Megalopolis (2024)
Hollywood’s accidental ode to itself
Megalopolis is…well, it’s something. I think this film might be the best case study for that old phrase: “art, not the artist.” It’s an ambitious, sprawling, visually stunning monument that, on paper, should work beautifully. And yet, watching it feels like looking at an abstract painting that changes depending on the light—and the viewer. Does it work? In some ways, it does. But in others, it feels like a dream that was just a little too big for its own reality. It’s as if Francis Ford Coppola poured every ounce of passion he had left into this film, creating something that’s both mesmerizing and, paradoxically, out of step with the world it’s speaking to.
In a way, Megalopolis feels like a meta-commentary on Hollywood itself—a city where dreams are built on ambition but often crash on the shores of reality. The film is set up as a utopian passion project, a monument of modern culture and artistry, a vision of a better world where unity triumphs over division. It should be a masterpiece for our times, a love letter to possibility. And maybe it would’ve been—if viewed outside the context of 2024’s fractured political landscape and its economic realities. The moment you ground it in today’s world, the idealism it’s built on feels paper-thin. It becomes less a utopia and more a testament to the kind of artistic optimism that lacks real-world grounding.
This paradox is fascinating to me. Watching Megalopolis, I was reminded of Tarsem Singh’s The Fall, another film that visually stuns but lives in its own self-contained world, removed from the practical constraints of everyday life. Both films, in their own ways, are about the folly and beauty of idealism, and both are deeply personal works that can’t quite bear the weight of the universality they aim for.
The film’s tone and performances are another layer of organized chaos. It feels as though every actor was told to make a different movie, each one leaning into their own genre. And that dissonance isn’t accidental; it’s a directorial choice meant to capture the fragmentation of our modern world—a collage of narratives that don’t always align. This is a story about people who each feel like they’re the main character of their own lives, walking through the cityscape with personal scripts that don’t match the other characters’ motivations. I might see myself as the romantic lead, but to my partner, I’m the bumbling sidekick. In this way, Megalopolis is a collision of “I’m the protagonist” energy from every single character. It’s uncomfortable, confusing, and a little chaotic—but that’s also its charm.
My first watch of Megalopolis was a high, kaleidoscopic experience. In that state, I floated through its dreamlike sequences, the visuals and soundscapes washing over me like waves. Coming back to it sober, the beauty still struck me, but the cracks were more visible—the story of idealism missing the mark. It’s a film you experience as much as you watch, but fair warning: this trip isn’t for everyone. It’s like taking an edible with a skunky aftertaste, hoping for a great high but knowing it could go either way. You need to be open to the wild ride, but I can’t promise it’ll be what you expect.
Can I sink my teeth into it? Megalopolis is a weed gummy—if you’re in the mood, it’s a trip. But it might taste like skunk mixed with Jolly Ranchers, and I can’t guarantee your trip will go where you want.
