Eddington review: Joaquin Phoenix leads a tense tale of division and delusion

Ari Aster's 'Eddington' is a gripping neo-Western set against 2020's chaos, where personal wounds fuel explosive conflict. Joaquin Phoenix delivers a powerhouse performance in this unflinching satire on division, trauma and the cost of unchecked anger.

In Short

• 'Eddington' is a neo-Western thriller set in 2020 America
• Joaquin Phonenix plays a sheriff unravelled by protests
• Ari Aster's directorial provokes unease on division and personal wounds

Ari Aster's Eddington (2025) stands as one of the year's boldest and most discomforting works — a neo-Western thriller steeped in the raw anxiety of America's 2020 upheaval. Anchored in the isolated New Mexico town of Eddington, the film tracks Sheriff Joe Cross (Joaquin Phoenix), a traditional lawman whose quiet resolve begins to fracture under the weight of lockdowns, protests, viral outrage and deepening cultural rifts. What starts as a stand for personal freedom soon exposes the personal demons driving him.

Aster deploys the era's chaos — pandemic mandates, George Floyd protests, conspiracy spirals—with surgical precision, using it not merely as a backdrop but as a pressure cooker for the character. Phoenix's Joe is compelling in his restraint: a man who genuinely strives to be a steady, caring husband to Louise (Emma Stone), offering small acts of tenderness in a marriage hollowed by emotional distance and unspoken wounds. Yet the film never allows him the comfort of simplicity. Joe's insecurities, a long-buried jealousy toward the polished Mayor Ted Garcia (Pedro Pascal), and his entanglement in manipulative family lies become the true engines of his unravelling. What he presents as principled activism for the greater good is gradually revealed as a desperate attempt to reclaim control over a life slipping away.

The ensemble elevates the material. Pascal infuses Ted with genuine warmth and quiet authority, making him a poignant counterpoint to Joe's growing volatility. Emma Stone delivers a performance of restrained anguish—her silences and subtle gestures speak volumes about buried trauma, while her character's haunting personal creations serve as quiet metaphors for pain left unaddressed. Debi Mazar's Dawn is chilling in her everyday toxicity, a mother-in-law whose conspiratorial worldview and denial ripple outward, poisoning relationships. Austin Butler brings oily charisma to a predatory outsider, and Micheal Ward's deputy Michael carries the quiet burden of navigating larger forces beyond his control.

Visually and rhythmically, Aster is in full command. The wide desert frames feel claustrophobic, the score throbs with unease, and the pacing shifts from simmering tension to sudden, visceral bursts. The film captures the absurdity of the moment—viral videos, echo-chamber conspiracies, performative politics—while grounding them in the intimate damage they inflict on real lives.

Particularly incisive is Aster's treatment of the younger characters. The town's teenagers grapple with America's racial reckoning at a formative age, engaging with ideas of privilege, police violence and justice through books, signs and confrontations. Their awakening feels authentic, a reflection of a generation thrust into cultural and democratic awareness amid isolation and social media. Yet the film quietly critiques how that energy, when untethered from local context or grounded strategy, can slide into performative gestures and, ultimately, destructive unrest. Idealism curdles into riots and chaos, disrupting rather than repairing the social fabric. In a striking parallel, these young activists and Joe become mirrors of each other: both convinced of the righteousness of their cause, both resorting to means that escalate harm rather than resolve it, both feeding a cycle of division that leaves everyone diminished.

Eddington offers no heroes and few consolations. It is a film that provokes unease by refusing to let any side off the hook —showing how personal wounds, when left unexamined, metastasise into public poison. Joe's journey is especially poignant: a man who begins with sincere intentions, who wants to protect his town and his wife, yet finds himself trapped in deception, jealousy and self-justification until rage eclipses the very values he claims to uphold.

That said, the film is not without minor flaws. Certain sequences involving Ted's public clumsiness and awkwardness —particularly in moments meant to underscore his vulnerability—feel slightly overplayed. The point is made early and effectively; repetition dilutes its impact and occasionally slows the otherwise taut momentum. A tighter edit in those beats would have sharpened the satire without losing any sting.

Still, these are small quibbles in an otherwise fearless and resonant work. Eddington lingers long after the credits because it dares to ask uncomfortable questions about division, about what we excuse in the name of principle, and about the quiet ways lies and trauma can erode even the strongest human connections.

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