Here’s a bold statement: The Mastermind is not your typical heist film, and Josh O’Connor’s portrayal of J.B. Mooney is anything but your typical mastermind. In fact, it’s the exact opposite—and that’s where the genius of Kelly Reichardt’s film lies. But here’s where it gets controversial: Is this slow-burn, character-driven approach a refreshing take on the genre, or does it sacrifice the thrill we’ve come to expect from heist movies? Let’s dive in.
From the outset, The Mastermind subverts expectations. J.B. Mooney, a former art student turned unemployed carpenter and family man, is as far from a criminal mastermind as you can get. O’Connor plays him with a brooding, almost pitiable anti-energy—a man who’s neither clever nor quick-thinking, yet somehow finds himself orchestrating an art theft. And this is the part most people miss: Reichardt isn’t interested in the spectacle of the heist itself. Instead, she crafts a moody, meticulously observed portrait of a man unraveling, one poor decision at a time.
Set in the early 1970s in Massachusetts, the film is a masterclass in period detail. Reichardt takes her time—really takes her time—with every shot, painting a picture of a bygone era. Earthy tones, period-perfect costumes, and a world devoid of surveillance cameras set the stage for a heist that feels almost quaint. Remember, this was a time when you could send a couple of guys in pantyhose (yes, pantyhose) to steal paintings in broad daylight and wait outside like a dad picking up his kids from school.
Speaking of kids, J.B.’s family life is a central thread. We meet him at the fictional Framingham Museum, where he’s brought his wife, Terri (Alana Haim), and their two sons for an outing. While they wander, J.B. casually steals a figurine from a display case—a test run for the bigger heist. Later, during a painfully ordinary family dinner with his parents, the blandness of their meal (meat, mashed potatoes, peas, corn on the cob) mirrors the mediocrity of J.B.’s life. But here’s the question: Is J.B.’s failure a result of his own incompetence, or is he a product of a society that’s left him behind?
The heist itself is almost comically unremarkable. J.B.’s accomplices wear pantyhose over their heads, and the theft of four Arthur Dove paintings—not Old Masters, mind you—is executed without fanfare. No thumping soundtrack, no heart-pounding chases. Just the quiet desperation of a man in over his head. And this is where it gets messy: When one accomplice goes rogue, holding a teenage girl at gunpoint, the stakes rise, but the film remains grounded in its observational style.
The real drama begins after the heist. J.B.’s lack of self-awareness and poor planning lead to a cascade of consequences. He hasn’t even figured out how to sell the artwork, which may not even be valuable. His father, a stern local judge (Bill Camp), muses about the paintings’ worth over dinner, oblivious to his son’s involvement. J.B. stashes the paintings in a dirty barn, but it’s only a matter of time before someone talks.
As the walls close in, J.B. goes on the run, but no one wants to help him—not his furious wife, not his friends. Even the local mobsters show up, unimpressed. His options dwindle, and so does his judgment. O’Connor manages to keep us invested, though, holding onto a tiny sliver of sympathy for this depressingly mediocre man. But here’s the bigger question: Do we root for J.B. because he’s relatable, or because we’re fascinated by his utter lack of self-awareness?
The supporting cast is stellar, though Alana Haim’s Terri feels underutilized. Her most poignant moment comes over the phone, when J.B. apologizes for upending their lives while simultaneously asking her for money. It’s a moment that encapsulates the film’s themes of desperation and moral ambiguity.
Reichardt doesn’t shy away from the social context of the time, weaving in vivid street protests against the Vietnam War. Yet, J.B. remains oblivious, caring about nothing but his own survival. And this is the part that sparks debate: Is J.B. a victim of circumstance, or is he simply a man who made his bed and now has to lie in it?
The film’s abrupt but satisfying ending leaves us with more questions than answers. J.B. Mooney is no mastermind, and The Mastermind is no ordinary heist film. It’s a character study, a period piece, and a meditation on the consequences of poor choices. So, here’s the final question for you: Does The Mastermind succeed in redefining the heist genre, or does it lose something in its departure from tradition? Let us know in the comments.
