Black Bag

In Black Bag, Steven Soderbergh takes on espionage not with a pulse-pounding chase sequence, but with a wine glass in hand, tense polygraph exchanges, and psychological chess matches played across the dinner table.

Set within the quiet, wood-panelled world of contemporary British intelligence, the film eschews the high-octane thrills typical of the genre for a quietly intriguing premise: George (Michael Fassbender), a seasoned spy, must investigate a leak in his department – and that leak might be his wife, Kathryn (Cate Blanchett).

Despite the tantalising stakes and moments of sharp suspense, Black Bag is not a high-tension thriller. Scenes that might traditionally crackle with drama often land with more of a simmer than a bang. But there's something satisfying about its restraint.

The story unfolds not in war rooms or car chases, but in clipped conversations and loaded glances. It’s le Carré meets Albee: intelligence briefings delivered with the poise of stagecraft, and betrayals that unfold like domestic dramas. More Agatha Christie than Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy – a drawing-room whodunit in spy’s clothing.

This restraint – even if it occasionally dulls the suspense with too-even pacing – has a wonderful flow-on effect. For a spy thriller Soderbergh does a marvellous job of not manipulating his audience, nor wasting time dragging out reveals.

Information unfolds not through cheap twists or contrived reveals, but with a sense of natural progression. It’s rare to find a mystery that invites you to walk alongside it, rather than jerking you from surprise to surprise.

At first, there’s a stiffness to the characters – an artificiality that feels like an odd misstep. However, given time, the film’s polish reveals itself to be part of the design. These are people who lie for a living; the way they interact is as curated as their clothes.

What might seem cold at first settles into something stylised and deliberate, and once you tune in to the film’s frequency, it becomes quietly gripping. This delicacy and curation to the characterisation is enjoyably mirrored in visual choices, like the fogging of George’s glasses as he cooks dinner – a brilliant image that reflects the hazy boundaries of trust and perception running through the film.

One of the film’s more unexpected pleasures is its subtle, almost sly sense of humour. It never chases a laugh, but there’s a dry, knowing wit beneath the surface that gives Black Bag a welcome layer of texture. It’s the kind of humour that lives in awkward pauses or the faint smirk of someone who knows just a little more than they’re letting on.

The emotional heart of the film lies less in spy craft than in the unknowability of those we claim to know best, posing that age-old question – what would you do for the person you love?

Because for all that George and Kathryn’s lives are steeped in secrecy, their relationship touches on familiar truths: the fragility of intimacy, the weight of loyalty, and the slow, almost imperceptible erosion of trust. Blanchett, in particular, navigates the space between warmth and detachment with devastating precision.

Ultimately, Black Bag rewards viewers with a taste for the classical and the considered. It’s a slow burn, to be sure but one that simmers with intelligence and quiet emotional depth. A film less concerned with shocks than with shadows, it doesn’t demand your attention so much as earn it – and in doing so, it lingers in the mind with the same thoughtful precision it applied to each and every frame. •