TL;DR: Marvel’s Thunderbolts* is the therapy session the MCU didn’t know it needed. With a killer cast, stylish direction, and a refreshingly human core, it punches its way past franchise fatigue. It’s weird, wounded, and weirdly wonderful.

Marvel’s Misfit Therapy Group: How Thunderbolts* Gave the MCU a Midlife Crisis (And Fixed It)

Let me start by being brutally honest: I was done with the MCU. Not in a dramatic, TikTok break-up way, but more like the slow realization that you no longer know who half the people at the party are, and the ones you do remember keep monologuing about timelines. Ever since the emotional crescendo of Endgame, the Marvel Cinematic Universe has been feeling less like a cohesive story and more like a homework assignment. So when Thunderbolts* dropped into my lap like a rogue Soviet relic, I expected another half-baked crossover of forgotten side-characters. What I got instead was… dare I say it? Emotionally resonant. Visually arresting. Kind of spectacular.

Yes, I know. Big words for a movie that throws together Yelena Belova, Bucky Barnes, U.S. Agent, Taskmaster, Ghost, Red Guardian, and someone literally named Bob. But here’s the thing: Thunderbolts* works not despite its ragtag roster but because of it. This is Marvel letting its freak flag fly while quietly grappling with grief, loneliness, and the existential dread of being a second-stringer in a universe that’s already moved on.

The Expendables, But Make It Sad

At first glance, Thunderbolts* reads like a team-up no one asked for. Florence Pugh’s Yelena is done playing shadow assassin and wants a life with more meaning (and fewer CIA dead drops). Julia Louis-Dreyfus’s Valentina is still an absolute menace, now pulling strings from inside the CIA like a couture-wearing Palpatine. And Bob? Bob is a nuclear bomb in waiting, wrapped in anxiety and unresolved trauma. He’s also played to unsettling perfection by Lewis Pullman.

What unfolds is part heist, part manhunt, and part group therapy. The gang doesn’t exactly get along. They don’t even like each other. But that’s what makes the alchemy work. Unlike the Avengers, who were aspirational, these folks are just… tired. They’re broken toys with nowhere to go and no idea how to fix themselves. And Thunderbolts* leans all the way into that sadness.

Jake Schreier, whose indie chops include Beef and Brand New Cherry Flavor, directs this like he’s been waiting his whole career to sneak an A24 movie into the MCU. It shows. From the way Yelena talks about emptiness before leaping off a rooftop, to the slow, desaturated cinematography that never quite lets you breathe, this is a superhero film with the heart of a character drama. You know, the kind that doesn’t end with a blue laser in the sky.

The Florence Pugh Show (And That’s a Good Thing)

Florence Pugh is not just the heart of this movie—she is the entire circulatory system. Watching her version of Yelena evolve from Black Widow’s cheeky assassin to this weary, emotionally fractured woman is like witnessing someone age ten years in two. Her performance isn’t big or showy. It’s intimate. Earnest. Her interactions with David Harbour’s Red Guardian offer glimpses of familial tenderness in a universe where most dads are either dead or evil.

Sebastian Stan, meanwhile, plays Bucky with a muted grace. He’s the only person here with real Avengers clout, but even he seems over it—more interested in collecting receipts on Valentina’s war crimes than punching people. Wyatt Russell’s John Walker is still the human embodiment of a LinkedIn post, but even he gets layers. And then there’s Ghost, who, despite a solid actress in Hannah John-Kamen, ends up being the group’s exposition engine. She deserved better.

Still, when the team clicks, they click. There’s a bunker escape sequence that plays like Ocean’s Eleven with PTSD. There’s a hallway fight that might be the most kinetic action scene since Winter Soldier. And there’s Bob’s final stand, which is equal parts tragic, terrifying, and poetic. Pullman turns what could’ve been a CGI meathead into the most nuanced character in the movie.

Style, Substance, and a Dash of Son Lux

Let’s talk style. Because Thunderbolts* has it. Cinematographer Andrew Droz Palermo brings the same gothic shimmer he used in The Green Knight and A Ghost Story. This movie is dark, sure, but not in the “can’t-see-anything” Netflix way. It’s moody, mournful, and gorgeously composed. Even the fights have weight. You feel every punch, every decision, every betrayal.

And then there’s the score. Oh my god, the score. Son Lux delivers something between a funeral dirge and a lo-fi banger, with flourishes that occasionally flirt with Kid Cudi’s “Pursuit of Happiness.” I’m not saying this movie is about the soul-crushing journey to find meaning in chaos, but the soundtrack definitely is.

MCU, Meet Your Feelings

Here’s the kicker: Thunderbolts* doesn’t try to fix the MCU’s larger issues. It doesn’t explain the multiverse. It doesn’t set up six spin-offs. It just tells a damn good story about people who feel disposable trying to find purpose. That’s revolutionary in a franchise built on saving the world. This is about saving yourself.

There are still flaws, of course. Ghost gets shortchanged. Some of the comedy feels a tad forced (Marvel, stop trying to make quips happen). And while the film hints at future conflicts, it mercifully resists the urge to become a glorified trailer.

But none of that undermines the film’s central thesis: maybe you don’t have to be a superhero to matter. Maybe being broken is enough.

Final Verdict

Thunderbolts* is the kind of course correction Marvel desperately needed but probably didn’t plan for. It’s funny without being glib, sad without being grimdark, and action-packed without being exhausting. It’s also the first Marvel movie in years that made me care about what comes next, not because of some cliffhanger, but because I actually liked these people.

Let the weirdos win.