Thunderbolts*: Marvel’s Misfit Heroes Shine in a Broken World
The curtains have risen on Thunderbolts*, Jake Schreier’s cinematic finale to Phase Five of the Marvel Cinematic Universe, now gracing global screens. This isn’t your typical superhero saga. Here, a ragtag crew of “not-quite-heroes”—including Yelena Belova, the sharp-edged sister of Black Widow, and Bucky Barnes, Captain America’s weathered comrade—faces off against a sinister foe. Yet, the real story lies elsewhere. Thunderbolts* emerges not as another Marvel romp of invincible champions but as a poignant reflection of our collective struggle to navigate an unforgiving age.
This is Marvel’s finest comic-book film in years. To put that in perspective, consider the studio’s trajectory since the colossal Avengers: Endgame, one of history’s top-grossing films. The past six years have been rocky, with few standout successes. Initially, the pandemic seemed the culprit, but soon it became clear that something fundamental had faltered in Marvel’s once-reliable blockbuster machine. Within Phase Five, Thunderbolts*—the phase’s closing chapter—finds its closest rival in the quirky brilliance of Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 3.
What sets this film apart is its simplicity, in the best sense. Its heroes stand amid the rubble of Marvel’s former glory, yet you don’t need to unravel their intricate backstories to enjoy the ride. You could even bring a friend who’s never seen a Marvel movie. They might miss a few inside jokes, but the film’s raw entertainment value holds strong—a rare feat for a franchise this sprawling.
For seasoned Marvel fans, weary from the convoluted blockbusters of recent years, Thunderbolts* offers a breath of fresh air with its clear, cohesive narrative. The story opens with Yelena Belova (Florence Pugh), a jaded mercenary and Black Widow’s sister, begrudgingly tackling another mission. She dismantles guards and torches a research facility with practiced ease, but the spy life has lost its luster. Contemplating a career change, she’s roped into one last job.
That job leads her to a clandestine fortress, where she crosses paths with fellow operatives—each sent, unbeknownst to them, to eliminate one another. The true puppet master is their employer, the cunning CIA chief and countess Valentina Allegra de Fontaine (Julia Louis-Dreyfus), who seeks to erase these loose ends as the Senate scrutinizes her operations. With no choice but survival, these outcasts forge a fragile alliance.
The makeshift team includes the perpetually dour Yelena; her eccentric, aging father Alexei Shostakov, the former Soviet super-soldier Red Guardian (David Harbour, who leans perhaps too gleefully into the role’s quirks); Bucky Barnes, the Winter Soldier and Captain America’s conflicted ally (Sebastian Stan, a Berlin and Golden Globe winner); John Walker, a rough-edged wannabe Captain America who never quite made the cut (Wyatt Russell); and Ava Starr, the wall-phasing Ghost (Hannah John-Kamen). Olga Kurylenko’s enigmatic Taskmaster flits through briefly, masked and fleeting, adding little to the roster. Still, this band of misfits dubs themselves the Thunderbolts—a nod to Yelena’s childhood soccer team, which, fittingly, never won a game.
There’s no need to dissect the plot’s finer points. It adheres to genre conventions, spiced with a few understated twists. A super-villain emerges, and a sprawling New York City battle ensues. Director Jake Schreier, known for Beef and music videos for HAIM and Kendrick Lamar, deftly balances banter, chases, and brawls. He keeps special effects in check and infuses the humor with a gallows edge—dark but never as sardonic as Deadpool. The cast milks the lean story for all it’s worth, with Pugh effortlessly commanding the spotlight. Son Lux’s alt-rock score feels refreshingly offbeat, while writers Eric Pearson and Joanna Calo (the latter likely behind a clever Kierkegaard quip) keep the script sharp.
Yet, technical polish has never been Marvel’s Achilles’ heel—even their lesser films gleam. So, what’s been missing?
Perhaps it’s the loss of a guiding vision. Two decades ago, the superhero boom was Hollywood’s instinctive response to the panic of 9/11 and global fears of terrorism. DC and Marvel’s caped crusaders, riddled with human flaws, saved the universe when it mattered most—a cathartic spectacle. But the pandemic, coupled with political upheavals and ongoing wars, exposed the limits of such heroes. Avengers: Endgame felt like a farewell, and Marvel’s subsequent efforts often ranged from puzzling to outright embarrassing.
Thunderbolts* confronts this malaise head-on. Its characters aren’t antiheroes like Suicide Squad’s rogues; they’re under-heroes, knockoffs of the Avengers brand. John Walker clutches a shield and cap but lacks Steve Rogers’ grace. Yelena stumbles into her sister Natasha’s heroic shadow, while Red Guardian mimics Thor’s bravado with none of his divine heft. There’s even a pseudo-Hulk, but we’ll sidestep spoilers. These are ordinary people, powers or not, worn down and disillusioned. A quietly wrenching scene sees all five straining to hold up a concrete slab to save a Manhattan pedestrian—a task any Avenger could’ve handled alone.
In this, Thunderbolts* becomes Marvel’s candid admission of our era’s insurmountable challenges. Amid a dire standoff, the yet-to-be-named team encounters Bob (Lewis Pullman, son of Lost Highway’s Bill Pullman), a bewildered everyman in pajamas, seemingly plucked from nowhere. Bob is the film’s heart—a stand-in for the audience, adrift in a cosmos of smug superhumans and ruthless schemers. Through him, the story pivots from comic-book spectacle to a dreamlike exploration of human imagination.
The climax shifts into this hazy realm, revealing Thunderbolts* as less a thrill ride than a therapeutic session. It doesn’t aim to heal but to diagnose the helplessness and isolation gripping us all, heroes included. This theme finds stark visual form in a looming black shadow that engulfs New York, its citizens vanishing into inky stains on the pavement.
The film’s grim charm and gallows wit account for much of its appeal. It’s not flawless—more layers, energy, or levity could’ve elevated it further. Yet, in 2025, no movie can convincingly herald a savior in spandex. Instead, Thunderbolts* offers a humbler truth: to live, work, or even fall is better done together than alone.
