Josh Larsen

Thankfully, amidst all the nodding to filmmakers who have come before, writer-director Walter Thompson-Hernández finds his own delicate voice.

Before it escalates into a gloppy parade of gross-out, sorta-special effects, Resident Evil functions as a tight little horror comedy.

Filmed along Scotland’s far northeast coast, The Incomer understands how such an end-of-the-world locale can either enchant you or drive you mad (sometimes both).

The movie captures the ironies and absurdities of a cruel, indifferent world, as well as the angst of those unable to muster the cruelty and indifference to guiltlessly glide through it. This is a tough time in history to have any sort of conscience.

It’s a sober, level-headed approach for a director whose features are soaked in thick mood and dark humor. Martel’s directorial touch can be felt, however, in her pointed use of drone cameras. Overused in nature and travel documentaries, the drone footage here goes beyond easy aerial awe, instead serving as clever commentary.

Coyote vs. Acme intuitively understands many things: the timeless appeal of slapstick; the formal possibilities in combining animation and live-action; and the Sisyphean fascination of the original Coyote and Road Runner cartoons (the myth of Sisyphus is even name-checked here). But the reason the movie resonates so well in 2026 is because it riffs on the general enshittification of the consumer experience. The customer hasn’t been right for awhile now—and we’re paying more and more for the (lack of) privilege.

Just as Greengrass’ penchant for shaky, docu-style cinematography falls too often into chaos in The Uprising, the movie’s intentions are jostled into meaninglessness, at best, and manipulability at worst.

While it suffers from the same tonal whiplash that undid its predecessor, Practical Magic 2 manages a tighter focus on an appealing central theme: the multigenerational bonds among a family of women.

Filipiñana announces an astonishingly assured new talent: writer-director Rafael Manuel, who makes his feature debut. Something of a slow-cinema musical, Filipiñana consists of striking, impeccably framed tableaus, in which movement and rhythm are added to create acerbic juxtapositions. It’s choreography as social commentary.

Half of a high concept, The End of Oak Street works better as a dark action comedy than the Spielbergian homage it initially suggests.