Few historical dramas dare to explore atrocity not through spectacle, but through thought. Nuremberg (2026) does exactly that, shifting the focus away from the battlefield and into the human mind—where ideology took root, morality collapsed, and justice struggled to define itself. Restrained, unsettling, and intellectually rigorous, the film is less concerned with reenacting history than with interrogating it.
Set in the immediate aftermath of World War II, Nuremberg centers on a chilling assignment: American psychiatrist Douglas Kelley is tasked with determining whether captured Nazi leaders are mentally fit to stand trial. Among them is Hermann Göring, the most infamous and psychologically formidable of the defendants. What begins as a clinical evaluation evolves into an intense battle of intellect, manipulation, and moral endurance—one that threatens to erode the very foundation of Kelley's beliefs.
Russell Crowe delivers a commanding performance as Göring, resisting caricature in favor of something far more disturbing. His Göring is charismatic, articulate, and unrepentant—fully aware of his crimes, yet unwilling to concede moral failure. Crowe plays him not as a monster, but as a man who understands the power of persuasion and thrives on intellectual dominance. It's a portrayal that forces the audience into discomfort, asking us to confront a horrifying truth: evil does not always announce itself with madness.
Opposite him, Rami Malek's Douglas Kelley anchors the film with quiet intensity. Malek portrays Kelley as disciplined, curious, and increasingly unsettled by the implications of his work. As the interviews deepen, Kelley finds himself drawn into Göring's psychological orbit, struggling to separate professional objectivity from moral judgment. Malek excels in depicting internal conflict, allowing doubt, fascination, and revulsion to coexist in subtle gestures and measured silences.
Michael Shannon rounds out the central trio with a performance marked by controlled volatility, embodying the institutional pressure surrounding the trial. His presence underscores the tension between legal necessity and ethical responsibility. Justice must be served—but at what psychological cost to those tasked with delivering it?
What distinguishes Nuremberg from more conventional courtroom dramas is its refusal to frame justice as inevitable or clean. The film presents the Nuremberg Trials not as a triumphant moral endpoint, but as an unprecedented experiment—one conducted under global scrutiny, emotional exhaustion, and the weight of unimaginable crimes. The question is not simply whether the defendants are sane, but whether understanding their minds risks legitimizing their actions.
Director and writers approach this dilemma with remarkable discipline. Dialogue-driven scenes dominate the runtime, yet they never feel static. Each exchange between Kelley and Göring is charged with tension, as language becomes a weapon and empathy a liability. The film's pacing is deliberate, allowing ideas to unfold rather than rush toward resolution. This is cinema that trusts its audience to think—and to sit with discomfort.
Visually, Nuremberg adopts a restrained, almost austere aesthetic. Muted color palettes, shadowed interiors, and lingering close-ups create a claustrophobic atmosphere that mirrors Kelley's psychological descent. The meticulous recreation of the courtroom and interrogation rooms avoids grandiosity, emphasizing realism over dramatization. The ruins of postwar Germany loom quietly in the background, a constant reminder of the devastation that necessitated these proceedings.
Crucially, the film does not shy away from the horrors of the Holocaust—but it depicts them with solemn restraint. Rather than exploiting imagery, Nuremberg frames atrocity through testimony, evidence, and silence. The weight of what was done is felt not through shock, but through inevitability. This approach lends the film moral gravity, avoiding sensationalism while maintaining emotional impact.
Thematically, Nuremberg grapples with accountability, guilt, and the seductive danger of intellectualization. Kelley's struggle reflects a broader ethical paradox: to prosecute evil, one must first understand it—but understanding risks eroding moral clarity. The film refuses easy answers, instead presenting justice as a fragile construct upheld by human beings who are themselves vulnerable to doubt and obsession.
If the film has a limitation, it lies in its density. Viewers expecting a traditional courtroom thriller may find the emphasis on psychology and dialogue demanding. Some historical context is assumed rather than explained, and the narrative prioritizes ideas over momentum. Yet these choices feel intentional, aligned with the film's mission to provoke reflection rather than deliver catharsis.
Ultimately, Nuremberg succeeds as a powerful study of conscience under extreme pressure. It reframes one of history's most significant legal moments as a psychological crucible—where the line between understanding and complicity is dangerously thin. Anchored by exceptional performances and guided by intellectual rigor, the film reminds us that justice is not born fully formed in courtrooms.
It begins in the mind—where the hardest battles are fought, and the highest price is often paid.