Guillermo del Toro’s Nightmare Alley is a film that slithers a gorgeously grotesque descent into the abyss of human deception, where every character is both predator and prey. This isn’t the 1947 original with its hard-boiled fatalism; it’s something richer, more operatic, a carnival mirror reflecting our own hunger for belief in a world built on lies.

Bradley Cooper’s Stanton Carlisle is a revelation a hollow man who learns to perform humanity so well he forgets he’s acting. His journey from carny grunt to high-society spiritualist is less a rise than a slow-motion collapse, each con digging his grave deeper. Cate Blanchett’s Lilith Ritter, a psychiatrist with the smile of a knife, is his perfect foil, their scenes together a tango of mutual annihilation. The supporting cast Rooney Mara’s fragile Molly, Willem Dafoe’s carnival Barker, Toni Collette’s tragic Zeena each carve out their own haunting corner of this world.

Visually, the film is del Toro at his most sumptuously bleak. The carnival is a rotting wonderland of neon and greasepaint, while the art deco opulence of the upper crust feels just as suffocating. Dan Laustsen’s cinematography drapes everything in shadows and sickly light, making even a glass of whiskey look like poison. The score, all creeping strings and mournful brass, underlines the tragedy lurking beneath the grift.

Yet for all its brilliance, Nightmare Alley struggles under its own weight. At nearly 2.5 hours, it lingers too long in its carnival prologue, and the final act’s descent into horror, while chilling, feels inevitable rather than shocking. This isn’t del Toro’s tightest narrative but it might be his most unforgiving.

The film’s real magic trick? Making you root for a man who’s already damned. By the end, when the abyss stares back, you’ll wonder: Was he born a monster, or did the world make him one?