"Five Nights at Freddy’s 2" is yet another disappointing entry into a series that has no idea how to effectively scare an audience. One year has passed since the supernatural nightmare at Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza. In the months since, the truth has curdled into folklore, twisted, softened, and repackaged into a kitschy local legend that inspires the town’s inaugural Fazfest. Former security guard Mike (Josh Hutcherson) and police officer Vanessa (Elizabeth Lail) have done everything they can to shield Mike’s 11-year-old sister, Abby (Piper Rubio), from the harrowing reality of what happened with the animatronic companions. But when Abby sneaks out in pursuit of one more reunion with Freddy, Bonnie, Chica, and Foxy, her well-meaning nostalgia triggers a new chain of horrors that tie back to the long-buried origins of Freddy’s and a malevolent presence forgotten for decades. One of the film’s most attention-grabbing casting footnotes is the reunion of Skeet Ulrich and Matthew Lillard, two horror icons whose joint appearance evokes their shared history in Scream. Unfortunately, the nostalgia lands with a thud because they never share a scene. It is a conspicuous missed opportunity that genre fans may feel acutely. Despite its human leads, the true stars of Freddy’s 2 are the Jim Henson Creature Shop. The animatronics, including Freddy, Bonnie, Chica, Foxy, and a few new surprises, appear far more frequently than in the first film, which demands a heightened level of detail and menace. The Creature Shop delivers in every respect. Their practical creations are weighty, tactile, and genuinely unsettling, marionettes that do not just populate the movie but dominate it, giving the horror real teeth. In virtually every way, this sequel improves upon its predecessor. The plot is tighter, the pacing more assured, and the horror far more effective. The jump scares are both more frequent and more brutal, with the first arriving with startling suddenness. The film does not shy away from blood or body distortion, and it pushes against the limits of its PG-13 rating. With Cawthon himself shaping the narrative, Freddy’s 2 blends movie continuity with game lore more fluidly than the first film. The script includes its fair share of Easter eggs, but they do not derail the story. Some narrative beats may momentarily confuse viewers who are unfamiliar with the franchise’s mythology, but the film generally provides enough context to keep newcomers on board. Refreshingly, the story keeps its ambitions modest, embracing its simplicity until the final stretch, when it begins laying groundwork for a potential third installment. "Five Nights at Freddy’s 2" delivers exactly the horror experience it promises. It is not prestige filmmaking, and it is not trying to be. Instead, it is a confident, entertaining, and noticeably improved sequel that gives fans what they came for: more animatronics, more lore, and more nightmarish fun.
"Kill Bill: The Whole Bloody Affair" might not be Tarantino’s masterpiece, but it’s a brilliant example of a filmmaker with a deep-seated love of movies fully embracing his inspirations and passions in grand fashion.
"When You're Strange" is a documentary history of the Doors directed by Tom DiCillo, is for people like me who can stumble onto the scrappiest Doors video on VH1 at 3 a.m. and sit there, mesmerized. Narrated by Johnny Depp, it offers a worshipful but insightful portrait of the group - centered, of course, on its charismatic front man.
"Wedding Crashers" is still a messy with dialogue and characters that are thinly constructed with jokes that feel like milk left out in the sun but the chemistry of Owen Wilson and Vince Vaughn elevate this movie and still make it enjoyable to this day. Had a great time seeing this in theaters for the 20th Anniversary.
"My Secret Santa" is much like every other holiday movie out there, is generic and obvious but might be perfect as a forgettable Christmas watch. The film's leads are a charming couple with undeniable on-screen chemistry. However, despite Rohl’s oeuvre of Christmas-themed features and the leads’ charisma, the film struggles to rise above its predictable script.
"Oh. What. Fun." is just another Christmas flick with an artificial heart — if it even has one at all. While it has an excellent director, Michael Showalter, who also co-scripted, some nice music, and top performers, and the exquisitely lovely Havana Rose Liu, very appealing as Jeanne’s daughter, it keeps undermining our sympathy with off-kilter stakes and inert efforts at humor but still enjoyable to watch. Claire has always been a fixer. She cannot help it. Every Christmas, she is the engine behind the sprawling family celebration, orchestrating every detail for her now-adult children while simultaneously waging suburban holiday warfare against her flawlessly put-together, cardigan-clad neighbor, Jeanne Wang-Wasserman. But this year, Claire’s one wish is simple: she wants her children to finally see her. All they have to do is submit her application for the “Mother of the Year” contest on the holiday special of Zazzy Tims’ daytime talk show. Despite her gentle nudges, painfully and predictably, her kids forget. The last straw snaps when they also forget to take her to the highly anticipated Christmas dance show the family has been planning to attend. Left literally and figuratively alone, Claire reaches a turning point. If no one else is going to champion her, she will take ownership of the holiday herself and perhaps, for the first time, of her own personal joy. Written by Michael Showalter and Chandler Baker and directed by Showalter, boasts an impressive ensemble: Michelle Pfeiffer, Denis Leary, Felicity Jones, Chloë Grace Moretz, Dominic Sessa, Jason Schwartzman, Joan Chen, Maude Apatow, Danielle Brooks, and Eva Longoria. Pfeiffer especially grounds the film with a blend of comic precision and emotional vulnerability that elevates even its broadest beats. The film is one of those Christmas stories that instantly feels familiar, not in the formulaic Hallmark or Lifetime sense, but in the broader, lived-in tradition of seasonal movies. It mirrors some of the core beats of Home Alone: the mother who is forgotten, left behind, and forced to fend for herself. Yet the third act lands in a surprisingly grounded place, even as the movie indulges in a few warm, Hallmark-esque moments toward its conclusion. Unsurprisingly, "Oh. What. Fun." leans heavily into the idea that mothers are often overlooked during the holidays, despite being the invisible scaffolding that holds everything together. And while that is a sentiment many families can relate to, the film broadens the theme: the thanklessness of motherhood is not seasonal; it is constant. In a twist that feels both honest and a little self-aware, the movie then tries to undo the guilt it has spent so long cultivating. It suggests that mothers do not just endure being needed, they sometimes thrive on it. Like a good mother, the film offers comfort even as it delivers hard truths, leaving the audience with the sense that recognition, while overdue, is always worth giving. "Oh. What. Fun." may not reinvent the holiday-movie wheel, but it navigates familiar terrain with charm, warmth, and a pointed, at times uncomfortable, honesty. It is a film that recognizes the emotional labor behind the season and, fittingly, gives the overlooked matriarch her overdue moment at center stage.
"Shakespeare in Love" is still hipper, smarter and cleverer than any contemporary romantic comedy in recent memory. Sorry to Chloé Zhao but this is the definitive film about Shakespeare's life. The way Tom Stoppard writes characters is so inspired, his script is a playful delight; the tone is exuberant and lively. For that we'll truly miss him! R.I.P.
"Angels Egg" is remarkably simple and complex at the same time, a vision on which we can place our own interpretations of what it all means instead of being force-fed superficial messages.
"A Magnificent Life" is an exquisitely animated film to watch, even if the narrative is a bit rote. But it also makes one think that maybe the original concept for this as a documentary of Pagnol’s life could’ve been more effective and illuminating of what made him such a great artist. Sylvain Chomet provides only a scant sense of Marcel Pagnol’s creative inklings, such as the ideas and themes that fuel the films that he fights so vehemently to make.
"The Tale of Silyan" is an affecting look at the human-avian bond, with all its mysteries, warmth and ungainly practicalities. The documentary proves an inspiring tale of the perseverance of those who refuse to cater to corruption and exploitation while also rejecting the alternative of quitting.
"BLKNWS: Terms & Conditions" is a rich visual assemblage born from an uncompromising artistic vision and collectively rendered praxis. One senses that it breaks typical forms, not to be contrarian, but to revel in its authentic self. Kahlil Joseph, the visionary filmmaker and artist behind Beyoncé’s Lemonade and Flying Lotus’s Until the Quiet Comes, makes a bold and hypnotic transition to narrative feature filmmaking. By fashioning a kinetic work that pulls together references and sources from Black literature, music, politics, and meme culture, the film stands as a seismic intellectual awakening. Adapted from his acclaimed multi-channel video installation that debuted at the 2019 Venice Biennale, Joseph’s debut feature defies categorization, part documentary, part experimental collage, and wholly cinematic meditation on Black identity, media, and memory. More than a film, "Terms & Conditions" plays like a visual symphony, an immersive, sensory experience that spans 247 years of Black existence across land, sea, and screen. With nonlinear time signatures, layered sound design, and elliptical narrative arcs, Joseph constructs a cinematic language all his own, one rooted in jazz improvisation, digital ephemera, and ancestral reclamation. The result is something radical: a film that moves, not in plot, but in rhythm, equal parts sermon, séance, and broadcast. Shaunette Renée Wilson anchors the film with a mesmerizing performance that provides much-needed emotional gravity amid Joseph’s swirling abstractions. As a figure who appears to drift between historical periods and symbolic archetypes, Wilson becomes the film’s spiritual compass, her presence grounding us even as the film floats between past, present, and speculative futures. Hope Giselle, in a striking debut, contributes a presence that is less performance and more embodiment, a reflection of the film’s ethos of transformation, transition, and transcendence. Visually, "Terms & Conditions" is a feast. Shot with a textured, painterly quality, the film blends archival footage with staged tableaux and stylized vignettes, all edited with hypnotic precision. Joseph conjures the ghosts of Black history and weaves them into modern digital spaces, refracting the Black experience through television screens, surveillance footage, viral videos, and intimate family rituals. Historical figures slip into contemporary avatars. Resistance becomes both a memory and a mode of survival. The narrative, if one dares call it that, unfolds like a prophecy heard in a dream, delivered with a clarity just beyond comprehension. The film interrogates the systems that define and confine Blackness, be they legal, cultural, media-driven, or metaphysical. The titular “terms and conditions” serve as both an indictment and an inquiry: what does it mean to live under unspoken contracts of existence? Of representation? Of history? Joseph never answers, but instead challenges the viewer to sit with the weight of those questions, resisting the urge to decode and instead asking us to bear witness. "Terms & Conditions" will undoubtedly divide audiences. Its refusal to adhere to narrative conventions, its elliptical structure, shifting characters, and non-linear timelines can be alienating. But for viewers willing to surrender to its pulse, the film offers a profound, almost spiritual experience. It is cinema as ritual, as resistance, as remix. Joseph doesn’t just tell stories; he destabilizes the form itself, forcing us to question how stories are told, by whom, and for what purpose. In a media landscape dominated by conventional biopics and historical dramas, "BLKNWS: Terms & Conditions" is something altogether rarer: a Black cinematic opus that refuses to conform. It is a work of radical empathy and radical imagination, a bold declaration that Black lives are not just lived, but felt, fractured, remembered, and remixed across centuries.
"The Things You Kill" is a brooding and hypnotic meditation on grief, guilt, and vengeance. Set between the cultural dissonance of an exiled life and the fractured ties of family legacy, writer-director Alireza Khatami crafts a film that quietly simmers until it boils over into something both haunting and deeply human. Ekin Koç delivers a quietly powerful performance as Ali, a Turkish-born professor living in the United States whose world is upended by the sudden and suspicious death of his ailing mother back home in Turkey. Ali returns not simply to bury her, but to dig into secrets, into grief, and into a past he never truly escaped. Consumed by a gnawing sense of guilt and suspicion, he becomes convinced that his estranged father may be responsible for her death. The emotional distance between them becomes not just personal, but possibly criminal. As Ali’s pain deepens into obsession, he finds an unlikely confidant in Reza, a gentle but mysterious gardener played with quiet gravity by Erkan Kolçak Köstendil. Their growing friendship becomes the film’s moral fulcrum. When Ali enlists Reza in a plan for revenge, the film subtly shifts from a grief drama into a slow-burn mystery, less concerned with whodunit than with why. Khatami’s direction is understated and assured, infusing even the quietest moments with a feeling of unease. Shadows linger longer than they should. Conversations unfold at the edge of confession. The camera often keeps a measured distance from its characters, allowing the space between them to fill with tension and memory. It’s a film that trusts its silences. What makes The Things You Kill especially compelling is its psychological complexity. This isn’t a straightforward revenge thriller. It’s a study in projection and emotional fragmentation, a son mourning his mother, haunted by regret, and searching for answers that may not exist. As the layers peel back, what emerges is not a single revelation, but a series of emotional reckonings, each more painful than the last. The third act, where many such films stumble, is where this one finds its stride. Khatami doesn’t deliver a tidy resolution, but instead builds to a moment of intense personal clarity, one that feels earned and inevitable. It’s not justice Ali finds, but a deeper understanding of the burden he’s been carrying. The supporting cast, including Hazar Ergüçlü and Ercan Kesal, flesh out the emotional landscape with nuance, while the cinematography, drenched in subdued hues and melancholy light, enhances the film’s meditative atmosphere. The score, used sparingly, adds a layer of emotional disquiet, pulsing just beneath the surface. If "The Things You Kill" has a flaw, it’s that its slow pacing and elliptical storytelling may alienate viewers expecting more traditional genre thrills. But for those patient enough to sit with its mood and themes, the rewards are rich. This is a film about the things we bury: memories, rage, grief, and what happens when they claw their way back to the surface.
"Tinsel Town" is a bland Christmas comedy that’s charming enough, until it isn’t. On paper, you’d think a movie about a washed-up Hollywood action star starring in a tiny English village’s Christmas pantomime would have enough built-in absurdity and heart to carry itself. The setup is practically begging for a breezy, self-aware holiday comedy, something warm, a little silly, and maybe even moving if it wanted to be. And "Tinsel Town," directed by Chris Foggin, absolutely tries to be that movie. You can feel the intention in almost every scene. But intention only gets you so far, especially in a genre where audiences have seen hundreds of variations of this sort of redemption arc. What the film delivers instead is a perfectly fine, lightly charming, entirely predictable Christmas watch–the kind that’s easy to turn on, easier to forget, and comfortable enough while it’s playing. The film opens with what is, admittedly, a pretty funny bit: Bradley Mac (Kiefer Sutherland), a three-time Razzie nominee and full-time headache for any studio that hires him, is on the set of Killing Time 7, a totally ridiculous action sequel that barely resembles reality. Sutherland leans into the goofiness of this world, giving Bradley the right mix of self-importance and delusion. It’s a strong opening because it understands exactly who this man is. He’s not cruel but just out of touch, stubborn, and unaware that the industry has long moved on without him. Then comes the inevitable blow: the studio pulls the plug on Killing Time 8, and word spreads that Bradley is so difficult nobody wants to hire him. His one remaining option is theater work in England, which he accepts with the energy of someone boarding a sinking ship. Once Bradley arrives in the small village and discovers he’s been tricked into starring in a chaotic Christmas pantomime of Cinderella, of all things, the movie shifts into its main rhythm. This is where the predictability fully settles in. You can practically map out every beat from memory if you’ve seen even a handful of holiday comedies. There’s the quirky cast of locals who all have a trait or two, but not much depth. There’s the fish-out-of-water setup, the clumsy rehearsals, the obligatory frustrations, the warm reminders of community, and the inevitable “maybe this washed-up guy isn’t so washed up after all” reveal. And that’s fine, to a point. Familiarity isn’t always a problem in Christmas movies. Sometimes it’s the charm. But here, the film rarely pushes past the surface. Rebel Wilson plays Jill, the straight-talking choreographer who sees right through Bradley’s ego, but the script doesn’t give her much to work with. Her character is painfully underwritten, and almost every scene feels like an early draft that never got fleshed out. Most of the supporting characters suffer the same fate. They’re not irritating, just bland, which is somehow worse because it drains energy from a movie that desperately needs it. The emotional core is supposed to come from Bradley reconnecting with his estranged daughter, and while this thread has potential, the film never fully earns the payoff. The scenes meant to carry emotional weight feel inserted rather than fully developed. Conflicts pop up because the plot needs them, not because the characters grow into them. This forced feeling creeps into multiple storylines. Moments that should feel natural, like arguments, apologies, and breakthroughs, just end up feeling rushed or manufactured. There is hardly any natural buildup; the movie just drops them in. Still, through all of this, Kiefer Sutherland holds the film together. He’s a fun lead, giving the role more sincerity than it probably deserved. There’s an ease to the way he plays Bradley that makes him likable even when the writing doesn’t quite support him. He has a relaxed comedic sensibility that doesn’t strain for laughs. It’s subtle but effective. Had the rest of the film met him halfway, "Tinsel Town" might have had something special. The production itself is harmless enough with cozy sets, familiar Christmas décor, rehearsal montages, and warm lighting meant to evoke the seasonal glow. Foggin directs with a gentle, easygoing touch, though the film’s pacing sometimes drags simply because the story doesn’t have many surprises in its arsenal. Once you understand where the movie is going (which happens quickly), you’re basically waiting for it to play out the way you already expect. In a crowded genre full of movies trying to put their own twist on the holiday formula, "Tinsel Town" blends in more than it stands out. It’s cute enough, safe enough, and passable enough to fill a quiet December night. But once the credits roll, it doesn’t leave much behind—a perfectly serviceable holiday distraction, but not much more than that.
"The Thing with Feathers” is a suffocating and strange exploration of grief that traps its characters (and its audience) within the narrow confines of mourning and madness. Adapted from Max Porter’s acclaimed novel “Grief Is the Thing with Feathers,” the film translates the book’s poetic abstraction into a visual language of claustrophobia and psychological unease. While director Dylan Southern doesn’t always find success by leaning on a horror angle, his creative choices keep things interesting. Shot in a constricted aspect ratio with relentlessly tight framing, the film rarely lets you breathe. Every hallway feels too narrow and every room too crowded, as if the air itself were weighted with the family’s sorrow. Watching this film is an experience that’s not exactly pleasant, especially as Southern leans on his visual expression of the suffocating interior world of a father (Benedict Cumberbatch) and his two young sons (Richard Boxall, Henry Boxall) reeling from the sudden death of his wife. Cumberbatch delivers a reliably strong performance as the grieving father. His descent into disorientation and despair is both harrowing and painfully believable as he captures the brittleness of a man trying to hold himself together for his family while slowly fracturing under the weight of his own loss. His performance sometimes feels at odds with the film’s more surreal and horror-inflected moments, but anyone who has experienced grief will find him so relatable. Walking a line between metaphor and menace, the thing with feathers manifests as a towering, anthropomorphic crow that haunts the family’s apartment. Initially terrifying, the crow feels like a visitation from the father’s worst fears, a grotesque embodiment of grief itself. As the story unfolds, the crow’s role shifts into a psychological reckoning. The creature becomes a guide that eventually forces the family to confront their pain rather than repress it. This is where the film takes its biggest risk. The horror elements are definitely visually striking with some terrifying imagery, but they do sometimes clash with the intimate emotional realism of the family’s story. The film’s ambition to merge genres doesn’t always work, and certain sequences feel more conceptually clever than emotionally resonant. No matter what, you have to admire the audacity. Dark and ambitious, “The Thing With Feathers” aims to tell a familiar story about a descent into madness following trauma in a fresh and unsettling way.
"Planes, Trains & Automobiles" is a hilarious holiday comedy from the 80s that still holds up. Bringing two comedic geniuses, Martin and Candy, together on the big screen was a brilliant idea from John Hughes with obviously positive results.
"Outerlands" is a truly special piece of filmmaking— immersive, intuitive, and illuminating, a reminder of the empathy that should be at the forefront of all storytelling. One of the most compelling dynamics for a relationship is the odd couple. The duo who seemingly have nothing in common, but who, through forced bonding time, recognize that they’re a positive presence in each other’s lives. It’s this dynamic that’s at the core of Elena Oxman’s film "Outerlands." It’s a story of two hurt people who don’t believe they deserve any act of kindness that’s given to them. Through their unlikely relationship, they learn that everyone deserves to feel loved. Cass (Asia Kate Dillon) lives in San Francisco in a rent-controlled building. Their apartment is bare except for a ridiculous beaver lamp carved from wood. They’re a nanny by day and a waiter by night. Cass has shut themself off from anyone trying to make a connection and drinks themself to sleep every night. One day, they run into Kalli (Louisa Krause), a fellow server at the restaurant, at the local laundromat. They spend the night together, and Kalli asks if Cass would be willing to do her a huge favor: watch her daughter, Ari (Ridley Asha Bateman), for a few days. Cass accepts, but as days pass and phone calls go unanswered, Cass begins to wonder if this situation is permanent. "Outerlands" opens with a poem by Raymond Carver called “Late Fragment.” The poem is a conversation between two people. One asks the other if they got everything they wanted out of this life. The other answers that they did. That all they hoped for was to believe they were beloved and to feel others love them too. It’s a perfect summation of the Cass and Ari characters, who have closed themselves off because of their childhood experiences. Granted, Ari is still in her childhood years, but her mother’s knack for disappearing for days on end has made Ari steely. If her mother leaves so freely, why won’t everyone else? Cass also had a similarly rocky childhood as Ari, although we only get glimpses of it. They mention growing up with their grandmother because their mother was absent, but no further information is given. It’s clearly a wound that hasn’t healed, and it manifests in Cass’ self-enforced isolation and excessive drinking. So much of "Outerlands" speaks to the idea of moving forward by healing your inner child. It sounds a little hippie, but the essence is earnest. How can one feel at peace with their present self if there are entire years of their life they haven’t processed? The relationship between Cass and Ari has healing qualities for both of them. It gives them hope for the future, while putting a soothing balm on the parts of the past that still ache. Every wound makes us who we are, but they don’t have to keep blistering. People can patch you up if you let them, but you must let them. That’s one of the hardest things to accept, but that is the ethos of "Outerlands." We are our best selves when we’re able to accept the help of another. The film’s title shares its name with a video game from Cass’ youth. It’s a two-dimensional game that has the look of early Mario with a little spaceman jumping around the screen. The point of Outerlands the video game is to guide a lost astronaut home, and isn’t that what we’re all trying to do? To find our way through this messy world to a place that feels like home. It’s not defined by blood, but by a genuine desire to care for someone other than yourself. The only way you can be that for another person is to grant yourself the kindness of forgiveness. In a way, video games teach Ari and Cass that they haven’t reached an insurmountable dead end, as much as it may feel that way. Video games are a shared activity they love, and the basis of video games is failure. You may die or go the wrong way and get lost, but you can always respawn to try again. "Outerlands" is a beautiful snapshot of a life lived on the outskirts. Dillon and their younger scene partner, Bateman, give such gentle, grounded performances to create this humanistic piece of what a pure connection between two people is capable of. "Outerlands" is a truly special piece of filmmaking— immersive, intuitive, and illuminating, a reminder of the empathy that should be at the forefront of all storytelling.
"Jingle Bell Heist" is an above average crime caper turned romcom with just about enough to give it an edge over its more anemic peers. It's not anything spectacular but for the type of movie it is with two entertaining performances from Olivia Holt and newcomer Connor Swindells it's a fun movie for the holiday season. The holiday season is typically advertised as the most wonderful time of the year. However, in Jingle Bell Heist, the realities of wealth disparity weigh heavily as desperation and frustration birth a rather ill-conceived plot to rob the villain of its tale. Starting in media res, we’re introduced to our two leads right before the heist begins. The dialogue here is just enough to hint at something deeper between the two before Jingle Bell Heist jumps backwards in time by two weeks. Here, we meet Sophia Martin (Olivia Holt), working at a giant department store, tressed up and ready for the Christmas holidays. The pressure is on for Sophia and the other workers to maintain the store’s immaculate condition for minimal pay, a familiar problem for many. Little does Sophia know that her boss, Maxwell Sterling (Peter Serafinowicz), is not the only one watching. She’s caught the eye of Nick O’Connor (Connor Swindells), a former security consultant, now phone technician, who is tapped into Sterling’s store’s security system. While tapped in, she catches her having achieved a costly sleight of hand, prompting him to confront her and perhaps loop her into his plans to screw Sterling over. Thus, the titular heist is born. Well, until someone beats them to the punch. While Santa Claus would most certainly put Sophia and Nick on his naughty list, the Jingle Bell Heist screenplay, co-written by Abby McDonald and Amy Reed, builds each character’s backstory to give the audience plenty to cling to. For Sophia, she’s literally drowning in debt trying to keep her sick mother alive, yet the medical system she thought might save her (alas, the NHS is just not equipped) is asking for more than she can give. As for Nick, he’s trying to rebuild his life after finishing his prison sentence. However, with an increasingly difficult cost-of-living crisis and now carrying a record on him, it’s nigh impossible for him to try to eke out a living that will satisfy his ex-wife and let him see his daughter. It’s in the fleshing out of these struggles in Jingle Bell Heist that empathy is evoked, even if the plan they hatch and the lengths to which both Sophia and Nick go are incredibly ludicrous. From crashing parties to donning silly get-ups, these two are completely out of their element. It makes sense, though. They are two ordinary people. Up against the incredibly one-note villain, Maxwell, who is played with utmost snobbery by Peter Serafinowicz, failure is more likely than not. And yet, so much is done to ensure that we absolutely need them to succeed. Their success means a hope worthy of the Christmas holiday and spirit. It can be easy for Sophia and Nick’s struggles to fully take over Jingle Bell Heist, and sometimes they do due to a lack of tonal balance. Some mid-film pacing drag doesn’t help either, as the two prepare for the big day, but the scenes themselves help sink the audience further into these characters’ worlds. An argument can be made for reducing these scenes to improve flow, but they can also be read as the calm before the storm they’re about to wade into. However, what helps things from getting too dark is the spots of humor, particularly the physical comedy, that add an extra laugh to things. Whether it’s Olivia Holt sliding dramatically into a security box, the awkwardness of Nick being coached into flirtation, or literally crashing through a roof, there’s enough here to keep things light and silly, even when things hit a little too close to reality. What doesn’t quite hit, despite it being an expected outcome, is the romantic element in Jingle Bell Heist. Part of this is due to a general lack of romantic chemistry between the two leads; their growing partnership resonates more platonically, building a foundation more akin to work colleagues. Because of this, the inclusion of a romantic development, while understandable as part of the genre, ultimately just rang a little hollow. Romance issues aside, Jingle Bell Heist is about the heist of it all, and sometimes, that’s all you need. While the planning is absolutely ludicrous at times, challenging the suspension of disbelief, Sophia and Nick, as characters, with their sad situations and their general earnestness and commitment to the crime, make you desperately want them to succeed even when the plan itself has so many holes in it that you might as well have Swiss Cheese.
"The Best You Can" is a far too easy a film to invest in affectionately will diverge audiences, to be sure. With strong performances and a fresh premise about an unexpected friendship in middle age, but far too many creaky comic tropes, the uneven film is always watchable but never pops off the screen in a gripping way.
"Zootopia 2" is so zany, funny, heartfelt and world expanding as the first, with relevant ideas that act as a great continuation of the world. Nick and Judy’s friendship grounds it all brought to life by Jason Bateman and Ginnifer Goodwin. It may not be as strong as its predecessor but's just as fun as the first and better than most previous Disney sequels or originals in the last six years. Fresh off their recent success, rookie officers Judy Hopps and Nick Wilde find themselves underestimated by nearly everyone on the Zootopia police force. Their colleagues chalk their victory up to beginner’s luck, and things only get worse when the duo bungles the closing of a case they were not assigned to investigate. To save their budding careers and their partnership, they are sent to a counseling program designed for mismatched officers. Their options are clear: fix their differences and learn to function as a team, or be permanently split up. Meanwhile, a mysterious new adversary emerges, threatening not only the city’s upcoming centennial celebration but the future of Zootopia itself. Nick and Judy have to put aside their differences in time to save the day again. The voice cast extends well beyond its core ensemble. The film is packed with cameos from across the entertainment landscape. Wrestlers CM Punk and Roman Reigns lend their voices as the "Zebros" a pair of zebra ZPD cops, as do actors Jean Reno as Bûcheron and Chèvre, a pair of goat ZPD cops, June Squibb as Gram Gram Judy Hopps' grandmother, Bob Iger plays Bob Tiger a weather forecaster, Michael J. Fox plays Michael Jay a fox prisoner at the jail, and comedians Yvette Nicole Brown and Cecily Strong. It feels as if nearly every corner of the industry wanted to be part of this sequel. Most significant is the presence of the late Tom “Tiny” Lister Jr., whose role in the film marks his final performance. Lister passed away five years ago, and his inclusion, achieved through AI-assisted voice technology, has sparked controversy. Directors Howard and Bush frame the decision as a tribute, although reactions may vary. The film essentially picks up a week after where the first film left off. Hopps and Wilde are still new partners, still figuring out the job, and still stumbling through the quirks of working with someone completely unlike themselves. Judy remains the hyper-focused optimist, and Nick is the sly, quick-witted fox who sees every angle. This time, however, the tension between them is not just playful banter. It is a genuine obstacle they must overcome. The first film centered on themes of diversity, bias, and the importance of valuing one another. Those ideas remain present, but the sequel shifts its thematic lens. Here, the focus is on coexistence—the challenging but crucial work of recognizing each other’s worth, communicating honestly, and bridging differences. These are heavy ideas, especially for a children’s movie, yet "Zootopia 2" presents them with surprising clarity and accessibility. One standout moment involves a heartfelt therapy session between Judy and Nick, depicted in a way children can easily understand. It models, and may even encourage, healthy conversations among families outside the theater. Like its predecessor, "Zootopia 2" is far deeper and smarter than it initially appears. On the surface, it is an energetic, brightly colored action comedy that often surpasses the first film in terms of spectacle and humor. Its many cameos and clever nods, including a memorable sequence where Pawbert heads through a hedge maze in in Tundra Town inspired by "The Shining," to keep even seasoned older viewers engaged and laughing throughout. There is so much great stuff happening visually and thematically that one viewing is hardly enough to catch it all. "Zootopia 2" arrives during a year dominated by popular anime franchises such as "Chainsaw Man," "K-Pop Demon Hunters," and "Demon Slayer." Amid these intense, stylized series, "Zootopia 2" stands out as a lighter, family-friendly alternative that offers excitement without sacrificing safety for younger children. It is a film that rewards repeat viewings, yet remains satisfying and enjoyable in a single sitting.
"Wake Up Dead Man: A Knives Out Mystery" trades the glam tech world of Glass Onion for incense, liturgy, and parish politics, and it fits like a glove. Wake Up Dead Man is a darker, more contemplative whodunnit than its predecessor, set against the backdrop of a small Catholic community fractured by faith, power, and suspicion. Anchored by Daniel Craig’s endlessly watchable Benoit Blanc, the film proves that this franchise still has plenty of sharp knives left in the drawer. The story begins with Rev. Jud Duplenticy (Josh O’Connor), a young priest assigned to a parish led by Monsignor Jefferson Wicks (Josh Brolin), a firebrand cleric with an unorthodox, theatrical style. Their clashes provide the film’s heartbeat. Wicks is a charismatic pragmatist, using spectacle and political savvy to fill the pews and bankroll parish projects. Duplenticy, in contrast, is an earnest purist, wary of spectacle and devoted to humility, confession, and serving the poor. Their philosophical sparring escalates into something like a theological duel: Wicks views power as a necessary vessel for grace, while Duplenticy sees compromise as corruption. The two men want the same outcome: souls saved, community built—but their methods and values are oil and water. Johnson frames them as spiritual counterparts, almost like Martin Luther King Jr. and Malcolm X, both seeking transformation through radically different approaches. When Wicks is mysteriously murdered during the Good Friday service, suspicion immediately falls on Duplenticy. Into this crucible walks Benoit Blanc, summoned once again to untangle a nest of motives, lies, and hidden sins. Johnson’s signature "howdunnit" sensibility is alive and well. Instead of luxury yachts or glass mansions, the mystery unfolds through the textures of parish life: sacristy keys, processional crosses, the length of a thurible chain, even hymn numbers. The structure mirrors the Stations of the Cross, giving the investigation a ritual rhythm that feels both clever and thematically rich. Blanc, as always, is less a grandstanding genius and more an astute listener, his Southern drawl cutting through evasions like incense through a nave. Craig continues to make the detective both genial and sly, a figure who can puncture pieties without sneering at faith itself. The supporting cast is stacked with heavyweights. Glenn Close plays Martha Delacroix, a seemingly sweet church matron whose polite smiles conceal decades of gatekeeping. Kerry Washington delivers quiet fire as Vera Draven, a lawyer entangled in the parish’s legal woes. Jeremy Renner brings grit as a local doctor, while Cailee Spaeny’s concert cellist and Thomas Haden Church’s enigmatic groundskeeper each add layered intrigue. Mila Kunis, as the local police chief, provides a secular counterpoint to the parish’s endless politicking. Everyone gets a moment, but the real electricity lies in O’Connor and Brolin’s sparring, their ideological battle carrying as much weight as the murder itself. If Glass Onion satirized the stupidity of unchecked wealth, Wake Up Dead Man interrogates the cost of charisma and the fragility of institutions built on it. The film asks: when does pastoral leadership become control? When does conscience curdle into vanity? And how do communities fracture when the very figures meant to guide them become objects of fear or suspicion? Johnson keeps sympathy for belief itself but skewers the ways it can be manipulated for influence or ego. The script occasionally bogs down in sermon snippets and council meetings, slowing the pace, but even these detours underscore the stakes of the parish’s inner war. "Wake Up Dead Man: A Knives Out Mystery" doesn’t reinvent the series, but it reinvigorates it by rooting the puzzle in a morally charged community setting. It’s a story of ritual and suspicion, power and conscience, brought to life by a stellar ensemble and Johnson’s playful craftsmanship. The mystery clicks, the characters crackle, and Benoit Blanc remains a detective worth following anywhere, even into the pews. This one doesn’t shout; it rings, like a church bell you feel in your ribs after the sound has faded.
"Eternity" is a charming and wildly entertaining for the most part, but by skirting a conventional narrative to be more creative, the story loses some of its effectiveness in the process. However its fantastic cast brings a soulful and endearing story to life with plenty of gags and creative world-building in between. What happens when love, loss, and eternity collide? "Eternity" takes that big question and spins it into a romantic fantasy comedy about choices that stretch beyond life itself. The premise is irresistible: in the afterlife, everyone gets one week to decide where, and more importantly, with whom, they will spend eternity. For Joan (Elizabeth Olsen), that choice is excruciating. Does she choose Larry (Miles Teller), the man she built her life and family with, or Luke (Callum Turner), her first husband who died tragically in war? The setup promises both comedy and poignancy, and at moments it delivers. What anchors "Eternity" amid its whimsical conceit is the lived-in chemistry between Teller and Olsen. Joan and Larry feel like a couple who have carried both love and resentment through the years, two people who know exactly how to push each other’s buttons because they’ve pushed them a thousand times before. Teller leans into Larry’s everyman exasperation, playing him as a man who masks vulnerability with bluster, while Olsen gives Joan a layered warmth that oscillates between affection, regret, and quiet rebellion. Together, their banter carries an authenticity that grounds the afterlife concept, especially in the quieter scenes where the film pauses and lets us feel the weight of decades spent together. Their dynamic also sharpens the central dilemma: is Joan’s eternity best spent with the man who grew alongside her, through children, compromise, and ordinary routines, or with the memory of a first love untouched by time or disappointment? Teller and Olsen make you feel the pull of both choices, so that Joan’s decision is less about fantasy versus reality than about how we define the meaning of a life shared. Turner injects a romantic ache as the love frozen in time, while John Early, as Joan’s quirky afterlife coordinator, supplies bursts of absurd humor. And whenever Da’Vine Joy Randolph shows up as Larry’s blunt but hilarious guide, the film lights up with much-needed energy. Yet despite its charms, Eternity doesn’t fully earn its runtime. Pat Cunnane’s script has a clever concept, but it strings it out too long, circling the same emotional beats without fully developing them. What could have been a taut, witty exploration of eternal choices becomes baggy, especially in the second act, where pacing sags. Freyne’s direction is gentle and whimsical, leaning into the ethereal visuals of the afterlife with soft light and surreal details. But the tonal balance sometimes slips; it’s never as moving as it wants to be, nor as funny as it could be. Still, the performances keep it afloat, especially Randolph, who provides the film’s sharpest laughs. The film’s inspirations are clear, but more than anything, Eternity feels indebted to Albert Brooks’ "Defending Your Life." Like that classic, it frames the afterlife as a place where choices, regrets, and the meaning of love are placed under a microscope. The difference is that Brooks leaned into sharp satire and philosophical bite, while Eternity often retreats to lighter comedic rhythms when it should dig deeper. It gestures toward profound questions about love, loyalty, and what it truly means to choose someone "forever," but too often smooths them over with whimsy instead of wrestling with their weight. Ultimately, "Eternity" is a film with a great idea, a strong cast, and a handful of lovely moments. But like its characters wandering the afterlife, it loses its way before reaching the destination.
"Hamnet" strips away the legend of Shakespeare to reveal the raw, human grief that may have fueled his greatest work, a story where love and loss become inseparable, and how art is born from heartbreak.
“The Making of a Japanese” is an excellent documentary that sheds much light on how the locals are shaped from the elementary level, as much as a testament on how the order that dominates most aspects of life in the country is instilled in them. Considering that Japan is one of the most well-organized countries in the world, with a system that works on more levels than the overwhelming majority of other nations, it is quite interesting to see how this result is achieved, and how the specific Japanese identity plays a crucial role in it. Ema Ryan Yamazaki, a British Japanese filmmaker attempts to highlight the aforementioned by closely following the 1st and 6th graders for one year at a public elementary school in Tokyo, as well as their teachers, in the midst of the pandemic. The documentary starts in April, at the beginning of the school year, upon the entrance ceremony for the incoming 1st graders. Obviously out of their depth, they have to be taught essentially everything, which, in a Japanese school amounts to learning how to line-up, care for their personal safety, clean their own school, and even serve one another lunch. At the same time, the 6th graders, who have reached the top of the elementary school, are expected to provide an example for the younger students both through their actions and their behavior. These include running the school’s broadcasting department, replenishing hand soaps in sinks, coming up with slogans to boost morale, and helping the 1st graders with the difficulties they have. As the semester passes, we watch how the students are trained to face natural disasters, which in the case of Japan, are quite common. Their teachers guide them during the monthly earthquake drills, which include and derive from always retaining order, which in this case, means aligning their shoes and bags, taking care of their belongings and cooperating with one another. As the pandemic becomes a factor, more elements are added. Students must measure their temperature every morning and report any flu symptoms through a designated form. Additionally, they should acquire computer skills for remote classes conducted from home and practice social distancing, even when attending in-person classes. The teachers follow them quite closely, while the school system demands from them to evaluate themselves and their efforts, and to receive evaluation from their teachers every trimester. For the 1st graders, their evaluation is solely focused on how well they perform in the aforementioned duties and their overall attitude, which also includes ‘breaking out of their shell’, which one teacher explains in rather graphic fashion. As the seasons pass, Yamazaki also follows some of the students and teachers individually, with the rope jumping, the music audition and the ‘elections’ prove to be a challenge for both, with the latter also facing self-doubt and question how to educate the next generation, who seem to have to face more significant issues than their own. The appearance **** official who specializes in extracurricular school activities also showcases an issue that is probably on the mind of every Western viewer when watching a film about the Japanese, concerning suicides in the country, particularly among youths. That the official mentions that this could be a problem deriving from the education system and that perhaps some changes should be made in order to make a difference, is also indicative of how the system works in Japan, with self-evaluation and taking responsibility being among its main ‘ingredients’. That the teachers are also evaluated and occasionally criticized by their colleagues and their higher ups, cements this approach in the most eloquent fashion. The approach Yamazaki implements, by presenting the school year through chapters that correspond on the trimesters, also highlighting the changes in nature works quite well, making the documentary seem much briefer than the 99 minutes of its duration. At the same time, the juxtaposition of 1st and 6th graders is quite smart, since it highlights how the students start their years in the elementary school, and how the system aims for them to be by the time they finish it. Lastly, the focus on the teachers makes the overall portrait even more thorough, concluding the excellent presentation of the Japanese school system at this level. In that regard, the editing by the director, Mariko Ide and Mizuki Toriya emerges as excellent, both in terms of pace and in the juxtaposition of the different elements of the narrative (1st grade, 6th grade, teachers, the faculty). “The Making of a Japanese” is an intimate chronicle of a turbulent year defined by the strictures of the coronavirus pandemic that effects our viewpoint on the world.
"Left-Handed Girl" is a funny and deeply heartfelt film showcasing the complexities of life in ways that feel fresh and exciting through a flawed multigenerational family trapped in the condemnation of societal roles that do not serve them. After closely collaborating with Sean Baker, either behind or in front of the camera for over twenty years, Taiwanese film producer, actress, and filmmaker Shih-Ching Tsou makes her solo directorial debut with Left-Handed Girl. This isn’t her first foray behind the camera, as she co–helmed 2004’s Take Out with Baker, but Left-Handed Girl marks the first step for Tsou’s mark as an artist who shares the same humanist qualities as the Oscar-winning director, but with a greater emphasis on the relationship forged between the characters than the story directly responding to them. The student has now become the teacher with deeply moving film. When Tsou and Baker (who co-wrote and edited the film) attempt to interlink each story its three protagonists live through, Left-Handed Girl falls apart. What comes before this sequence feels so electric in capturing the routine lives of mother Shu-Fen (Janel Tsai) and her daughters, I-Ann (Ma Shih-yuan) and I-Jinn (Nina Yeh), that one doesn’t necessarily need a story to coherently link all of their individual paths inside a drawn-out banquet scene with enough explosive reveals that transform its textured emotions into soap opera-like theatrics. That said, one can’t deny how major the movie feels beforehand, a bold artistic statement that assuredly introduces Shih Ching-Tsou as a voice to watch, especially in the realm of observational cinema, where the camera allows the audience to form a connection with the protagonists without the filmmaker necessarily inferring one way or another. It presents the three women as they are, flawed and vulnerable, while also highlighting their deepest, most human qualities, and lets the audience come up with their own conclusions and feelings towards them. This is done through impeccable, note-perfect performances from its three leads, yes, but mainly in how Tsou and cinematographers Ko-Chin Cheng and Tzu-Hao Kao always capture the protagonists at their level, through a jaw-dropping, immersive use of iPhones. When it follows I-Jinn careening around the streets of the Taipei Night Market, at her height, as we get to experience her perspective filled with joy, wonder, and curiosity about a world she doesn’t yet understand, or is at least trying to, the movie opens itself up so naturally that it doesn’t really need a “narrative” to carry its emotions. Of course, the fact that they are siblings and live in the same household will draw parallels to how each age group (youth, adolescence, and adulthood) sees the world, but each has its own individual stories worth observing at its simplest level. The iPhone cinematography isn’t groundbreaking, but it’s certainly effective at putting us in the shoes of each character, as their stories follow the same throughlines that Baker loves to highlight in his own films. There’s one particular image, shot from the perspective of the ailing father whom I-Ann has essentially disowned, that encapsulates a litany of feelings she has boiling inside of her, which could genuinely take your breath away. Traditional filmmaking wouldn’t convey the same authenticity as Tsou’s iPhone-photographed images do here. The colors are purposefully heightened at night, and the blurry digital grain a phone’s camera carries makes each frame feel as if they hold enough emotional truth for the audience to latch onto the characters and their individual – and often collective – plights. There’s a real sense of play in how both cinematographers use their central device, making us experience the Taiwan cityscape as a place we can touch, smell, and feel every ounce of its often claustrophobic, but occasionally beautiful, environment. It’s through this digitized language that we ultimately form a connection between the characters, only to have them break our hearts in a million pieces near its final section.
"Homebound" is a compelling, emotionally rich story of two dreamers trying to escape their birth circumstances, amidst bigotry and hatred. It’s that rare cinematic treasure that can pleasantly touch and surprise anyone.
"Altered" is a watered-down sci-fi clunker that borrows liberally from much better films. It gets my vote for the silliest movie of the year. Granted, the extreme silliness is intermittently amusing. Mostly, though, it’s just wearying. Writer/director Timo Vuorensola (Iron Sky) is trying to engage in epic storytelling and massive world-building. Take off the end credits and the picture runs a mere 79 minutes, which is far too little time to accomplish those tasks and Tom Felton is given nothing of substance. The setting is a futuristic society where genetically enhanced humans enjoy the best life has to offer, leaving everyone else broke and miserable. In other words, it’s an Elysium ripoff. Wheelchair-bound scientist Leon (Tom Felton) and his young cohort Chloe (Elizaveta Bugulova) have a plan to even out the playing field. I’m not sure I can accurately describe the jumbled plot, but it entails stealing a McGuffin with magical properties, a crooked politician, and a special “flower power” suit that allows Leon to walk and shoot out darts, gasses, etc. A major issue with the movie is that it randomly throws in a new element every few minutes. This leaves viewers scrambling to make sense of how those elements fit into the ones already introduced. World-building requires a vision. It depends on logic that the audience can follow. Altered has none of that. The individual pieces do not fit together with anything remotely resembling coherence. Scene after scene feels arbitrary, as though Vuorensola had a list of stuff he wanted to include yet didn’t know how to assemble the items on that list. Suspense is therefore nullified, so there’s nothing left to do except stare at the screen in pure disbelief. The production values are surprisingly decent, with elaborate sets and a flurry (i.e. an overload) of CGI effects. Visual flourishes cannot elevate the shoddy acting that further drags the film down. Felton doesn’t have the gravitas to make his part work. Not for a second is he believable in the role. Bugulova is even worse. The Russian actress appears to have learned all her dialogue phonetically, leading to line deliveries that are either absurdly over-the-top or inappropriate to the tone of the scene. Aside from the plot being impossible to follow, "Altered" suffers from gaps in logic big enough to drive a tank through. For example, if Leon and Chloe are poor, how are they able to afford a huge warehouse filled with high-tech computer equipment? Don’t expect answers to that or any of the myriad other questions raised by this ineptly-made movie. A few instances of unintentional hilarity aren’t enough to compensate for the overwhelming tedium.
"Blue Eyed Girl" is a solid comedy that bends itself around a contrived and hollow romcom plot that, in turn, leaves the rest of its material underserved but is elevated by really good performances from the ensemble. When you think of a coming-of-age film, you probably picture a journey that teens or young’uns go through, dealing with the ups and downs of growing up that lead to maturity. As a lifelong learner, I believe the term can also mean achieving personal and psychological growth or a ‘reset’ of expectations, which can happen at any stage in life. Written by Marisa Coughlan and directed by J. Mills Goodloe, Blue Eyed Girl tells a coming-of-age story aimed at those in their forties. The movie follows Jane, a married actress living in LA with two kids, who returns to Minnesota to care for her sick father (Beau Bridges). She’s compelled to reassess her life and ponder what might have been after bumping into her old flame Harrison (Sam Trammell). Coughlan uses her own life experiences to delve into that stage when we’re not quite old yet, but have moved past being young. She, too, is an actress who recently moved back to MN with her husband and four kids, so the story feels authentic and personal. When she arrives in MN, her sharp-tongued, witty older sister Alex (Eliza Coupe) picks her up and takes her to her house, well, more like a mansion, tucked away by the waterfront in an affluent town of Wayzata. Alex is on her third marriage, and her outfits are giving ‘rich mom energy’ though she has no kids. She quips that her current husband is extremely wealthy, but he’s nowhere to be found, and the house certainly doesn’t feel lived in. Meanwhile, the youngest sister, Cici (Bridey Elliott), is the reigning queen of a local Renaissance Festival, and she takes that role very seriously. Cici even shows up at the hospital to visit their dad dressed in her royal garb. I enjoy watching the sisterly connection that feels both genuine and funny. I don’t have a sister myself, but I can imagine that even the closest siblings don’t always see eye to eye, hence all the playful bickering. The film can sometimes come off as frivolous and even a bit goofy, especially during the chaotic ‘coronation’ scene where Cici refuses to relinquish her crown. However, some unexpectedly weighty moments pop up that put their relationship to the test. The bond between the father and daughter is sweet and touching; Jane is definitely her father’s daughter, and she shows him more affection than her two sisters do. One of the most surprisingly touching moments features Jane’s dad’s nurse, Calley (LisaGay Hamilton), who comes out of her shell as they find a connection while coping with a profound loss together. Now, with dramas like this, the plot can feel somewhat predictable. I could anticipate the plot’s direction before it unfolded, and the interactions between Coughlan and Trammell didn’t quite have the spark to make the romantic moments more impactful. Part of the issue is that Harrison instantly comes off a bit arrogant and corny, which doesn’t really make you want to cheer for their reunion. In contrast, Freddy Rodriguez, who plays Jane’s husband Cal, is instantly charming, and there’s a natural, friendly chemistry between them. Coughlan really stands out as the lead; she’s charismatic and relatable, managing to express Jane’s inner struggles while remaining composed and pleasant. The story hints at spirituality, as Jane finds an open Bible on her dad’s side table, alas, it never explicitly addresses the character’s faith. Filmed in the Twin Cities, "Blue Eyed Girl" is clearly a love letter to the place Marisa calls home. The autumn landscape is gorgeous, with DP Andrew Russo showcasing the beautiful fall season in Minnesota. It’s also fun seeing familiar faces in bit parts and cameo roles, Bill Cooper. The film maintains a good pace and doesn’t drag on. "Blue Eyed Girl" is a delightful dramedy that explores themes of marriage, midlife issues, pursuing one’s dreams, and ultimately, it’s about coming to terms with your true self versus the person you envisioned becoming.
"Sisu: Road to Revenge" is a sequel that offers a ludicrous and fun take on the same fantastic action-forward story as the original, resulting in a sublime outcome of intensity to the maximum. Like the first movie, director Jalmari Helander opts for a pure by-the-numbers action scenario reminiscent of spaghetti western-style pacing and Tarantino-esque sudden bloody action with loads of gore and little dialogue with a brilliant lead performance from Jorma Tommila and an astonishing new villain performance from Stephen Lang. Sometimes all you want from a movie is pure, unapologetic carnage, and Sisu: Road to Revenge delivers that in spades. Writer-director Jalmari Helander leans all the way into grindhouse spectacle, giving us a film that doesn’t care about logic or restraint. Instead, it thrives on blood, grit, and the joy of watching an unstoppable force tear through anyone foolish enough to stand in his way. It’s the kind of film where you find yourself grinning, cheering, and clapping at the sheer audacity of it all. After returning in 1946 to the Soviet-occupied Karelia, where his family was brutally murdered during World War II, Aatami Korpi (Jorma Tommila, of Sisu), “the man who refuses to die,” dismantles his old family home, loads it onto a truck, and sets out to rebuild it elsewhere in their honor. But when the Red Army learns of his return, Igor Draganov (Stephen Lang, of Avatar and Avatar: The Way of Water), the man responsible for his family’s slaughter, becomes obsessed with finishing what he started: killing the legendary ex-soldier by any means necessary. From its very first minutes, Sisu: Road to Revenge makes its intentions clear. A gravelly narration explains how the Soviet Union is swallowing Finland piece by piece, setting the stage for Korpi’s impossible mission: crossing enemy territory with nothing but his truck, his house’s remains, and his undying will to honor his family. Once Igor Draganov realizes Korpi is back on his soil, the movie shifts into a relentless chase, one that escalates with every set piece. Watching Sisu cut down Soviet soldiers is an absolute blast. The film throws realism out the window, but that’s the point: it’s designed to be outrageous. Whether Korpi is mowing down enemies, narrowly escaping death, or pulling off stunts that border on supernatural, it never feels like the movie is taking itself too seriously. Helander knows exactly what kind of film he’s making: one that embraces excess for the sake of fun. The pacing is one of the film’s biggest strengths. There’s no fat here; it moves like a bullet, never lingering too long on exposition or downtime. That momentum keeps the energy high and the audience fully locked in. Where the film stumbles, though, is with its villain. Stephen Lang is always magnetic to watch, but Igor Draganov doesn’t quite feel like the towering threat the movie needed. He’s certainly ruthless, after all, he murdered Sisu’s wife and children, but beyond that, the character feels more like a narrative necessity than a fully fleshed-out nemesis. A more menacing, cunning adversary could have elevated the stakes even higher. Still, when the movie leans into its strengths – over-the-top violence, darkly comic absurdity, and Tommila’s steely presence as Korpi – it’s impossible not to get swept up in the chaos. This isn’t a film asking to be dissected for deep themes or historical nuance. It’s a film that reminds you what movies can do when they stop worrying about rules and just have fun. "Sisu: Road to Revenge" is pure cinematic adrenaline, a film that embraces its outrageousness and delivers wall-to-wall entertainment. It’s not perfect, its villain is a little undercooked, but when the action is this relentless and this fun, it hardly matters. Sometimes, all you need is a man with nothing to lose and an army standing in his way.
"Sisu" is a brilliant hybrid action/war/revenge film that is sophisticated and astonishing executed. For a perfectly-pitched 90 minutes, it glories in the excesses of gore and violence with an exuberance rarely experienced this side of Quentin Tarantino.
"Rental Family" is a very cloying film that's practically poetic but very formulaic in its handling of its themes. It gets to the root of human emotions and how they’re affected by the world around us and the decisions made by others yet it's too sentimental in storytelling. Philip is an out-of-work American actor living in Japan, struggling to stay afloat. Years after a brush with fame from a single commercial, he drifts from one failed audition to the next. When his agent sends him on a last-minute job requiring him to wear a black suit and be the “sad American,” Philip eagerly accepts, only to discover that he has been hired to pose as a mourner at a funeral for a man who, unsettlingly, is still alive and lying in an open casket. That bizarre assignment becomes Philip’s entry point into a surreal and deeply human world: the Japanese “rental family” industry, where actors are paid to play stand-in roles for clients’ emotional and social needs. As Philip takes on these performances, he begins to form genuine connections that blur the boundary between role-playing and reality, forcing him to question where his character ends and his true self begins. The film unfolds across two central narrative threads. In the first, Philip is hired to impersonate the long-missing father of a young girl, Mia, whose mother hopes that the presence of a “father figure” will help her daughter gain admission to an elite preparatory school. From the outset, Aiko (Mari Yamamoto), a perceptive employee at the agency, warns that Philip lacks the experience to handle such a delicate role. Her skepticism proves both right and wrong as Philip becomes deeply entangled in the family’s emotional world. The second story finds Philip hired to pose as a journalist interviewing legendary filmmaker Kikuo Hasegawa (played with heartbreaking fragility by Akira Emoto), a revered director suffering from dementia. Here, Philip’s challenge shifts from pretending to connect to desperately trying to hold together the fragments of another man’s fading reality. Both stories reflect the same tension: the fragile dance between illusion and authenticity, empathy and exploitation. Writer-director Hikari uses these intertwined tales to explore the human need for connection and the creative, sometimes desperate, ways people seek it in societies where vulnerability remains taboo. In one of the film’s most striking moments, a sex worker tells Philip that they are in the same line of work: “I help people physically; you help them emotionally.” She is right, but unlike her, Philip has not yet learned how to separate his professional roles from his personal longing for belonging yet it feels too obvious so on-the-nose. At the film’s core the only impressive thing here is Brendan Fraser’s quietly devastating performance. Gone is the physical transformation of "The Whale." Instead, Fraser delivers an internal one that is gentle, soulful, and unadorned. His large frame conveys awkward tenderness, while his expressive eyes communicate everything his character cannot say aloud. It is a portrayal of innocence, empathy, and quiet yearning that grounds the film’s surreal premise in aching humanity. He leans into his sweet likable persona and is the movie’s best asset. Hikari is a great filmmaker that made a great film in 2019 "37 Seconds" that was much better written with characters that are more developed and delves deep into their issues but here she resists the temptation to condemn the “rental family” industry, which in reality includes more than 300 agencies across Japan and continues to grow globally. Instead, she offers a compassionate, open-eyed exploration of it. Her message is clear: even relationships born from artificial circumstances can reveal real human truths. Sometimes, family can be the people we find along the way. Ugh! Sorry but that's super manipulative and not always true. "Rental Family" attempts to be a moving, tenderly observed film that is equal parts social commentary and emotional odyssey but it can't escape its overly sentimental tones with characters that have no depth to them. It does however reminds us that the need for connection, no matter how it begins, is what ultimately makes us human but it’s not deep or dark enough to generate the desired effect.
"Wicked: For Good" is a less exciting continuation where the darker tone and unhurried pacing sometimes get in the way, but this epic conclusion with emotional performances by Cynthia Erivo and Ariana Grande ultimately brings Elphaba and Glinda's story home in a rousing fashion. The story of Elphaba, the Wicked Witch of the West, Glinda, the Good Witch of the North, and the Wizard of Oz finally reaches its show-stopping conclusion in Wicked: For Good. Elphaba, now feared across Oz as the Wicked Witch, is being hunted by Fiyero, newly appointed by the Wizard as captain of the Ozian Guard. Both Fiyero and Glinda know the truth: Elphaba is nothing like the villain the Wizard has made her out to be. Yet they have no idea how to find her, much less help her stand up to the regime manipulating all of Oz. Meanwhile, the Wizard and Madame Morrible have already set their newest scheme in motion, determined to stop the “Wicked Witch” and protect their own secret agenda. As the second installment in the Wicked film franchise, For Good adheres closely to the second act of the stage production. While some scenes are expanded and a few minor plot elements reshaped, the heart of the story remains intact. Typically, fidelity to the source material would be an asset, especially for continuity, but here it creates a significant challenge. Most fans agree that “Defying Gravity” is the musical’s defining showstopper, closing the first act with unmatched power. The second act is more subdued, leaning into narrative and character development rather than bombastic musical spectacle. The film mirrors this structure. Although Grande’s Glinda and Erivo’s Elphaba deliver “For Good” with emotional weight, the number lacks the cinematic impact of “Defying Gravity.” In truth, none of the songs in the sequel manage to reach the musical heights of those in the first film. This creates a real problem for a movie musical, especially for viewers unfamiliar with the stage version. Even longtime fans may enter with renewed optimism, encouraged by the film’s significantly extended runtime. For Good is shorter than the first film but still nearly twice as long as the second act of the stage production. Surely, one might think, the expanded format allows room for new material or a musical moment capable of standing beside the original film’s highlights. Unfortunately, that hope goes unfulfilled. The stage musical had some inherent issues with the tonal shifts that in it's adaptation to the big screen you had the opportunity to smooth those out, work on them and write new material to make them feel like they're more earned so it's translated better to the screen and instead they just did a straight adaptation maybe because they were afraid of alienating the fans of the original musical which I can understand and I respect because they're trying to retain every moment people remember from the stage show and they love about the stage show, but by doing so, the movie unfortunately transfers all the problems of the stage show. The supporting cast while doing their best doesn't help. Michelle Yeoh is still not a very good singer and very miscast in this role of Madame Morrible and obviously it's understandable why she was cast in this movie because of her work with Jon M. Chu on "Crazy Rich Asians" but the role really should've been cast with an actress that has song and dance experience. Jeff Goldblum is still great as The Wizard of Oz but the characters of Jonathan Bailey as Fiyero Tigelaar, Marissa Bode as Nessarose Thropp and Ethan Slater as Boq Woodsman are very underutilized and their character arcs don't get enough screentime as the first. The cinematography from Alice Brooks still doesn't look good and it's lit pretty poorly but the craft of costumes from Paul Tazwell and production design of Nathan Crowley who won Oscars last year for their work is still pretty impeccable particularly the makeup work on the Scarecrow and the Tin Man. The saving grace of the film lies in the strength of its leading performances. For the first time, Ariana Grande fully embodies her own interpretation of Glinda rather than echoing Kristin Chenoweth’s iconic portrayal. Cynthia Erivo, as expected, dazzles, offering a rich and grounded performance of Elphaba that may even surpass Idina Menzel’s beloved work. There is a moment where when they sing 'For Good' together and say their final goodbyes it's very emotional that it almost makes up for misgivings that precede it. "Wicked: For Good" is a solidly entertaining film. Yet it suffers from pacing issues and unavoidable musical shortcomings. The result is a movie that is somehow both perfectly fine and deeply satisfying conclusion by the end but you're not left with the same feeling. It is a shame the film did not garner awards attention last year, because it is unlikely to change its fortunes this time around.
"Champagne Problems" is a cheap holiday movie where gimmicks are unfunny, the romance inoffensive, the happy-ever-after straightforward. For all its waxing poetic on the specific luxury of champagne, no one is pretending this is anything other than a mass market item; the things to hate are also the things to like.
“Selena y Los Dinos” is a comprehensive and illuminating documentary that encapsulates why so many fans still love Selena and her music after all these years. Isabel Castro gives us personal look at the singer through an enormous amount of unseen archive footage from this family that’s navigating the music business from the late 70s to the mid 90s. We've all seen the 1997 biopic Selena starring Jennifer Lopez, as well as Selena’s groundbreaking English-language hit "I Could Fall in Love," this documentary was a must-see. What sets Selena y Los Dinos apart from previous portrayals—like the JLo film or the 2020 Netflix series Selena: The Series—is its raw intimacy, told entirely through archival footage of Selena herself. This isn’t just a retelling; it’s a time capsule of her life, a visceral journey that feels more authentic and unfiltered and more informative than anything we’ve seen before. The film’s backbone is the treasure trove of previously unseen footage, painstakingly gathered from the Quintanilla family and preserved over decades. Without this archival goldmine, a documentary of this caliber wouldn’t have been possible. Director Isabel Castro—who previously helmed the acclaimed documentary Mija—masterfully intersperses this footage with heartfelt interviews from Selena’s family, including her siblings Suzette Quintanilla (drummer and executive producer) and A.B. Quintanilla III (bassist, songwriter, and executive producer), as well as musicians, songwriters, and producers from Selena’s inner circle. The result is a tribute that feels like a collective memory, pulling viewers into Selena’s world alongside those who knew and loved her best. The documentary opens with a breathtaking sequence from one of Selena’s most iconic performances: her February 26, 1995, concert at the Houston Astrodome, attended by over 60,000 fans. Dressed in her dazzling purple jumpsuit—glittering with embellishments and paired with matching bell-bottoms—she commands the stage while singing "Como La Flor." The energy is electric, the love from the crowd mesmerizing. Tragically, this concert occurred just over a month before her untimely death on March 31, 1995, making the moment bittersweet. It’s a powerful opening that immediately establishes Selena’s star power and sets the tone for the celebration of her life that follows. Her family revealed how they scoured family archives—home videos, concert tapes, and candid moments captured by relatives—to unearth footage never before seen by the public. These grainy, homemade clips lend the documentary a warm, nostalgic aesthetic, painting an intimate portrait of Selena’s life. We see her evolution from a young girl singing at her first gigs to a Tejano superstar commanding massive stages. The title Selena y Los Dinos nods to the band’s origins with Abraham Quintanilla Jr., who founded Los Dinos in the 1950s as his own musical venture. When he discovered Selena’s extraordinary vocal talent as a child, he reshaped the band around her, teaching Suzette to play drums and A.B. to master the bass while he handled guitar. The siblings’ childhoods were far from typical—rehearsals and performances left little room for school or friends—but Selena embraced it. In one interview clip, she reflects that the rigorous schedule kept her focused and out of trouble, and she cherished the time spent with her family. Castro the director wisely avoids dwelling on Selena’s murder by Yolanda Saldívar, her fan club president and eventual killer. Saldívar’s name is mentioned briefly, but the focus remains squarely on Selena’s life, not her death. One of the documentary’s most influential moments comes from an old interview where Selena is asked how long she things fans will listen to her music. With a bright smile, she replies, “Well, eventually we all die, but it’s however long the fans will have me.” The documentary’s strength lies in its authenticity and emotional resonance. The mix of live performances—like her early gigs at local fairs and her triumphant Astrodome show—with behind-the-scenes glimpses of Selena laughing with her family or rehearsing with Los Dinos creates a full, vibrant picture. Contributions from collaborators like Pete Astudillo (a backup singer and co-writer) and Chris Pérez (her husband and Los Dinos guitarist) could have been expanded upon, as their perspectives add depth to her story. Still, the film succeeds in capturing Selena’s essence: her warmth, her determination, and her unshakable connection to her roots. "Selena y Los Dinos" is a love letter to a legend, crafted with care by a director who understands her impact and a family determined to honor her memory. It’s a must-watch for fans and newcomers alike, offering a fresh, unvarnished look at a woman whose light still burns bright. As the credits rolled and the audience wiped away tears, it was clear: Selena’s journey may have ended too soon, but her spirit—and her music—will live on forever.
"Put Your Soul on Your Hand and Walk" is a powerful, gripping and illuminating documentary about Fatma Hassouna, a 24-year-old Palestinian who lived in war torn Gaza before dying from an Israeli airstrike in April 2025. Director Sepideh Farsi communicates with her through FaceTime and WhatsApp starting in April 2024 while calling her periodically to check in on her and to let her talk about and show the horrors of the war in Gaza. There are bombings every day and food shortages, but Fatma remains hopeful that the war will end soon. Sepideh isn't so optimistic, though. Most of the questions that she asks her are fine, but there's one that could've been omitted because it has an obvious answer: to compare her experiences in quarantine during the pandemic to her experiences trapped in Gaza during the war. Besides the occasional jump to news footage documenting the Israel-Hamas war, what makes the doc so harrowing is how Farsi’s conversations with Fatma highlight the immense psychological toll on people like her and her family as they’re forced to endure famine and destruction. Fatma would always put on a persevering smile during her video chats in the face of never-ending peril. A smile that provides small instances of levity within such a heavy documentation. Yet, at one point, Fatma says how just the sound of airplanes whirling in the sky exacerbates her depression. It's not surprising that she had internet access before and was happier. That said, Fatma does manage to briefly discuss her battles with depression, so this documentary serves as a very intimate diary as well as an alarming, emotionally devastating human rights exposé. The fact that Fatma Hassona never got to see the final film which made its world premiere at the Cannes Film Festival a month after her tragic demise is bound to make viewers more saddened and enraged. But through the film, Sepideh Farsi still keeps her memory alive. "Put Your Soul on Your Hand and Walk" is not just one of the year’s best movies, but one of its most essential ones.
"Come See Me in the Good Light" is a ****, yet lovely portrait of blinding, beautiful, reckless **** love; of time passing and slipping away, captured in small moments to be held and cherished like wildflowers plucked from the earth. In 2021, poet Andrea Gibson was diagnosed with an aggressive form of ovarian cancer that ultimately led to their death in July of this year. Before their death, director Ryan White chronicled Gibson's struggle with cancer as well as their marriage to fellow writer, Megan Falley, in Come See Me in the Good Light, a moving and deeply incisive portrait resilience and human connection in the face of death that takes a warts and all approach to the painful realities of living with cancer. I kept finding myself thinking of the line from Angels in America in which a dying man admonishes the Heavenly Council that "I want more life," despite the constant struggle and pain that accompanies in. Here we see a poet facing death, craving more life yet appreciating every lovely, painful, fleeting moment. By allowing Gibson's words to take center stage, White isn't so much documenting an artist's last show and final days, it feels as though new life is being breathed into them; a poem come to life, a ray of light in death's shadow. It is at once a tribute to Gibson as an artist, and also an appropriate effect for a film about the beauty in every second of life. The pace and cinematography beautifully match the poetic nature of its participants, and the documentary will have you in tears for happy and heartbreaking moments throughout. This doesn't feel like a paint-by-numbers life-of-the-artist documentary, it feels like a work of art all its own, at once an extension and an exploration of Gibson's art. Fans of the poet will likely find a lot to love here, but even for the uninitiated. "Come See Me in the Good Light" feels like something to be cherished, a work of gossamer beauty that reinforces the power of its poet's words.
"Sirât" is a vivid meditation on human possibility in the face of fate and nature’s tumultuous might, ending in a fog of ambiguity that mirrors that characters’ bewilderment. Oliver Laxe maintains rising tension throughout, although to frustratingly inconclusve effect and somewhat at the cost of conventional dramatic satisfactions, but the boldness of the undertaking will appeal mightily to cinephiles hungry for movies that take real risks.
"In Your Dreams" is a wildly imaginative movie that makes excellent use of its animated landscape to show the many ways in which humor ties into how we imagine things while we’re sleeping. It delivers a heartfelt and visually rich adventure that mixes big laughs with real emotional weight. Netflix’s animation looks theatrical, the sibling relationship carries the heart of the story. Faced with the loss of their family as they know it, Stevie and her little brother Elliot journey into the wildly absurd landscape of their dreams to save it. Stevie has always been the fixer in her family, especially after her mischievous younger brother Elliot came along. But this time, Stevie finds herself at a loss. Her parents seem to be drifting apart, and for once, she doesn’t know how to make things right. One afternoon, while wandering through a bookstore, Stevie and Elliot stumble upon an ancient, mysterious book that promises its reader a granted wish from The Sandman. It sounds like pure fantasy until the siblings experience a shared, vividly lucid dream. Convinced this may be their one chance to mend their family, Stevie persuades Elliot to journey through their dreams in search of The Sandman. The screenplay for In Your Dreams is written by Erik Benson and Alexander Woo, based on a story by Woo and Stanley Moore. The film features the voice talents of Jolie Hoang-Rappaport, Elias Janssen, Simu Liu, Cristin Milioti, and Craig Robinson, and is directed by Benson and Woo. Following the success of K-Pop Demon Hunters, Netflix continues to establish itself as a powerhouse in animated storytelling. In Your Dreams is their highly anticipated follow-up, and the streamer reportedly plans to submit both films for Oscar consideration. This one might just have what it takes. The screenplay strikes a delicate balance: silly and spirited enough for younger audiences, yet smart, relevant, and emotionally grounded for teens and adults alike. Its core theme centers on the strength and protection of family. Though Stevie and Elliot couldn’t be more different and often get on each other’s nerves, they discover that being siblings comes with unexpected rewards. Faced with a greater threat, the two form an uneasy alliance that deepens their bond. Where Demon Hunters delivered an electrifying original soundtrack, In Your Dreams energizes its world with clever revivals of classics like The Eurythmics’ “Sweet Dreams” and Metallica’s “Enter Sandman,” the latter reimagined in a new cover by Weezer. While these tracks predate the film’s target audience, they’re irresistibly catchy, fueling the movie with momentum, energy, and danceable fun. The film’s animation dazzles with vivid color and clarity, even as Stevie and Elliot slip between the waking world and the dreamscape. The subtle blending of reality and fantasy keeps viewers guessing what’s real and what’s imagined. One standout sequence shifts into an ultra-cool, stylistic homage to one of the year’s most popular animation trends, a visual treat that elevates the film’s already dynamic energy. "In Your Dreams" is a slick and smart movie destined to become an adventure of a nighttime. It’s a crowd-pleasing, family-friendly delight.
"Arco" is a sweet, immersive glimpse at two of our futures, and it’s clear-eyed about which aspects of those worlds we want to avoid, and which ones we have to pursue. It opens like a fairy tale from the future, but what makes it interesting isn’t the time travel or the shiny world our protagonist comes from. It’s the fact that the movie keeps drifting back toward something small and personal. A kid who wants attention. A girl who wants someone to actually show up for her. A robot who’s probably the only real adult in the room. It’s a strange mix, but it works more often than not. Arco lives in the year 2932, way up in these giant “tree cities” that look like they grew straight out of a sci-fi art book. Everything is hand-drawn in this soft 2D style that feels warm, almost analogue. Instead of the usual glossy CG future, this one’s full of curves and bright colors and small details you can actually stare at. Even the hovercars feel calm. And then you’ve got the rainbow time-travel suits and capes fluttering behind them like it’s nothing. But Arco’s family treats time travel like weekend errands, and he’s the only one stuck watching them leave. He’s ten, over-eager, and very sure he knows what he’s doing, which is exactly why he doesn’t. He steals his sister’s suit, jumps into a time warp, and gets slingshot not into prehistoric times or some lost civilization, but into 2075. Which, for him, might as well be the apocalypse. That year is where Iris lives. She’s not miserable, but she’s on her own more than a kid her age should be. Her parents show up through holograms, always busy, always rushing off. So when she sees this rainbow slashing across the sky and finds a boy in a strange suit at the end of it, she doesn’t question it too much. She just decides to help him. Kids do that, they take in strays without thinking about the paperwork. Iris has a robot guardian, Mikki, who looks like he was designed to scare people away, but ends up being the sweetest character in the whole movie. He cares for Iris and her baby brother with this patient, almost weary gentleness. He’s the emotional anchor, honestly. Every time he’s on screen, you feel like things will be okay, at least for a minute. The middle part of the movie, showing Arco healing, Iris teaching him how things work, both of them wandering around a world that’s starting to fall apart, is where the film is at its best. The score helps a lot here. It’s quiet, almost melancholy, and it wraps around the animation in a way that feels natural, like it grew from the drawings themselves. There’s a stretch where Iris and Arco just exist together, figuring each other out, and the film lets those moments breathe. No rushing, no big musical “this is important!” cues. Just two kids trying to make sense of the messes adults have made, both in the future and in the present. But the script never quite knows what to do with all its ideas. You can see the filmmakers reaching for something bigger–climate anxiety, loneliness, responsibility–but the story keeps jumping away before those threads settle. And then you have the three brothers who act as the villains. They’re more nuisances than threats. Their scenes feel like they come from a different movie, like someone decided the story needed comic relief even though the core relationship was strong enough on its own. They’re not awful, just… thin. When the movie shifts back to Iris, Arco, and Mikki, you can feel the gears clicking into place again. The last act folds in the climate disasters that have been rumbling in the background, storms ripping through neighborhoods, the feeling that things are breaking faster than people can fix them. Instead of pulling off a big, satisfying climax, the movie leans into a messier, quieter ending. It’s not a neat resolution, and it’s not really happy either, but it’s honest. It leaves you with that strange mix of sadness and hope that kids’ movies usually try to sand down. This one doesn’t. It trusts you to sit with it. "Arco" isn’t perfect, some emotions could’ve been pushed further and some characters filled in more. But the world is so lovingly drawn, and the relationship at the center is so genuine, that the film sticks with you anyway. It’s beautiful without being sugary, earnest without being corny. Even with the rough spots, it has a pulse. You can feel the people behind it.
"A Very Jonas Christmas Movie" is a surprisingly fun Christmas musical that feels like a comeback to where the Jonas Brothers started and a welcome new addition to the holiday catalog.
"Murder at the Embassy" plods through its lukewarm revelations. The central mystery has neither legs nor an interesting follow-through, and its low-key nature suffers from slow pacing.
"King Ivory" is overlong and underdeveloped film aiming to be a blistering examination of America’s unwinnable War on Drugs but it's high-octane intense without being insightful.
"Trap House" is a fun enough time worth watching, but it traps its star and doesn't let him out. Amazingly, very little of this film is played for laughs, except of the unintentional variety.
"Bull Run" is so devoid of substance that much of it is taped together with ironic usage of stock photos and archival footage, as if to constantly point at the vapidity of its own enterprise.
"The Carpenter’s Son" is a Biblical horror movie with interesting ideas but they just don’t seem interesting because the perspective is ****, which nullifies the film’s ability to trouble our hearts.
"Keeper" is a weak horror thriller that certainly has the Oz Perkins style and plenty of genuine chills, but the journey is more satisfying than the destination.
