Nuremberg

Reading Time: 9 minutes | Image Source: Sony Pictures Classics

Category	Details
Release Date	November 7, 2025 (USA)
Director	James Vanderbilt
Distributed By	Sony Pictures Classics
Writers	James Vanderbilt (Screenplay), Jack El-Hai (Story)
Cast	Rami Malek, Russell Crowe, Michael Shannon, Richard E. Grant, Leo Woodall
Runtime	2 hours 28 minutes
Age Rating	PG-13 (Parental Guidance Suggested)
Genre	Historical Drama, Legal Drama
Budget	Estimated $50-75 Million

Review: 

History remembers the Nuremberg Trials as a watershed moment—the first international prosecution of war crimes, a decisive statement that accountability transcends borders and that evil cannot hide behind the pretense of national authority. Yet James Vanderbilt's Nuremberg explores the human dimensions beneath this historic milestone, examining the psychological and moral complexity of confronting mass atrocity's architects in person. The film pivots on a fascinating historical reality: before Nazi leaders faced justice, they faced psychiatric evaluation. This collision between clinical psychology and historical accountability creates a chamber drama of remarkable intellectual and emotional intensity.

At the film's heart stands an unlikely pairing between Lt. Col. Douglas Kelley, portrayed by Rami Malek with escalating conviction, and Hermann Göring, depicted by Russell Crowe with terrifying magnetism and layered complexity. In 1945, as the war concludes, Kelley receives assignment to evaluate the surviving Nazi high command imprisoned in Mondorf, Luxembourg—determining their psychological fitness to stand trial while subtly gathering intelligence for prosecutors preparing humanity's first international war crimes tribunal.

Kelley's initial approach appears professionally detached, yet his relationship with Göring gradually transcends clinical boundaries. The Nazi leader—charismatic, manipulative, and intellectually formidable—becomes both subject and seducer. Göring transforms the psychiatrist's professional curiosity into something far more complicated: a fascination with understanding evil's human architecture. This dynamic creates the film's central tension: Kelley grows increasingly absorbed by Göring's psychology, seeking comprehension that might illuminate how ordinary ambition and ideology corrupt into genocidal monstrosity.

Russell Crowe delivers a performance that demands recognition as among his finest achievements. Crowe avoids the theatrical villainy that might have descended into caricature, instead constructing Göring as simultaneously charming and sinister—a man whose narcissism and intelligence create a deadly combination. He portrays vanity as armor against accountability, wit as weapon against self-reflection. The subtle movements, the calculated vulnerability, the moments where genuine humanity flickers before narcissistic deflection reasserts dominance—Crowe constructs a psychologically coherent portrait of authoritarian leadership that feels disturbingly recognizable.

His Göring surrenders to Allied forces by waving a white cloth from a car window as if arriving at a hotel, then politely requests assistance with luggage. This absurd juxtaposition—the architect of industrialized genocide performing mundane civility—encapsulates the film's central problematic inquiry: how do we reconcile monstrosity with humanity?

Vanderbilt constructs parallel storylines that initially seem disconnected. Alongside Kelley's psychological investigation runs Justice Robert Jackson's effort to conceptualize unprecedented legal territory. Michael Shannon portrays Jackson as an idealistic American committed to establishing juridical frameworks where none previously existed—prosecuting crimes against humanity through legitimate legal mechanism rather than summary execution. Shannon brings earnest determination to the role, his Jackson embodying democratic idealism confronting institutionalized evil.

Yet this tonal split occasionally undermines the film's intentions. The contrast between Kelley's psychological chamber drama and Jackson's courtroom procedural creates jarring shifts between intimate introspection and broad institutional commentary. Some stylistic choices—Malek's introductory scenes with espionage undertones, an Ocean's Eleven-style Nazi introduction montage—feel incongruous with the material's historical gravity.

Where Nuremberg achieves genuine philosophical substance is in its willingness to examine uncomfortable questions about fascism's appeal and persistence. The film acknowledges economic devastation and national humiliation following World War I as context for Nazi rise, not excuse. More provocatively, it examines how democratic institutions prove vulnerable to authoritarian infiltration, how legal frameworks can be perverted toward murderous ends, and how contemporary observers frequently fail recognizing danger until atrocity becomes undeniable.

The film's conclusion bleakly suggests these patterns persist—that fascism's capacity for resurgence remains undiminished by history's lessons. This contemporary resonance transforms the historical narrative into warning rather than mere reminiscence, suggesting that understanding past evil requires vigilance against present manifestations.

Rami Malek traces a compelling arc as Kelley evolves from confident clinician to psychologically devastated witness. His scenes examining concentration camp footage represent the film's most powerful sequences—Vanderbilt permits the evidence to speak without musical manipulation, allowing stark visual documentation of industrialized horror to assault both character and audience. Malek's performance captures the psychological rupture that occurs when confronting absolute evil's physical manifestations. His Kelley enters that moment as one person and emerges fundamentally transformed.

Leo Woodall delivers the film's most affecting performance as Howie Triest, a translator whose personal connection to the Holocaust provides emotional anchor grounding the institutional proceedings in human devastation. Woodall conveys trauma's weight through quiet dignity and carefully restrained emotion, creating a scene of genuine catharsis amid the film's procedural machinery.

Yet Nuremberg occasionally stumbles in its handling of audience sympathy. The extended runtime permits substantial screen time devoted to humanizing Nazi perpetrators—their family relationships, their moments of vulnerability. While understanding evil's human architecture possesses philosophical merit, the film risks inadvertently generating sympathy where moral clarity might be preferable. When Vanderbilt provides Göring final moments alone, gazing sadly at his wife's photograph, the emotional manipulation feels troubling—inviting us toward compassion for a man whose decisions precipitated European Jewry's systematic annihilation.

This tension between psychological understanding and moral judgment remains unresolved, which itself might constitute the film's intended statement. Perhaps complexity acknowledges that recognizing fascism's architects as human beings—rather than cartoonish monsters—provides essential perspective for preventing future atrocities. Conversely, excessive humanization risks excusing behavior that transcends individual psychology to represent systemic evil.

Nuremberg emerges as a genuinely ambitious historical drama that grapples with uncomfortable philosophical terrain. The film's strongest elements—Crowe's mesmerizing performance, the concentration camp sequences' devastating power, the courtroom procedural's intellectual architecture—create moments of genuine cinematic achievement. Shannon, Grant, and Woodall provide capable support in a film that treats historical accountability with appropriate gravity. For viewers seeking sophisticated engagement with how nations confront war crimes and how understanding evil complicates moral judgment, this film offers substantial rewards. It may not resolve the questions it raises, but that unresolved tension itself communicates something profoundly true about justice, history, and humanity's perpetual struggle against totalitarian darkness.

"To understand evil is not to excuse it—it is to recognize its human origins and commit to preventing its recurrence."

Nuremberg demands intellectual engagement with difficult historical material. This is essential viewing for anyone seeking to understand how democracies prosecute accountability and why vigilance against fascism remains eternally necessary. Watch it for its unflinching examination of justice's complexity.