James Vanderbilt’s latest historical drama doesn’t seek answers on the battlefield, but within the margins of psychiatric notes. Nuremberg (2025) investigates one of humanity’s most crucial moral experiments: how do we judge ourselves when evil is born not from madness but from machinery? Rather than dramatizing courtroom spectacle, the film focuses on the quiet, psychological warfare behind it.
At the center stands Douglas M. Kelley, a U.S. Army psychiatrist tasked with evaluating whether the highest-ranking Nazi officers — including Hermann Göring — are mentally fit to stand trial. Rami Malek (Bohemian Rhapsody, Mr. Robot) plays Kelley with calculated restraint, while Russell Crowe (Gladiator, A Beautiful Mind) brings his signature intensity to the role of Göring. Supporting performances include Michael Shannon (Take Shelter, Nocturnal Animals) and Richard E. Grant (Can You Ever Forgive Me?, Gosford Park), rounding out a cast as intellectually engaged as the subject matter itself.
The screenplay resists grandeur or redemption. Instead, it unfolds with slow-burning intensity, dissecting the psychological and ethical fault lines that defined the foundations of modern justice.
Vanderbilt isn’t trying to depict war — he’s trying to understand it. The film’s core question is not about the weight of guilt, but about the architecture of accountability. Where does logic end and moral failure begin? When does human reason betray itself in the service of systemic violence?
Acting Duel – Malek’s Silence vs. Crowe’s Storm
Rami Malek offers a restrained, tightly-coiled performance that stands in stark contrast to Crowe’s thunderous charisma. As Kelley, Malek doesn’t play a hero but rather an observer, someone trying to maintain his moral footing in a system where even justice seems burdened with guilt.
Russell Crowe’s portrayal of Göring is both magnetic and repulsive — seductive like a dark philosopher, ruthless like the ghost of a crumbling empire. Crowe doesn’t merely mimic Göring’s historical presence; he weaponizes intellect and charm in ways that make the viewer uncomfortably close to understanding him.
This contrast becomes the film’s axis. It’s not about who is guilty, but how an entire system was built on ordinary men using extraordinary rhetoric. Two minds duel — not to win, but to expose the very mechanisms of belief, denial, and responsibility.
Nuremberg: Psychological Thriller or Historical Drama?
Nuremberg avoids the visual grammar of traditional war dramas. Instead, it trades spectacle for claustrophobic dialogue and low-lit interrogations, building tension not through action but through accumulation. The thrill here is not visceral — it’s cerebral.
Vanderbilt carefully walks the tightrope between historical precision and dramatic rhythm, leaning at times into psychological thriller territory. The result is a contained yet intense chamber piece, where each line of dialogue has the weight of a confession.
This approach, however, isn’t without risk. For audiences expecting grand courtroom theatrics, the film may linger too long in its silences. But those willing to listen closely will be rewarded with something more enduring than drama: moral unease that lingers long after the credits roll.
The Rhetoric of Power
One of the film’s sharpest tools is its language. Göring’s responses aren’t merely defenses — they’re performances that challenge Kelley’s clinical detachment and personal ethics. Crowe doesn’t play a psychopath; he plays a rhetorician, dismantling hierarchies with every answer.
These exchanges are the film’s true set-pieces: not explosive speeches, but verbal feints and counterpunches. The screenplay deftly blends real transcripts with dramatic license, forcing the viewer to engage not just emotionally, but intellectually.
The real horror here isn’t in flashbacks or testimonies — it’s in how convincing Göring’s reasoning can sound. Nuremberg reminds us that the most dangerous crimes are not those that scream, but those that persuade.
Moral Collapse
The trial’s outcome isn’t the film’s climax. Instead, it’s Kelley’s slow erosion of belief — not in the guilt of his subjects, but in the moral systems he thought were unshakable. There’s no catharsis here, only quiet disillusionment.
Malek’s Kelley unravels not through breakdowns, but through doubt. He can no longer distinguish between professional objectivity and personal ethics. The film asks: Can one study evil without being changed by it?
This moral descent is where the film finds its weight. The audience, too, is denied the safety of detachment. We’re not just watching Kelley question Göring — we’re watching ourselves, wondering what we would do in a room with reasoned madness.
Nuremberg: Visual Restraint
The visual language of Nuremberg is austere and cold. Shot in Budapest, its sterile interiors and symmetrical compositions create a sense of institutional distance. Nothing is ornamental. The frame is functional — surgical in its detachment.
Cinematography leans toward static compositions and long takes. Faces carry the drama, not edits. This lends the film a slow rhythm, but never a dull one — it’s dense, demanding, and fully intentional.
Music is nearly absent. Silence dominates, forcing the viewer to pay attention without narrative crutches. It’s a bold choice that fits the film’s thesis: interpretation requires effort. Nuremberg isn’t interested in manipulating emotion — it expects engagement.
Is This Justice, or Just a Reflection?
Nuremberg (2025) isn’t an easy watch — and it’s not meant to be. It doesn’t offer heroes or redemption, nor does it revise history to fit moral clarity. Instead, it interrogates the human desire to understand evil through structure, logic, and rationalization.
Crowe and Malek don’t just act — they embody a confrontation between charisma and conscience. Vanderbilt doesn’t pass judgment; he hands the gavel to the audience, asking them to consider where their own lines of responsibility lie.
This is not a film that aims to impress — it aims to provoke. And in that mission, it succeeds with chilling precision.
