Steven Soderbergh’s Black Bag kicks off with a stunner: a single-take shot, tracking Michael Fassbender’s George Woodhouse gliding from alleyways into a London nightclub. Sporting a razor-sharp suit and Cutler and Gross black-rimmed glasses, he exudes effortless cool — espionage as high art. He slips past partiers and bouncers like a shadow in a sequence that’s pure cinematic seduction — smooth, precise, and quietly menacing. It sets the tone for a taut spy thriller that’s more Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy than Mr. & Mrs. Smith.
The setup is vintage spy noir: George, a crack British intelligence officer and human lie detector, is tasked with rooting out a mole within his own ranks. The kicker is that his wife, played by Cate Blanchett with a glacial poise that could frost glass, is suspect número uno. What unfolds is an elegant game of cat and mouse, the film’s title leaning into the dark truth that some secrets — be they in the boardroom or the bedroom — are non-negotiable.
Soderbergh, ever the genre stylist, knows exactly where to twist the knife. Black Bag’s best moments aren’t in shootouts (there’s barely a whiff of gunpowder) but in psychological chess. The standout sequences — a polygraph test so tense you’ll forget to breathe, and a dinner party where banter drips with veiled threats — are masterclasses in coiled suspense. David Koepp’s script crackles with dialogue that’s sharp enough to draw blood.
The ensemble is a goldmine. Marisa Abela’s Clarissa Dubose, a young surveillance operative with a mischievous streak, steals every frame. Then there’s Pierce Brosnan as Arthur Steiglitz, the “M” of this operation, cloaked in Savile Row’s finest double-breasted suits. At 71, Brosnan exudes a gravitas that makes you sit up a little straighter. It’s a crime that the film gives us so little of him because he’s still got it. Black Bag might even make you wonder — hear me out — would it be the worst thing to bring him back for one last mission as 007? I mean, it beats half of the ideas being floated over at Amazon.
Yet, for all its panache, Black Bag never fully realizes its aesthetic potential. Oddly so, because it’s got the goods — a photogenic cast, globe-trotting intrigue, sartorial flair, a British racing green SUV, and some of the best garlic slicing since Goodfellas — but Soderbergh’s signature soft-glow cinematography bathes it all in a dreamy haze. It’s too flat when what this entrée demands is a splash of Bollinger.
The sun-bleached look worked in Altman’s The Long Goodbye, but no one in Black Bag meanders like Elliott Gould’s Philip Marlowe. On the contrary: these are the Type A kids who would remind the teacher to collect homework — cunning little bootlickers. Think Violet Beauregarde with top-secret clearance and an encrypted phone. I wouldn’t spend a weekend with any of them, but stepping into their world for 93 minutes? Now, that’s hard to resist.
Soft glow be damned, Black Bag shines. Sure, it’s light on booms (as for the bangs — that’s classified), but it’s rich in grown-up spy fare. If there’s a lesson here, beyond the value of having a good tailor on speed dial, it’s that mixing business with pleasure is always a gamble. Better hold on to that ace.