Rating: 5 out of 5.
As film critics, there is a responsibility to remain unbiased – to avoid projecting personal political beliefs onto the work, or criticizing a film through the lens of ideology rather than craft. That responsibility becomes increasingly difficult in the context of the world we currently inhabit. In light of recent events in the United States and elsewhere – public unrest, violence, and social fracture – watching One Battle After Another is an uneasy experience.
The challenge lies in the film’s paradox. While it resists being labeled as overtly political, it is impossible to ignore that it engages with political realities. Paul Thomas Anderson does not construct a straightforward political statement, nor does he reduce his characters to symbols or arguments. Instead, the film operates beyond a contained cinematic universe, blurring the line between fiction and lived experience.
That proximity to reality is precisely what makes the film so difficult, and so compelling to watch. The narrative does not instruct the viewer how to feel or what to believe, but it refuses the comfort of detachment. What unfolds onscreen feels uncomfortably familiar, not because the film mirrors any single event or ideology, but because it reflects a broader, ongoing condition. In that sense, One Battle After Another does not simply exist within the political moment – it collides with it, becoming part of the reality it observes rather than standing safely apart from it.
The film follows a group of former revolutionaries – Ghetto / Pat Calhoun / Bob Ferguson, Perfidia Beverly Hills, and their associates – war-hardened idealists and members of a far-left revolutionary collective known as the French 75. Their actions place them in direct conflict with state authority during an operation to liberate detained immigrants from the Altea Mesa detention center.
During this operation, Perfidia Beverly Hills becomes entangled with Colonel Steven J. Lockjaw (Sean Penn), the center’s commanding officer. The encounter leaves a lasting psychological impact on Lockjaw, who develops an obsessive fixation on her that ultimately compromises his judgment. When he later discovers Perfidia planting a bomb, he allows her to escape under a morally corrupt arrangement — a moment that underscores the film’s examination of power, desire, and exploitation.
Years later, Perfidia gives birth to a daughter, Willa Ferguson, also known as Charlene Calhoun. Bob Ferguson — also known by his former revolutionary identity, Ghetto or Pat Calhoun (Leonardo DiCaprio) — is left to raise the child alone, distancing himself from the radical and violent world he once inhabited. For sixteen years, he believes that chapter of his life is firmly behind him.
That illusion collapses when figures from his past resurface, setting off a chain of pursuit driven by unresolved history, ideological scars, and competing claims of responsibility. What follows is not simply a chase, but a confrontation shaped by obsession and legacy. As the narrative unfolds, it becomes clear that those in pursuit – despite differing methods and motivations — are ultimately driven by the same underlying goal. Willa, largely unaware of the forces orbiting her existence, becomes the emotional and narrative center of the film, anchoring a story about inheritance, fixation, and the inescapability of past convictions.
While the film takes numerous turns, it never loses its ability to engage. It remains consistently compelling, even as its tone and momentum shift. The performances, however, elevate the film into something far more substantial.
Teyana Taylor, Leonardo DiCaprio, Sean Penn, and Regina Hall all deliver work of notable precision, but Sean Penn’s performance stands apart. What he achieves here is remarkably restrained – a portrayal built not on excess, but on control. There is something deeply unsettling in the way he inhabits Colonel Lockjaw, a presence that lingers and occupies the viewer’s thoughts long after his scenes have ended. It is the kind of performance that invites disbelief, not because it is overstated, but because of how completely it absorbs attention while revealing so little.
Teyana Taylor’s work as Perfidia Beverly Hills is equally deserving of recognition. Any prior expectations dissolve quickly in the face of what she brings to the role. Though her screen time is limited, her impact is not. She contributes just enough to shape the emotional and narrative weight of her character, leaving an impression that extends beyond the film’s runtime. Her performance does not demand attention – it earns it. And it is easy to understand why it resonated so strongly with awards bodies.
Leonardo DiCaprio, meanwhile, continues to demonstrate a level of versatility that feels almost effortless. His portrayal of a man fractured between former identities reinforces why he remains one of the most adaptable actors of his generation. There are no visible limits in his approach – no character he appears unwilling or unable to explore. His commitment serves the story first, grounding the film’s emotional core with clarity and purpose.
Benicio del Toro also delivers a performance of assured control as Sergio St. Carlos, reinforcing the sense that this is an ensemble operating at a uniformly high level. Taken together, the cast turns the film into something approaching a collective masterclass in performance.
Ultimately, Paul Thomas Anderson delivers one of the year’s most accomplished films – a work that balances ambition with discipline, intensity with reflection. It is unsurprising that the film has drawn such widespread attention, as it stands not only as a significant entry in his body of work, but as one of the most striking cinematic achievements of the year.
At its core, One Battle After Another engages with subject matter that is undeniably powerful. It invites discussion rather than dictating conclusions, encouraging viewers to question how far the issue of immigration can extend – how it can shape, fracture, or radicalize minds and lives, while also giving rise to unexpected acts of courage. The film resists simple moral binaries, acknowledging both the damage such systems can inflict and the resilience they can provoke.
What ultimately emerges is a work whose message extends beyond the immediacy of its narrative. It is a film worth engaging with not only for what it presents onscreen, but for the conversations it continues to generate afterward. Whether its broader implications are fully understood now or only recognized with time remains uncertain. What is clear is that the film trusts its audience to reflect, to question, and, eventually, to arrive at their own understanding of its significance.