Rollerball

Some films don’t just depict the future — they feel like they’ve already lived it. Norman Jewison’s Rollerball (1975) isn’t just science fiction; it’s a prophetic howl from a world teetering on the edge of corporate totalitarianism. And nearly 50 years later, its metal-on-metal message echoes louder than ever.

Set in a gleaming yet soul-starved future where global corporations have replaced nations, and where wars are fought not with guns but with a brutal sport called Rollerball, this film is both exhilarating and sobering. It’s 1984 on skates, Brave New World with body checks.

At the heart of the storm is James Caan as Jonathan E., a stoic warrior trapped in the gears of a machine that wants him to disappear. Caan, already a cinematic legend by this point, delivers what might be his most underrated performance — calm, introspective, and quietly rebellious. He gives Jonathan dignity and restraint, making his resistance feel personal, almost spiritual. He’s not just an athlete. He’s a symbol, and that’s what terrifies the suits upstairs.

And speaking of suits — Rollerball is at its most chilling when the power structures behind the sport reveal themselves. John Houseman, as Mr. Bartholomew, delivers corporate menace with icy charm. His monologues drip with the unsettling confidence of a system that truly believes it's cured chaos by erasing individuality.

Jewison directs with a patient, deliberate style — wide shots, stark silence, sterile architecture. He builds a world that feels clean but suffocating, controlled but crumbling. The Rollerball matches themselves are bone-crunching, chaotic ballets of destruction, filmed with such immediacy that you feel every fall, every spin, every roar of the crowd. And the decision to not use a traditional action score during the matches? Brilliant. Instead, we get eerie classical music (Bach, Toccata and Fugue, anyone?) — a haunting juxtaposition that makes the violence feel almost ritualistic.

Let’s talk aesthetics. The production design is peak ‘70s sci-fi futurism — minimalist, brutalist, eerily plausible. The corporate zones, the memory-erased libraries, the gleaming helmets and leather uniforms — it’s all iconic. Every frame of this film drips with retro-dystopian flavor that modern cinema rarely dares to match.

This isn’t just a sports movie or a sci-fi film. Rollerball is a meditation on individuality, the illusion of choice, and the machinery of control. But what makes it last — what makes it linger — is its soul. You feel for Jonathan. You are Jonathan. And in a world begging him to step aside, to retire quietly, to be a good cog — he dares to skate forward.

And that final close-up? That’s cinema.