The following article contains minor spoilers for Thunderbolts*
For six months, I was cautiously obsessed with Thunderbolts*, the Marvel movie I desperately wanted to believe in. Marvel’s track record post–Endgame had been shaky at best, and I was torn between anticipation and dread, afraid this would be another corporate Frankenstein’s Monster, stitched together from nostalgia bait, Easter eggs, and half–hearted subplots.
Yet the moment I stepped out of the theater, box office numbers and post–credit scenes were the least of my concerns, my hyperfixation was on under–eye makeup. I went home and smeared electric blue beneath my eyes like Yelena (Florence Pugh) because Thunderbolts* hit me like a freight train. Six months of wary optimism gave way to something louder: we are SO back.
After years of flailing, Marvel had finally delivered a film that was moody, character–driven, unexpectedly beautiful, and entirely aware of what it meant to exist in 2025. Yelena moves through the world like life is happening to her. She’s isolated, with no one to come home to, and her father figure, Alexei (David Harbour), feels distant and unapproachable. The traumas of a childhood spent training to be an assassin in the Red Room take their toll. In a world still reeling from post–COVID uncertainty, grief, and mental fatigue, her numbness feels familiar. When Yelena reaches her breaking point and tells Alexei that she feels so alone, the film captures the strange stillness and quiet resilience of characters at their lowest, as they struggle just to stay afloat.
Thunderbolts* is messy, stylized, and emotionally rich, staring grief and guilt in the face and refusing to blink. It doesn’t rely on multiverse gimmicks or an overload of CGI. There are no world–ending stakes. No narrative hand–holding. Instead, Jake Schreier finally gives us what we’ve been begging for: a stripped–down ensemble drama that allows the audience to breathe. The film resists motion, letting the stillest moments, like Yelena’s quiet descent into The Void, or Alexei pulling a girl from a collapsing building, only for the silence to break as The Void takes her too, linger.
Florence Pugh anchors the film with a performance that is both acerbic and aching. Her Yelena is sharp–tongued, hollow–eyed, and still grieving the death of her sister, former Black Widow Natasha (Scarlett Johansson). Sebastian Stan’s Bucky is, perhaps, for the first time in years, allowed to be more than just a legacy soldier with a haunted stare. Despite The Falcon and the Winter Soldier’s attempt to advance his character by having him seek redemption as the Winter Soldier, this film places him in a completely unforeseen role—as Congressman Barnes. He quickly realizes he’s not cut out for the slow, frustrating pace of bureaucracy, but still manages to connect with Valentina’s (Julia Louis–Dreyfus) assistant Mel (Geraldine Viswanathan), who aids him and the team in gathering critical information.
Wyatt Russell brings surprising nuance to U.S. Agent John Walker, while David Harbour and Hannah John–Kamen redeem forgotten characters with depth and empathy. Lewis Pullman delivers a quietly devastating performance as Bob Reynolds, a struggling meth addict haunted by an abusive past. Desperate for relief, he volunteers for a dangerous drug trial—an experimental version of the super soldier serum—hoping it might make him feel whole. Instead, the serum amplifies his insecurities and trauma, transforming him first into the overpowering but emotionally unstable Sentry, and ultimately into The Void—a terrifying force that consumes New York. Pullman captures this tragic arc with incredible depth, portraying a broken man whose inner demons manifest as uncontrollable destruction.
There’s a confidence in the script that trusts this broken, rag–tag team of misfits to carry the narrative—and they do, spectacularly. Thunderbolts* finally understands what so many post–Endgame projects didn’t: character isn’t a subplot—it's the plot.
The crew at the center of Thunderbolts* is defined by what they’ve lost, not what they’ve saved. It’s a Marvel movie that wants to mean something and feel crafted. Despite being a big–budget Marvel movie, Thunderbolts* is oddly reminiscent of the arthouse style of A24, which has made a name selling character–driven and emotionally resonant stories. The indie darling rose to cultural dominance by betting on auteurs and atmosphere over intellectual property and explosions. Their films—Everything Everywhere All at Once (EEAAO), Hereditary, Lady Bird—don’t sell a spectacle. They sell an atmosphere that Marvel’s marketing campaign has desperately tried to channel.
The film’s ABSOLUTE CINEMA trailer dropped two months before release, and it wasn’t just a preview. It showcased not just the movie’s cast, but the editors, cinematographers, production designers, and composers of films like Hereditary, Minari, and EEAAO as integral parts that built Thunderbolts*. It felt like an overt nod to A24’s auteur–forward philosophy—and it wasn’t a bait–and–switch.
Thunderbolts* is a bold vision of what Marvel achieves when it stops trying to be everything at once. It asked the kinds of deep, human questions the franchise usually avoids. The blockbuster dares to ask, “What if grief was the villain?” and lets its heroes answer with empathy instead of explosions.
The humor, when it comes, is dry. Earned. The banter feels like genuine attempts to forge a human connection, not the studio trying to hit a joke quota. The music swells at just the right moments, and the visuals are restrained yet stunning. It’s not just a “good Marvel movie.” It’s a good movie, period—resonating with more than just Marvel fans.
The marketing campaign aimed to do two things: first, embrace a new tone and visual identity—the “sad superhero” vibe Marvel hasn't owned since Captain America: The Winter Soldier, for which this felt more like a spiritual successor than Captain America: Brave New World ever did. Second, it sought to frame the film as something beyond a franchise stopgap. The moody character posters, the sombre tone, and the careful restraint pointed to a film that wasn’t just trying to entertain, but to say something.
Critics were quick to notice. Thunderbolts* debuted with the second–highest Rotten Tomatoes score in MCU history, earning praise for its haunting score, grounded pacing, and nuanced performances. The whispers of a Marvel renaissance were swift and seductive.
And then came the box office returns.
Despite everything working out on paper—the cast, the writing, the execution—Thunderbolts* underperformed financially. What happened?
Despite debuting to near–unanimous critical acclaim (it opened at 95% on Rotten Tomatoes and currently holds at 88%). Nearing $370 million at its fourth week in theaters, Thunderbolts* had the third–lowest box–office numbers in MCU history. It came in just above The Incredible Hulk (2008) and The Marvels (2023), the latter of which had to fight the post–COVID theater landscape and a marketing blackout thanks to the SAG–AFTRA strike. And while the quality disparity is obvious—Thunderbolts* being tighter, smarter, and frankly more relevant—the numbers don’t lie. People didn’t show up.
This wasn’t a failure of craft. It was a failure of context. Marvel did everything right: they scrapped the formula, scaled down the stakes, cast phenomenal actors, and focused on storytelling. They didn’t try to set up seventeen subplots or six spin–offs. They just ... made a good movie.
And still, the money didn’t follow—for at least three reasons.
Reason one: the homework. As Marvel Studios President Kevin Feige himself admitted, there’s simply too much to keep track of. Unlike the Infinity Saga, where every post–credit scene felt like a breadcrumb on a clear path, Phase Four and beyond have sprawled in many disparate directions. Watching Thunderbolts* requires knowledge of Black Widow, Hawkeye, The Falcon and the Winter Soldier, and more. That’s a steep ask for casual fans who can’t recall characters introduced in forgotten spin–offs.
The homework fans had to do didn’t just multiply. It stopped mattering altogether. Earlier phases built toward Avengers films that acted as narrative climaxes, making the storylines and character arcs set up by previous films finally pay off. But Shang–Chi hasn’t reappeared since 2021. Moon Knight remains confined to one limited series and a What If...? cameo. There’s no consistency or carry–over between projects; without it, there’s no urgency to see things in theaters.
Reason two: the economics of going to the movies have changed. Ticket prices have soared and have increased by more than 68% over the past 20 years, concessions are overpriced, and audiences know a Disney+ drop is coming in a few months. For many, the gamble isn’t worth it. Why spend $15–20 per ticket for a film that might be mediocre? The rise of streaming has reprogrammed viewer habits, and even excellent films are struggling to draw crowds unless they’re attached to legacy IP or billion–dollar brands.
Finally, reason three: Thunderbolts* isn’t a legacy title. Captain America: Brave New World, which opened just a few months earlier and currently sits at 48% on Rotten Tomatoes, still performed better financially. Why? Because Captain America sells. The title alone brings people in, even if the movie is bloated and forgettable.
That’s the paradox Marvel hasn’t solved: their brand is both their crutch and their cage. Innovation is risky. Familiarity, even when uninspired, is safe. People didn’t line up to see Thunderbolts*. They would’ve lined up to see another Avengers.
Which is why Marvel, in a last–minute pivot (or carefully planned marketing coup), confirmed what many suspected: Thunderbolts* was always a misdirect. The real title? The New Avengers. What looked like a bold anti–franchise character study was, in fact, the start of a new chapter. A big swing to remind audiences that yes, this matters. This is Avengers–level. Come back. Please.
I was there on opening night. In IMAX. And I was blown away—not by scale, or cameos, or spectacle, but by how much smaller it all felt. Intimate. Devastating. Earned.
And yet, Thunderbolts* may never get its day in the sun. Even with rave reviews and cultish word of mouth, it’s being quietly eclipsed. Original films like Ryan Coogler’s Sinners are earning IMAX re–releases. Franchises like Mission: Impossible and IP strongholds like A Minecraft Movie command theaters with ease.
Today, Thunderbolts* stands as the fifth highest–grossing film of 2025. That should be a win—until you realize it’s still trailing behind Captain America: Brave New World, despite being the Marvel movie we’ve been asking for since Endgame and Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 3.
Marvel did almost everything right. They stripped away the formula, bet on artists, and made something beautiful—but beauty doesn’t guarantee belief. Without the safety net of IP recognition or theatrical momentum, Thunderbolts* was destined to be misunderstood, especially since the billion–dollar behemoth could not convincingly rebrand itself with indie affectation for an exhausted audience.
Thunderbolts* might not have saved the MCU, but it gave it something to live for again. That’s where rebirth begins—maybe Marvel has finally remembered what made people care in the first place.
In five years, when it’s being dissected in film classes and rewatched into cult status, they’ll call this the one that aged best. Marvel made a movie worth remembering—you just didn’t show up. Either way, I’ll be wearing electric blue eyeliner to every future screening. It’s canon now.
