Thunderbolts* – Film Review

It’s really no secret that I’m one of the seemingly few people who has consistently loved the recent phases of the MCU, even if I can admit that they’re nowhere near as good as the good old days ten years ago when the massive cinematic franchise kept things grounded and simple instead of complicating things by introducing multiversal stories.

If you’re looking for a trip back to the “good old days” of Marvel, then you don’t have to look any further than Thunderbolts*, which is not only one of the greatest movies of the year so far, but also one of the finest entries in this decade-spanning cinematic universe ever.

Directed with precision and visual flair by Jake Schreier, from a sharp, thematically rich screenplay by Eric Pearson and Joanna Calo, this film is a stunning success on every level—narrative, performance, and emotional resonance. It blends explosive action with soul-searching character drama, proving that Marvel’s thirty-sixth entry isn’t just another team-up spectacle—it’s a daring study in redemption, accountability, and mental health.

The film revolves around a group of misfit antiheroes—characters once feared or forgotten—forced into a reluctant alliance when a mission they believe to be routine turns into a deadly betrayal. With echoes of classic espionage thrillers and dystopian sci-fi, Thunderbolts* carves out its own unique identity. Where previous team-up entries like The Avengers or Guardians of the Galaxy leaned into camaraderie or chaos, Thunderbolts* asks something deeper: what happens when broken people are asked to save a world that has broken them?

Florence Pugh delivers what can only be described as an Oscar-worthy performance as Yelena Belova. Having already proven herself a force within the MCU in both Black Widow and Hawkeye, Pugh elevates her role here to tragic heroine status—layered, fierce, vulnerable, and deeply human. Her Yelena is not only a razor-sharp tactician and fighter but also a woman grappling with guilt, identity, and survival. Whether facing off against impossible odds or confronting the ghosts of her past, Pugh commands every frame with a gravity and authenticity rarely seen in superhero cinema.

Yet this film is not hers alone. Sebastian Stan’s Bucky Barnes continues his evolution with gravitas, portraying him as a man finally reclaiming his agency. His presence brings both authority and empathy to the group, acting as a moral compass among rogues. Longtime fans of Bucky’s character are going to fall in love with him all over again here. Wyatt Russell’s John Walker remains a wildcard—volatile yet strangely charismatic, providing much-needed tension within the team. Meanwhile, Hannah John-Kamen’s Ghost and David Harbour’s Red Guardian both get expanded emotional arcs that breathe new life into their previously underserved characters. John-Kamen in particular is a delight to see, especially since the last time we saw her in the MCU was seven years ago back when Ant-Man and the Wasp came out.

The standout among the newcomers is Lewis Pullman as Robert Reynolds, a.k.a. the Sentry. Without venturing into spoiler territory, Pullman’s portrayal is haunting, unpredictable, and quietly devastating. Through Bob’s arc, Thunderbolts* becomes more than a mission movie—it becomes a sensitive exploration of mental illness, trauma, and the fear of one’s own mind. The film treats Bob’s psychological turmoil with unexpected care and thoughtfulness, avoiding sensationalism in favor of empathy and nuance. It is this storyline in particular that sets Thunderbolts* apart, and as a viewer, I found myself genuinely appreciative of how respectfully and insightfully the topic of mental health was handled. I would’ve never predicted that I would cry during a team-up movie in the MCU like this one, but I found myself seriously struggling to keep the tears at bay during certain scenes that felt a little too close to home.

Schreier’s direction walks a tightrope between grounded realism and comic book mythos, and the result is visually stunning and tonally balanced. The action sequences are thrilling and visceral, especially a mid-film escape from a covert facility that pulses with intensity. Yet the most memorable moments are quiet ones—introspective conversations, scenes of grief, or team members wrestling with their identities in the wake of betrayal. Composer Son Lux’s score is equally effective, veering from brooding and atmospheric to emotionally soaring as needed.

It’s also one of the most visually interesting MCU movies in ages. A lot of the recent films feel like they lack a certain visual flair and identity, but the same cannot be said for Thunderbolts*. A climactic descent into a surreal, shadowy dimension—an allegorical representation of internal struggle—feels more akin to Doctor Strange or Legion than traditional MCU fare, yet it fits perfectly. This is a film unafraid to get weird, eerie, or cerebral, but never at the cost of coherence. In fact, Schreier’s willingness to go dark—literally and figuratively—gives Thunderbolts* its unique edge.

What makes this film resonate so powerfully is its refusal to paint heroism in broad strokes. These characters don’t wear capes or boast shiny moral codes. They’re spies, soldiers, assassins, outcasts. They’ve killed. They’ve lied. They’ve run. And yet, when the chips are down, they choose to stand together—not out of duty, but out of hard-earned belief in one another. That kind of heroism feels earned rather than expected. That kind of redemption feels honest.

The script, rich in emotional complexity and moral ambiguity, also leaves room for wit and levity. Julia Louis-Dreyfus reprises her role as Valentina Allegra de Fontaine with razor-sharp menace, her scenes brimming with a manipulative intelligence that rivals any past MCU villain. She is as compelling as she is terrifying—a schemer whose motives are as much political as they are personal.

And without giving away the ending, the film’s final moments and its tantalizing post-credits scene cleverly lay the groundwork for the next era of the MCU. Fans will undoubtedly be incredibly excited about what the scene sets up for the next movies to come and how crazy and chaotic things are about to get.

Thunderbolts* is a reminder of what superhero films can be when they push past formula. It’s character-driven but epic, funny but melancholic, bleak but hopeful. It challenges assumptions—not just about its characters, but about what the genre can say about trauma, responsibility, and the courage it takes to heal.

It’s rare that a Marvel film feels like both a bold reinvention and a natural continuation. Thunderbolts* manages to do both. It’s the kind of film that lingers long after the credits roll, not because of what it sets up, but because of what it says. And in a franchise often driven by spectacle, that kind of soul is worth celebrating.