Yelena Belova (Florence Pugh) is quite literally standing on the edge when we first see her in Marvel’s latest film “Thunderbolts*” (Now recently re-titled to “The New Avengers”). She prepares for her next mission atop Malaysia’s Merdeka 118, the second tallest building in the world. The scene visually echoes the tension of “Mission: Impossible – Ghost Protocol,” but something is missing: adrenaline. There is no thrill, no fear—only silence. As Yelena breathes in and out, there is nothing but emptiness. She feels no excitement, only a darkness slowly expanding, wrapping itself around her, growing heavier with every second. It is the void that follows grief, the numbness that sets in after too much trauma and too much silence.
Yelena’s loyalty to the morally ambiguous Valentina Allegra de Fontaine (Julia Louis-Dreyfus), for which she is hunting down criminals, is not born out of conviction but out of suppression. Yelena is not fighting for a cause but to avoid feeling or drowning her sorrows in alcohol. Every single one of her days looks the same, and that mundanity makes her feel miserable. It’s the numbing routine of everyday life and the quiet weight we all carry; the fatigue drags us down while leaving us without the strength to change our situation. With the characterization of Yelena and her being the central protagonist of “Thunderbolts*,” the viewer immediately feels connected to her inner thoughts, which is a characterization that is far from the usual green screen spectacle or disposable popcorn entertainment we typically expect from the Marvel Cinematic Universe. This shift is one reason critics and audiences alike have praised “Thunderbolts*,” with many calling it one of Marvel’s most compelling entries in years. It’s an ensemble story not defined by heroic triumphs but by emotional vulnerability.
So this is why it makes sense that every single team member has their own demons that haunt them: Red Guardian (David Harbour) searches for a lost sense of identity buried in his Russian past. Ghost (Hannah John-Kamen) struggles with the feeling of never being whole. John Walker (Wyatt Russell) carries the heavy burden of guilt toward his family. Even Bucky Barnes (Sebastian Stan), once known as the Winter Soldier, is trying to find moral grounding in the non-violent political arena, where he now works as a Congressman to bring Valentina down. They are less a superhero team and more a support group with extraordinary powers, bound together by shared damage rather than purpose. Among all the broken figures, one stands out: Bob (Lewis Pullman), later revealed as The Sentry, who does not draw attention to himself. He moves quietly, almost invisibly, yet there is a weight to his presence. His strength is not just physical. It comes from the constant internal battle he fights each day. As the embodiment of the Void, Bob becomes a living metaphor for depression – feeling isolated, drained, and self-destructive. When Bob loses balance, darkness takes over both literally and figuratively, and he unleashes it onto the people of New York City so they may share in his dark state. Marvel presents him not as an ideal but as a raw portrayal of psychological fragility. He speaks for those whose greatest battles are fought in silence, making him one of the most human characters the franchise has ever created.
“Thunderbolts*” gets a lot right, but what it does most effectively is reverse the traditional superhero narrative. Heroism is no longer about defeating external enemies but surviving the internal ones. The real conflicts play out in quiet, invisible places no one else can see but yourself. The fight is against guilt, trauma, and the numbness that lingers long after the physical wounds have closed. This shift in perspective adds a layer of humanity the Marvel Cinematic Universe has long lacked as it has settled into cheap pops brought about by cameos and meta-jokes. Instead of polished icons, we meet fractured souls who do not triumph but persevere. They search for meaning, stability, and a way to move forward. This is also why it matters that Jake Schreier, known for “Beef,” “Paper Towns,” & “Robot & Frank, is the director telling this story. He manages to keep the emotional core intact despite the scale of a blockbuster production. His film translates its larger-than-life setting into something intimate and honest. Depression, trauma, and emotional emptiness are not dramatic devices. They are lived experiences that many viewers will recognize, especially for this genre; stories like this deserve to be seen among the big fights and action sequences, which “Thunderbolts*” does contain, but it’s not the main focal point.
“Thunderbolts*” shows that progress happens slowly, breath by breath, one step at a time, and hopefully, there are those of us lucky enough to have some help along the way. In a cultural moment where mental health is finally receiving the attention it deserves, “Thunderbolts*” delivers a quiet but powerful message to a mainstream audience they may not be expecting to hear, but they need to hear it nonetheless: Not every battle is visible. Not every heroic act is met with applause. Sometimes, true strength lies in admitting that you are struggling. Sometimes, rising again means allowing yourself to fall first. This is the quiet courage of “Thunderbolts*.” It reminds us that healing is possible, not despite the darkness, but by choosing to walk through it.
Have you seen “Thunderbolts*” yet? If so, how do you feel it handles its themes of mental illness, loneliness and depression? Where does it rank in the MCU for you? Please let us know on Next Best Picture’s X account.
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