The Actor Review: André Holland Shines in Duke Johnson's Surreal Solo Directorial Debut

      For all the light in which The Actor is immersed, it is equally enveloped in darkness. Duke Johnson’s solo directorial debut is a film characterized by hazy sunlight and engulfing night, with very little in between. Depicting that in-between space wouldn’t be fitting; it would be realistic, and The Actor is anything but realistic.

      Joyful strings rise over nostalgic opening credits as we gaze at the towering skyscrapers in a serene, high-altitude shot reminiscent of the view of Saffron City in the original Super Smash Bros. The glittering black-and-white visuals carry a charming 1950s television aesthetic, the text adorned with mid-century atomic sparkle designs (refer to the poster). This seamlessly transitions into the foreboding film noir scene that introduces our story – the catalyst for the plot.

      In a motel room, in the midst of womanizing, our hapless protagonist (a fantastic André Holland) receives his comeuppance: a chair to the face. As fate would have it, this particular woman is married, and her husband reacts violently to the thought of another man. The camera abruptly cuts out, plunging us into a first-person perspective, blinded by vivid, canary-yellow rays, as we see through the eyes of our perplexed lead, Paul Cole. He cannot recall who he is but knows that his home is New York City.

      The simple-minded locals inform him that he’s an actor in a traveling troupe that has already departed, advising him to follow if he wants to avoid further trouble (they have strong views on infidelity). Yet, as we will soon discover, the individuals speaking to Paul in this town are the same ones who will address him in the next town, merely adopting different roles. They appear to be the very troupe in question. This is Johnson’s first mind trick, reminiscent of Tom Noonan(s) in Anomalisa.

      That stop-motion animation is Johnson’s only previous feature directing experience to date, which he co-directed with Charlie Kaufman. The script was penned by Kaufman, and it remains challenging to find a filmmaker who can match Kaufman’s intellectual and visual sharpness while maintaining a complex narrative, even if (by a fine thread) one must squint to see it clearly. With his background in animation, Johnson played a crucial role in realizing Kaufman’s vision. However, Anomalisa possessed that rare Kaufman brilliance, marked by existential complexity and elusive mystery—elements that captivate even when the narrative is unclear.

      Much like Paul, we frequently find ourselves unsure of what is unfolding, who the characters are, or why, and where we are. But ultimately, the overwhelming fatigue of uncertainty begins to dissipate. Paul encounters the enchanting Edna (a quirky and delightful Gemma Chan) in Jefforts, Ohio, falls in love, and opts not to return to New York. What does he care? He can’t even remember what is there. But everything changes when he is struck by random flashes of memory. He finds himself in a dilemma: should he leave Edna to return home and uncover his past, or settle down in small-town Jefforts with his new love and attempt to forget his former life? Or... perhaps something in between?

      A persistent atmosphere of surrealism permeates the film, heightened by stunning miniature sets, dreamy transitions, and an ethereal score (thanks to composer Richard Reed Parry and former indie music sensation Owen Pallett, credited for the arrangements) filled with harps and angelic choirs. The music serves as a cloud of sound that guides us between sets in the deep shadows of Johnson’s phantasmagorical, stage-like transitions.

      When Paul shifts from one building (or town) to another, Johnson does not cut away, nor does he depict the action. Instead, he adopts a Dogville-like approach, spotlighting Paul (and his companions) as if on a stage while darkening everything else, leaving Paul to wander through an endless void until the lights gradually rise around him in a new setting. It’s one of many magical transitions Johnson executes with Tarsem-like bravado.

      This is largely attributed to the innovative editing by Garrett Elkins, who can connect seemingly unrelated sequences and the adept camerawork from DP Joe Passarelli, whose cinematography ranks among the best of the year so far. He manipulates light like a master artist, crafting sharp prisms that slice through rooms like lasers, gauzy atmospheric glows that define the film's tone, and shadows that reveal an inner world rather than obscure the outer. The ethereal beauty of the visuals is bountiful, with colors that are both delicate and emotive.

      In an unexplained, reality-bending moment, Paul views his date with Edna on television (a move reminiscent of Kaufman’s work in Synecdoche). In another moment inspired by Kaufman (who was an executive producer on the project, influencing it on multiple levels),