Whether you’re transported to the peak of the ’70s porn industry, dropped into the life of a ravenous oil baron, or thrust into postwar London couture, Paul Thomas Anderson always builds a world that feels not only distinct but deeply lived-in.
Like a beat-up pair of Doc Martens, his films are worn, textured, and broken-in. His characters don’t simply appear on screen for our entertainment—they trudge, labor, and suffer through their respective epochs, shaped by unique circumstances and an ever-present sense of cosmic dread.
But unlike those Doc Martens, Anderson’s films rarely remain comfortable. They start smooth—the thrill of fame, the seductive thrill of money, the promise of love—before something curdles. There’s always the hint of wrongness lurking beneath.
Nothing feels more “off” than Anderson’s first true venture into the modern world: “One Battle After Another.”
The film follows the revolutionary collective known as the French 75, led by Perfida Beverly Hills (Teyana Taylor) and her partner-in-resistance Bob Ferguson (Leonardo DiCaprio). When Perfida becomes entangled in a psychosexual relationship with the unapologetically racist Colonel Steven L. Lockjaw, she abandons Ferguson and their child. Anderson then vaults the narrative forward sixteen years.
We find Ferguson a burnt-out ex-revolutionary, wandering in a bathrobe with a joint in hand, trying to trade guerrilla warfare for the fumbling routines of fatherhood. When an old comrade betrays their whereabouts, Ferguson embarks on a desperate chase to reclaim his daughter, Willa.
The film brims with classic PTA-isms. The camera ricochets through crowded rooms, its kinetic movements capturing both the vitality and danger of underground communities. Long, fluid shots track through winding streets, culminating in a climactic reveal staged with precision.
Jonny Greenwood’s score mirrors this intensity. As always, his music doesn’t just accompany the images—it transforms them. Bodegas, high school dances, even karate studios take on the aura of battlefields, humming with dread and possibility.
Politically, “One Battle After Another” is difficult to pin down. Anderson seems animated by an acute anger we haven’t quite seen from him before, and it leaks through the film like a volatile mosaic—shot through with rage but also, surprisingly, with love.
The film’s greatest ambiguity lies in its morality. If both Ferguson and Lockjaw embody the thesis that “violence begets violence,” then whom does Anderson advocate for?
Visually and tonally, the Ferguson arc receives warmth: golden colors, affectionate family scenes, and vivacious humor. In contrast, Lockjaw and his racist “Christmas Adventurers Club” are framed in icy palettes, sterile compositions, and a grotesque hypocrisy—Lockjaw’s simultaneous racism and suppressed desire for Black women. One side is portrayed as flawed but redeemable; the other, irredeemably cruel. Yet both unleash cycles of brutality.
This could be a structural necessity: Anderson needs a protagonist, so he grants depth to the radicals while rendering the right as faceless and oppressive. That choice heightens emotional dissonance, viewers sympathize with the rebels’ humanity even as they recoil from their tactics.
But it also reflects a theme in Anderson’s filmography. He has always loved idealists—Daniel Plainview, Eddie Adams, Reynolds Woodcock—driven by vision until they collapse into compromise. Ferguson fits this lineage, another dreamer consumed by contradictions.
Where the film falters is in its conclusion. The final note—“after one battle comes another” (roll credits)—lands as two-dimensional. The giddy, almost nihilistic ending risks washing away the film’s heavier currents: its treatment of state violence, systemic racism, and even organized religion. Perhaps that’s the point: that resistance is endless, and the next generation must continue to fight harder. But the tonal shift is jarring, and not always in a productive way.
Still, watching Anderson’s auteur style transplanted into a contemporary political arena is electric. His worlds remain meticulously detailed, his characters human, and his sense of wrongness as sharp as ever.
If his politics feel elusive, that slipperiness is part of the experience. Like a winding California road, “One Battle After Another” is best navigated not by searching for a destination, but by surrendering to the ride—with all its bumps and exhilaration.
This article was produced for HorizonMass, the independent, student-driven, news outlet of the Boston Institute for Nonprofit Journalism and is syndicated by BINJ’s MassWire news service.
