SPOILER FREE REVIEW

Paul Thomas Anderson’s latest film in his long-line of visionary films, ‘One Battle After Another,’ marks a renewed artistic dialogue between the director and novelist Thomas Pynchon. Having previously adapted ‘Inherent Vice’ (2014), Anderson now engages with Pynchon’s 1990 novel ‘Vineland,’ but rather than strict fidelity, he transforms the text into a frenetic action-thriller suffused with pulp sensibilities, biting political satire, and a restless comic-book vitality. The film is propelled by Jonny Greenwood’s abrasive, high-strung score, which underscores its oscillation between farce and fury.

At its core, the film interrogates the intersection of countercultural resistance and the entrenched paranoia of American politics, a theme central to both Anderson’s and Pynchon’s work. Anderson situates this narrative not in the temporal distance between the 1960s and Reagan-era conservatism—as Pynchon once did—but in a present that fuses the late-Obama years with the cultural theatrics of Trump’s presidency. Without overt references to movements like Black Lives Matter or slogans like MAGA, the film nevertheless critiques the normalization of militarized policing and the dehumanizing practices of Immigration and Customs Enforcement, exposing what it frames as a new authoritarian impulse.

Leonardo DiCaprio anchors the story as Bob, a bedraggled revolutionary whose comedic incompetence—futilely setting off fireworks as a diversion while his comrades execute raids on migrant detention centers—contrasts with the seriousness of his mission. His compatriots, such as the disciplined Deandra (Regina Hall) and the intellectually rigorous Howard (Paul Grimstad, in a cameo), outshine him in both purpose and competence. Bob’s personal life, meanwhile, orbits around his partner and commanding comrade Perfidia (Teyana Taylor), whose charisma and cold strategic brilliance make her both a figure of admiration and moral ambiguity.

One of the film’s most provocative dynamics emerges between Perfidia and the grotesque Colonel Steven Lockjaw (Sean Penn), a villain rendered with caricatured physicality and unsettling eroticism. Lockjaw’s leering fascination with his captor becomes a twisted instrument of resistance, as Perfidia manipulates his obsession for tactical advantage. Her willingness to exploit this dynamic—epitomized in the unforgettable image of her firing an assault rifle while heavily pregnant—raises questions about the limits of revolutionary excess, and whether such limits can be said to exist at all.

The film then pivots into a generational narrative. Bob, increasingly consumed by substance abuse and inertia, attempts to raise his daughter Willa (Chase Infiniti), a teenager whose intelligence and martial discipline far exceed his own. Their strained relationship recalls Freudian themes of father-daughter conflict while also evoking contemporary anxieties around shifting social norms. Willa’s eventual confrontation with the ambiguity of her parentage—entangled in Bob’s past with Lockjaw—injects a bizarrely comic echo of Mamma Mia! into the otherwise politically charged narrative.

Stylistically, ‘One Battle After Another’ is both chaotic and mesmerizing. Anderson juxtaposes slapstick absurdity with sequences of finely orchestrated action, culminating in a hallucinatory car-chase trilogy that lingers as one of the film’s most indelible spectacles. Beneath its tonal instability lies a coherent preoccupation: the persistence of cultural conflict in America and the haunting question of who inherits the fractured dream of national identity. Anderson’s directorial approach in ‘One Battle After Another’ demonstrates his signature balance between chaotic energy and formal precision. While the narrative indulges in farcical extremes and tonal shifts, the direction maintains a surprising coherence, orchestrating absurdist comedy and political allegory within the same frame.

The performances are integral to this effect: Leonardo DiCaprio renders Bob as both tragicomic and pathologically inept, embodying a figure caught between revolutionary fervor and personal disintegration. By contrast, Teyana Taylor commands the screen as Perfidia, her performance oscillating between icy strategic control and raw, almost mythic physicality—her presence frequently eclipsing the men around her. Sean Penn’s portrayal of Colonel Lockjaw veers deliberately into grotesque caricature, his exaggerated physical gestures aligning with the film’s critique of authoritarian masculinity.

Benicio del Toro, in a smaller yet striking role as Willa’s martial arts instructor, offers a counterpoint to the film’s otherwise frenzied performances. His presence is measured and almost meditative, embodying a form of discipline and generational wisdom that contrasts sharply with Bob’s chaos and incapacity. Del Toro’s restrained performance grounds the narrative at key moments, providing Willa with a model of rigor and self-possession that her father cannot supply. Cinematically, Anderson frames del Toro in long, still takes—often with subdued lighting and uncluttered mise-en-scène—that visually distinguish him from the jittery handheld shots surrounding Bob. This formal choice enhances his symbolic function in the film: he is not simply a supporting character, but a stabilizing figure whose gravitas gestures toward an alternative lineage of resistance, one that values endurance and clarity over spectacle and excess.

Anderson and his longtime collaborators exploit widescreen compositions and fluid tracking shots to juxtapose intimacy with spectacle. The camera often lingers on bodies in motion—whether during Perfidia’s kinetic dominance of her enemies or Bob’s frantic, pathetic scurrying through the streets—creating a visual grammar that distinguishes genuine power from theatrical impotence. The climactic car sequences are rendered almost dreamlike, emphasizing the surrealism of political struggle refracted through pulp aesthetics. In this way, the cinematography does not merely illustrate the narrative but actively participates in its dialectic of parody and seriousness.

Anderson’s film may well be polarizing, its eccentric blend of satire, melodrama, and political commentary unlikely to align with dominant cinematic tastes in the United States. Yet precisely because of its refusal to conform, it emerges as a compelling testament to dissent—an exploration of what it means to resist, to question, and to exist uneasily on the margins of belonging.

Our score: ★★★★★
(out of 5 stars)

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