It doesn’t take long to realize that the title of Kelly Reichardt’s latest observation of life on the margins of America is laced with cutting irony. There are no grand geniuses in “The Mastermind,” only ordinary people living in a very ordinary world. So ordinary in fact, that a small, messy art robbery shakes the locals in Massachusetts out of their solemn reveries. So yes, “The Mastermind” is not about one, and this isn’t a heist film, but a clever, dreary, quiet deconstruction of one.
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If J.B. Mooney (Josh O’Connor) doesn’t fit neatly within what his titular role might suggest, it’s because he doesn’t really fit anywhere at all. An art school dropout and an unambitious drifter, he’s floundering without purpose and making ends meet as a carpenter to support his wife Terri (Alana Haim, whose natural talents in “Licorice Pizza” go criminally underused here) and their two boys. But on family trips to the Framingham Museum of Art, J.B. is secretly determining how to steal four Arthur Dove paintings, covertly plucking a wooden figurine on display in the coolly effective opening scene.

Once he locks down a plan, J.B. enlists three other guys to join him, borrowing money from his mother (Hope Davis) in order to settle up payments. He’s adamant that the heist will take eight minutes, though naturally it derails thanks to the unpredictable fuck ups of his co-conspirators. One bails on the day, and it takes just a little too long to stuff the paintings in cloth bags. Their faces are barely covered by women’s stockings used as makeshift balaclavas. Reichardt mines delightful pockets of comedy in the getaway sequence, as when one of the thieves clumsily rolls down the window of their stolen car to fit the paintings in the trunk. The free-flowing percussive jazz score from Rob Mazurek heightens the chaos of their flawed getaway.
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Shot with her signature long takes, Reichardt breaks down the heist into its most elementary processes. Though sloppy on every level, the robbery just about works, and J.B. is left to figure out what to do next with four enormous paintings in his modest family home. He struggles to carry the large, unwieldy works of art up to a safe hiding spot in a muddy barn — the method is decidedly unglamorous compared to the slick sleight-of-hand trickery and rigorous planning that dominate the heist genre.
When the law threatens to finally catch up with J.B., he puts on the charm offensive to evade suspicion. “You might not understand the gravity of taking paintings from public spaces,” the detective tells J.B. Judging by his casual dismissiveness, maybe he really doesn’t. But J.B.’s innate charisma can only keep him afloat for so long. “The Mastermind” isn’t so much a heist movie as it is about the aftermath, spending more time on J.B.’s inevitable downfall than the initial incident itself. Reichardt’s film — which also has the director on sole writing duties — is striking in its simplicity, sitting with its doomed protagonist as the sheer enormity of his actions catches up to him. He’s running away from the truth as much as he’s running away from the police.
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Perhaps no one embodies the scruffy scoundrel you can’t help but root for better than O’Connor. His uniform, an off-white Harrington jacket, is not too distant from Arthur’s musty cream suit in “La Chimera.” While those characters overlap down to their affinity for stealing priceless artefacts, O’Connor crafts an entirely distinctive performance. While J.B. can at times be endearing, there’s also something deeply sad about him: it’s in the way he rejects community, the way Arthur would not. J.B. doesn’t have as many friends as people who are momentarily valuable to him. When his old pal Fred (John Margaro, reuniting with Reichardt after “First Cow”) suggests he escape to a rural commune in Canada, he balks at the idea of settling down with hippies. The most tragic aspect of J.B. is that he doesn’t seem to want anything at all. He’s a shadow of a person, but in O’Connor’s hands, he never feels empty.
Living in 1970s America during the Vietnam War, perhaps he’s just been led to believe he has no need for desires at all. He is, after all, in a country that’s enlisting everyday people to give their lives to a fight they never asked for. J.B. brushes up against anti-war protestors, people with beliefs and convictions stronger than anything he could imagine — the film’s broader context operates as more than set dressing, but deepens J.B.’s debilitating passivity. “The Mastermind” sees Reinhardt working with a bigger budget and a larger scale, but she never loses her languorous, absorbing sensibilities as a filmmaker. She’s never been better. [B+]