Paul Anderson’s latest film makes it clear from the very first moment that it has no intention of belonging to the Hollywood mainstream. By tackling themes such as structural racism, political violence, and gendered exploitation, the film situates itself within the tradition that critics and theorists have described as Third Cinema, a mode of filmmaking defined in the 1960s and 1970s by figures like Fernando Solanas and Octavio Getino, aimed not at consumer entertainment but at exposing mechanisms of power and mobilizing critical consciousness.
With unflinching boldness, the film confronts these dark mechanisms, most strikingly in the harrowing scene of the traitor general burned in a furnace reminiscent of the Holocaust. Here, Anderson reveals the logic of totalitarian ideologies: every “undesirable other” or every traitor must be eradicated in fire. This shocking, symbolic image has all the potential to become a cult moment, one that will linger in collective memory, replayed and reinterpreted for years to come.
Sean Penn delivers one of his most memorable performances in recent years. Through mastery of the smallest details, gestures, glances, heavy silences, bursts of rage, he crafts a multi-layered character whose presence drives the story forward and simultaneously dominates the screen as a dramatic force in its own right. His performance is so intense and nuanced that even without dialogue, the full meaning of a scene is written across his face. It is precisely this quality that gives the film its lasting resonance and lays the groundwork for its recognition as a future cult classic.
The score is equally pivotal, standing alongside the performances as a structural element of the film. Unlike mainstream cinema, where music often serves merely as accompaniment, here it emerges as an independent narrative layer. Heavy piano and guitar lines, combined with strings and percussion, move restlessly between calm and eruption, exposing the inner psychology of the characters. In tense moments, the music does not guide the audience but throws them into the depths of anxiety; in silence, it echoes historical trauma. This “trans-musical” quality gives the soundtrack its enduring power, etching the film into the auditory memory of its viewers.
The film’s portrayal of the Black female body as a contested site of domination and resistance further underscores its layered approach. By directly referencing periods of American history and the struggle for civil rights, the film positions itself in dialogue with traditions of political cinema. As the history of Third Cinema has shown, such films—precisely because of their radical stance, are those that are repeatedly revisited in academic and intellectual contexts.
Ultimately, even if One Battle After Another does not achieve box-office success (which seems likely), it has the capacity to endure as a cult film, sustained in cine-clubs, classrooms, and circles of committed cinephiles. It is not a film for everyone, but rather for a passionate and loyal audience, one that will return to it time and again, keeping it alive within cultural memory.
