My Life After Black Bag  

London, 11:55 p.m., April 10, 2025.

I've just walked out of Black Bag and my personality is changed forever. This sleek, sexy, spy thriller about a husband who has to spy on his wife while still finding time to host dinner parties and fish has inspired me. No longer will I dress like a dud. No longer will I act like a goofball. From now on, I will only dress as sharp as British intelligence agent George Woodhouse (Michael Fassbender), if not sharper. I will trust nobody and investigate everybody. My new keyword is sophistication.

Outside of the theatre, it's a chilly spring night. Old me would go straight home, but new me must meet a contact in a Soho nightclub.

The bouncer tries to stop me, but I mention my contact's name and he steps aside. I take the stairs down, following the sound of low-fi house music. The further I descend, the more I smell lilacs. Why are all the cool clubs underground and the size of shoeboxes? I don't make the rules. The plethora of pulsating, warm and colourful light bulbs make me feel like I'm in a disco circa 1977. The small crowd is tailored, worldly, sophisticated. I walk toward a secluded booth. Sitting with two women is my contact, a Ukrainian cinephile and colleague who works out of office. When he sees me, no words are exchanged. He excuses himself from the women and he follows me outside.

"These are five Soderbergh movies," he says, handing me a slip of paper.

"I'll watch them all in two weeks."

"Every day that goes by, you lose 10 followers."

"Okay. One week."

We go our separate ways, without exchanging goodbyes. Spies never say goodbye.

Losing followers is lethal, in my line of business. I've got my work cut out for me. Time to get home and get busy.

When I walk through the door to my apartment, I'm disgusted. How have I lived like this? I need a total overhaul. No more overhead lighting, just warm, golden orbs. My rinky-dink Ikea table has to go; I need one of those refurbished wood slabs as a dining table like the Woodhouses have in the movie. Now that I've seen one, I'm certain that it's the only way to dine in style.

After my dinner of curry with a side of truth serum (scotch), I recline on my couch, look over the list and begin to watch the first film. Ocean's Eleven. It reminds me that Steven Soderbergh has always had a knick knack for impeccable fashion in movies. Black Bag is just the latest iteration of his smart, sly, and stylish capers.

The next morning, I'm on Saville Row. The shops open early and I'm waiting. A spy is always early. I'm first in at the Dunhill store, looking to get fitted out exactly like Woodhouse. Although the turtleneck was his trademark, it's his secondary outfit that I'm looking for. Gum boots, a technical field jacket and a flat cap. The whole outfit maxes out my credit card. I buy it without thinking twice. To act like a spy, I must look like a spy.

On the tube to work, I watch the second movie on the list. The Good German. A relatively mid movie but also a Soderbergh-Blanchett collaboration, just like Black Bag. It's like an homage to 1940s noirs, similar to how Black Bag is like a throwback to classic James Bond movies and the original Man from U.N.C.L.E.

I arrive at work and take my seat. My schedule is full, plus I need to remember to maintain my new spy-themed personality. As I type away on a fresh article, my boss arrives. He wears a three-piece gray suit, exceptionally tailored and crisply pressed. This is a new look for him. We exchange morning pleasantries.

"You look different," I say.

"So do you."

"You watch Black Bag last night?"

For a moment, he doesn't answer. He only eyes me suspiciously.

"I can't speak about last night. I was on a black bag job. Clandestine. Top secret."

"Of course."

He exits to his glass office, taps his desk, and the glass turns opaque white. He's compromised, I can tell. My only wonder is if the rest of the office has flipped too.

At lunch, I sneak away to the meditation room to watch the third movie on the list. I have limited time, so I'll have to improvise. The Informant! Knowing I have less than an hour, I switch the player to double speed. Matt Damon is speaking faster than me after a second cup of coffee. I'm zooming in and out to fully grasp the mise en scène. I'm isolating dialogue and turning on subtitles so I can comprehend everything in my narrow time frame. I'm starting to perspire. What if the IT guy comes in and needs the room for his daily prayer? I can't think of that now. My followers depend on it.

Despite the far-from-ideal viewing experience, I feel I get the gist of it. A seemingly normal man does some shady things, akin to the characters in Black Bag. As I slip out of the meditation room, I see the IT guy walking down the hall. My timing is impeccable. Am I actually a really good spy? This is no time to inflate my own ego. There's more to do.

The weekend arrives. In my exorbitantly priced outfit from Dunhill, I take a car share down to the nearest lake (it is not close). On the shores, I find a decrepit row boat. It will work fine. I load up with my dollar-store fishing rod and push off into the water. It's a peaceful place. A calm place. A place where a guy (spy) can think. I set my line with a chunk of pepperoni and cast it into the water. As I wait for a bite, I pull out my list and inspect it. I've crossed out four of the movie titles. The task is nearly complete. I look at the final title and, what's this? Black Bag? But I've already seen this Soderbergh movie! It's the whole inspiration for this fishing escapade. I must go back to shore and make contact with the Ukrainian. Just as this thought crosses my mind, my line tightens and arcs. I grab the rod and try to control it. My heart is pumping faster than Woodhouse's in the classified-meeting scene!

I struggle, I pull, I reel. I see the catch jump out of the water, its fins waving wildly. I finally reel it in only to remember that I've never caught a fish before. The hook is deep in the trout's gills. Water is getting all over my pricey garments. I try to grab the fish by the mouth but it bites me. I recoil back, as my fingers start to bleed. I feel myself panicking. What would Woodhouse do? I find my courage, plunge my fingers into the fish's mouth and rip the hook out of its gill. At that moment, I lose my grip on the fish and it dives back into the lake. Exhausted and with a ruined outfit, I row back to shore.

Back in the car, I try to call my Ukrainian contact but there's no answer. It's not until I return to the city that I find out what happened. He was sipping wine in his sun room at night when he suddenly dropped to the floor, convulsing. His wife came to his aid but it was too late. He was dead. When I called her, she told me of their plan to watch High Flying Bird later that night.

Someone obviously didn't want me to see all these Soderbergh movies. Since they couldn't get to me, they got to my contact. I feel grief welling inside of me. Spies never say goodbye. I shake my head, find my mettle and start to wonder who committed this atrocity. They don't know that I've already seen Black Bag. Or do they?

When I reach the office on Monday, my boss, in another impeccable suit, is eating ikizukuri at his desk. He calls me in. Is this my termination? Has he noticed my dropping follower count? Is he wondering who killed our Ukrainian connection?

"Did you finish the list?"

"What list?"

There's a pause, as he grabs a chunk of fish with his chopsticks and pops it in his mouth.

"Those Soderbergh movies, in the wrong hands, are dangerous."

I pull at my turtleneck. Did it suddenly get hot in here?

"Anything for the followers," I respond. "Did you hear about—"

"I heard. A shame, really. It's a dangerous job."

"Very."

We share a sly smirk. Neither trusts the other, but at least we look stylish.