By: Andrew Carlson

In the newly released film, “Nuremberg” director James Vanderbilt delivers a masterful historical drama that fuses psychological tension, moral inquiry, and the sobering weight of history into one of the most arresting cinematic experiences of the year. With powerhouse performances from Russell Crowe and Rami Malek—both arguably at the peak of their careers—this film transcends the confines of the courtroom and delves deeply into the human psyche, interrogating the nature of evil, responsibility, and justice in the aftermath of mankind’s darkest chapter.

Set in the shadow of World War II, Nuremberg reconstructs the monumental moment when civilization stood at a precipice—deciding whether vengeance or justice would define the postwar order. The film focuses on two intertwined narratives: the moral and legal struggle led by U.S. Supreme Court Justice Robert H. Jackson (portrayed with quiet gravitas by Michael Shannon) to create the world’s first international war-crimes tribunal, and the intense psychological interplay between Nazi Reichsmarschall Hermann Goering (Russell Crowe) and U.S. Army psychiatrist Dr. Douglas Kelley (Rami Malek), tasked with evaluating Goering’s fitness for trial.

From its opening moments—Crowe’s Goering surrendering to American soldiers with his aristocratic arrogance intact—the film establishes its central theme: evil not as an abstraction, but as something disturbingly human. Goering’s self-assuredness, his ego, and his manipulative charm are palpable. He is no mere caricature of villainy but a man of intellect, vanity, and calculation—qualities that make him infinitely more chilling.

Adapted from Jack El-Hai’s “The Nazi and the Psychiatrist” Vanderbilt’s screenplay offers more than a history lesson; it’s a forensic dissection of moral decay. Through Dr. Kelley’s sessions with Goering, the film explores the psychiatrist’s growing obsession with defining evil as a psychological construct rather than a theological one. Rami Malek, in one of his most nuanced performances since Bohemian Rhapsody, imbues Kelley with an unsettling mix of scientific detachment and moral torment. His ambition—to publish a book that “psychologically defines evil”—slowly corrodes his objectivity, drawing him into a dangerous rapport with his subject.

Their conversations crackle with tension. Goering, cunning and manipulative, toys with Kelley, probing his insecurities and intellectual vanity. Crowe’s performance is magnetic; his Goering is both monstrous and mesmerizing, commanding attention with the self-assurance of a man convinced that history will absolve him. It is a portrayal that echoes Hannah Arendt’s observation of “the banality of evil”—the notion that great crimes are often committed not by madmen, but by men who see themselves as visionaries.

As the sessions unfold, Kelley’s fascination deepens, and the boundary between analyst and subject blurs. Malek’s expressive restraint perfectly contrasts Crowe’s grandiosity. Their verbal duels are among the most riveting sequences in recent cinema—psychological battles that lay bare not only Goering’s narcissism but also the seductive power of evil itself.

Running parallel to this psychological study is Justice Robert H. Jackson’s noble yet politically fraught mission to establish the Nuremberg Tribunal. Michael Shannon embodies Jackson with intellectual integrity and weary idealism, portraying a man determined to demonstrate that even the architects of atrocity must be judged by the rule of law, not by summary execution. His scenes before the Allied Council—where he defends the unprecedented notion of trying leaders of a sovereign nation for crimes against humanity—form the film’s moral backbone.

Vanderbilt crafts these sequences with classical restraint, emphasizing the tension between legal principle and political expedience. The dialogue crackles with historical authenticity; one senses the immense weight of Jackson’s task—to build a new legal framework from the rubble of global catastrophe. Shannon’s stoic presence anchors the film, his measured performance lending dignity to a role that could easily have been overshadowed by the showier psychological drama between Crowe and Malek.

Supporting performances add depth and gravitas to the ensemble. Richard E. Grant is superb as Sir David Maxwell-Fyfe, the British prosecutor whose dry wit and legal brilliance cut through the proceedings. Leo Woodall, as Sgt. Howie Triest—the German-speaking translator burdened by his own traumatic past—offers a quietly devastating performance that humanizes the tribunal’s emotional toll. Colin Hanks brings understated empathy to Dr. Gustave Gilbert, a fellow psychologist whose later assessments of the defendants clash with Kelley’s conclusions. And John Slattery lends disciplined authority to Col. Burton Andrus, the military overseer whose grim duty is to keep the Nazi prisoners alive long enough to face justice.

Each role, though secondary, contributes to the intricate mosaic of duty, morality, and accountability. Vanderbilt’s direction ensures that no character exists merely to serve exposition; even minor figures resonate with moral complexity.

When Nuremberg finally enters the courtroom in its final act, the film’s emotional and moral power reaches its zenith. The meticulously staged trial scenes—shot with the same restraint and gravity as Judgment at Nuremberg (1961)—are devastating in their simplicity. Archival footage of liberated concentration camps is interwoven with the testimony, confronting viewers with the raw horror of the Holocaust. Vanderbilt’s choice to include these images is bold and essential; they remind audiences that this is not just historical drama but an unflinching reckoning with the evidence of evil.

Here, Crowe delivers the performance of a lifetime. On the witness stand, his Goering becomes both accuser and accused, recounting with chilling lucidity how the Nazis seized power, manipulated fear, and rationalized genocide. It is a scene of unbearable tension—one that invites viewers to grapple with the terrifying normalcy of Goering’s logic. His every word underscores how ideology, pride, and bureaucratic obedience can fuse into moral annihilation.

Malek’s reaction shots are equally powerful: the psychiatrist’s eyes reflecting the disintegration of his own belief that evil can be rationally explained. By the film’s close, Kelley’s intellectual quest collapses under the weight of moral reality.

While Nuremberg is an historical drama, its resonance is unmistakably contemporary. The film’s insistence on the rule of law, the fragility of truth, and the seductive nature of authoritarianism make it a parable for our own time. Vanderbilt’s restrained direction—eschewing melodrama for moral clarity—allows the themes to speak for themselves. His camera lingers on the faces of the accused, the prosecutors, and the witnesses alike, reminding us that justice is not merely a legal construct but a human one.

The cinematography, suffused with the gray palette of postwar Germany, evokes both ruin and reckoning. The production design is impeccable—haunted corridors, dimly lit cells, and austere courtrooms rendered with almost documentary precision. The musical score, sparse and elegiac, underscores the gravity of the moment without intruding upon it.

NUREMBERG will inevitably be labeled “Oscar bait,” and perhaps deservedly so. But to dismiss it as mere awards-season fodder would be to ignore its higher purpose. This is cinema as moral inquiry—a meditation on how societies confront evil, how justice is defined, and how fragile the moral order can be when humanity forgets its lessons.

Russell Crowe’s Goering stands among the great screen performances of historical villains: complex, articulate, horrifyingly self-assured. Rami Malek matches him note for note, embodying the torment of a man who stares too long into the abyss. Michael Shannon, Richard E. Grant, and the ensemble lend the film its judicial weight, transforming history into moral drama of the first order.

Ultimately, Nuremberg is not just about the trial of men but the trial of mankind itself. It compels audiences to confront uncomfortable truths—that civilization’s veneer is thin, that evil can wear the face of intellect, and that justice requires vigilance, not vengeance. In its final moments, as the verdicts are read and the camera lingers on the silent faces of the condemned, Vanderbilt leaves us with a single, haunting reminder: the world once chose law over revenge, conscience over chaos.

And in a time when the boundaries of truth and morality once again feel perilously blurred, Nuremberg arrives as both historical reconstruction and moral alarm. It is a film of power, intelligence, and conscience—an act of remembrance that demands not just admiration, but reflection.

Verdict: ★★★★★ — A haunting, essential masterpiece of historical drama that reaffirms the enduring necessity of justice, accountability, and the moral courage to say: never again.