk about how Reichardt continues to direct movies about men who steal things which they do not have any right to?)The main focus of First Cow centered on milk. Now paintings nobody wants. What's next, office supplies?)

"I'm too recognizable," J.B. says about why he can't do the heist himself. The delusion remains stationary like spoiled dairy products. O'Connor holds stolen paintings above his parents' couch wearing droopy boxers and you understand everything about American masculinity's particular strain of failure. Camp and Davis play his parents with the exhaustion of people who've been watching this slow disaster since birth.

Here's the thing. The Vietnam War plays on every television, protests fill the streets, and J.B. can't see any of it. The world faces destruction while he continues to steal artwork. The film shows this understanding through its continuous presentation of historical content during J.B.'s museum floor design evaluation process.

The wooden figurine he takes during the opening scene continues to stay in my mind. Such a nothing object. But he has to take it. People in the world have difficulty controlling their actions.

Actually I'm being unfair. The movie commits to its own slowness with admirable stubbornness. Reichardt shoots J.B. on buses going nowhere, hiding paintings in barns, watching his plan dissolve. A man discovers his lack of intelligence during a ten-minute period which remains empty of all other events. The film presents itself as pure cinema to viewers who recognize this particular filmmaking approach. Torture if you're not.

The ending just. Stops. Which feels right.