There’s something deeply satisfying about watching a filmmaker find their footing again after a creative lull. Steven Soderbergh, whose relationship with retirement has been as complicated as the labyrinthine spy plots he now seems drawn to, has finally delivered something worthy of the director who once gave us Out of Sight and The Limey. Black Bag marks not just a return to form, but perhaps his strongest work since 2013’s Behind the Candelabra.
I’ve been mixed on Soderbergh’s output since his “retirement” ended, a period marked by technical experiments that often sacrificed narrative substance. This year’s earlier offering, Presence, embodied this frustrating trend—a compelling premise hamstrung by what felt distinctly like a first-draft script rushed into production. It left me wondering if the director’s notorious efficiency had finally outpaced his storytelling instincts.
Which is why Black Bag feels like such a revelation. Reuniting with Presence screenwriter David Koepp, Soderbergh has crafted a thriller in the John le Carré tradition—light on action but heavy on intrigue, dialogue, and tension – juxtaposed with the dinner-party-murder-mystery component of a game of Clue. The film suggests that while Presence may have been the pair’s pandemic distraction, Black Bag was where their creative energies truly coalesced.
The premise is deceptively straightforward: intelligence agent George Woodhouse (Michael Fassbender) is tasked with investigating his wife and fellow spy Kathryn St. Jean (Cate Blanchett) on suspicion of treason. But the investigation is merely the framework for a more intimate examination of trust, loyalty, and the impossible compartmentalization required of those who live double lives.
Fassbender, emerging from a career slump with both this and the Irish production Kneecap, brings a world-weary intensity to Woodhouse. His performance is a masterclass in restraint, communicating volumes through micro-expressions as he grapples with the ultimate question: does his loyalty lie with his marriage or his country? Blanchett matches him beat for beat as St. Jean, her characteristic poise concealing layers of calculation and vulnerability. Together, they create a kind of middle-aged Mr. and Mrs. Smith dynamic, though with infinitely more psychological complexity and considerably less gunfire.
The film opens with a dinner party scene that establishes both the chatty tone and the claustrophobic intimacy that defines the narrative. Soderbergh’s camera lingers on faces, catching glimpses of doubt, desire, and deception as this crew of professional liars navigate the most dangerous territory of all—their own long-term relationships. This domestic drama forms the heart of the film, with the espionage plot serving as both catalyst and metaphor for the central question: who is—quite literally—screwing whom, and when?
The supporting cast provides a constellation of morally ambiguous figures circling the central couple. Marisa Abela brings a knife-edge sharpness contrasting with doe-eyed innocence to Clarissa Dubose, while Regé-Jean Page delivers smoldering depth as Col. James Stokes. Recent Mad Max: Furiosa standout Tom Burke adds a nice pop of levity too. Perhaps most surprising is Pierce Brosnan‘s turn as Arthur Steiglitz, a performance that knowingly plays against his Bond persona to create something far more enigmatic and even bureaucratic.
What elevates Black Bag above conventional spy fare is Soderbergh’s disinterest in the mechanics of espionage. The film cares little for explaining the geopolitical stakes or detailing the technical aspects of intelligence work (overtures towards the conflict in Ukraine are simply known as “The War”). Instead, it focuses relentlessly on the human cost of deception as a profession, the toll of maintaining covers within covers. The fact that Woodhouse’s severity and St. Jean’s cunning are juxtaposed against the clumsier machinations of their colleagues only reinforces this theme—they are masters of a game that’s slowly consuming them.
Soderbergh’s direction is characteristically assured, his economic storytelling perfectly suited to the lean 90-minute runtime. His dual roles as cinematographer and editor (as Mary Ann Bernard) ensure a visual cohesion that serves the narrative’s escalating tensions. The film’s color palette—cool blues for professional spaces, warm ambers for domestic scenes—subtly reinforces the compartmentalization that defines these characters’ lives.
With its back-and-forths, double-crosses, and a cast that simmers with collective charisma, Black Bag represents my platonic ideal of a spy film. It trusts its audience enough to prioritize psychological nuance over exposition, character over spectacle. In an era of bloated runtimes and franchise obligations, there’s something refreshingly confident about a thriller that accomplishes so much in so little time.
Soderbergh has delivered his best work in years—a taut, intelligent spy drama that lingers in the mind long after its economical runtime concludes. For those who’ve been waiting for the filmmaker to recapture the magic of his pre-retirement glory days, Black Bag isn’t just a return to form—it’s a reminder of why we fell in love with his filmmaking in the first place.