Recapturing the magic of the original Naked Gun trilogy would be nearly impossible in 2025. But somehow, the creative team behind The Naked Gun comes extremely close.

Replacing the great Leslie Nielsen was the biggest challenge to continuing the series. Nielsen’s pitch-perfect deadpan delivery played the films completely straight without a tongue-in-cheek moment or a self-aware wink at the camera. Nielsen’s dry-as-a-bone style (“saying unfunny things in an unfunny way,” as he once put it) is the glue that holds the original trilogy together. If Nielsen ever broke character to let the audience in on the joke, the whole conceit of the film’s sense of humor would break down.

The original trilogy (The Naked Gun: From the Files of Police Squad!, The Naked Gun 2 and 1/2: The Smell of Fear, and The Naked Gun 33 and 1/3: The Final Insult) maintained a consistent quality thanks to Nielsen’s performance. ABC famously cancelled the television show that would becoming the movies, Police Squad!, after just six episodes because its humor was too intricate and clever for an easily distracted television audience. (One network executive infamously remarked that the show was being cancelled because “the viewer had to watch it in order to appreciate it.”)

It helped that Nielsen started his career as a serious actor who starred in science fiction classics like 1950’s Forbidden Planet, only making his transition to comedies decades into his career. So it’s only fitting that 2025’s The Naked Gun casts one of the great serious actors of our age — Liam Neeson — in the role of Frank Drebin, Jr.

The Naked Gun’s humor doesn’t quite operate on the same intricate level. There are lots of broad and juvenile jokes that will appeal to audiences of all ages. But the film’s unapologetic, unironic embrace of silliness is what makes it work, and what sets it apart from so many other major blockbusters.

Indeed, the sheer quantity of jokes is what makes The Naked Gun work so well. Director Akiva Schaffer packs an astonishing number of gags and jokes into the 85 minute running time. If a joke doesn’t land for you, don’t worry about it! There’ll be another one in about 15 seconds.

You may roll your eyes at the film’s repeated use of scatological jokes, but if you do, you’ll miss a more subtle background gag about taking the term “cold cases” literally. From voice-over jokes that pay tribute to the original’s dry wit1 to an absurdist homage midway through the film to Jack Frost, the relentless pace of jokes does wear a bit tired by the end of the film. But the 85-minute runtime reflects the fact that Schaffer edited the film to within a moment of its life, leaving absolutely no room for fluff.

The jokes range from chuckle-worthy to sidesplittingly hilarious. The sequences set in the police station are an absolute delight: the movie is moving a mile a minute as characters deliver exposition while presenting a panoply of visual jokes in the background.

It also helps that the entire cast is acting at the height of their dramatic powers. Neeson —who has had a career renaissance as a deadly serious old man action star — is an ideal spiritual successor to Nielsen, as he is completely committed to playing all of his lines as seriously as possible. Danny Huston is pitch-perfect as the antagonist, despite the fact that the film riffs a little too heavily on major plot elements of Kingsman: The Golden Circle. And Pamela Anderson is a surprising revelation as the all-important female lead, continuing another promising late career renaissance.2 She matches Neeson’s performance perfectly.

There was also an unbridled joy to seeing the movie with a guffawing crowd. The death of the theatrical comedy has been one of the worst developments of the streaming era. The Naked Gun follows in the footsteps of 2023’s criminally underrated No Hard Feelings, which failed to make much of an impact at the box office. And the dearth of theatrical comedies in the interim suggests that the exodus of comedic stars to streaming services has had the effect of sapping audience interest in big screen comedies.

That’s why it’s important to see The Naked Gun in a theater with the biggest crowd possible. Sharing multiple laughs with an audience heightens the enjoyment of the film, and goes to show that theaters don’t need Avengers: Endgame-level events to get reactions out of audiences. A solid opening weekend suggests that there’s still some audience appetite for the big-screen comedy. Let’s hope that more comedies follow The Naked Gun’s lead by putting stars front and center, creating a clear tone, and embracing the magic of movie theaters.

It is no secret that the Fantastic Four, often called Marvel’s “first family,” have had a rough go when it comes to the big screen. Prior to First Steps, the best adaptations were director Tim Story’s Fantastic Four (2005) and Fantastic Four: Rise of the Silver Surfer (2007) — and that’s not saying much. This duology is far from the worst of Marvel’s disjointed early 2000s films, but some casting choices, flat humor, and a misguided take on Doctor Doom left us with a couple of unremarkable films that reek of the decade in which they were made. And the less said about 2015’s practically unwatchable Fant4stic, the better. With such a disastrous run, I’ve been eagerly awaiting the introduction of Marvel’s First Family into the Cinematic Universe for quite some time.

Since the release of Avengers: Endgame in 2019, Marvel’s luster has dimmed. The end of its historic Infinity Saga marked the beginning of the (near) disastrous Multiverse Saga, in which box office returns plummeted and critical reception cooled. Although commercially successful, not even the introduction of Fox-owned characters like Deadpool could turn the tide of the scattershot saga. I have my criticisms of the franchise and of some of the creative choices made in recent years, but, to be honest, I have never wavered in my excitement to see the Fantastic Four brought to life in a film worthy of those iconic characters. Kevin Feige and company can drop the ball as many times as they want, but if they get those characters right, I’ll be happy.

Friends, they cracked the code.

First Steps is a film that functions primarily to introduce a definitive version of Reed Richards, Sue Storm, Ben Grimm, and Johnny Storm to the MCU, and reintroduce them to an audience who mostly knows their deal. Many superhero movies, especially reboots, are opting to skip the origin story, or at least pare it down in favor of diving into the plot, but First Steps opens with an in-universe recap of the team’s fateful space expedition that leaves them forever changed, via an ABC Television special. It’s brief, but effective in reminding us what these characters can do and where they stand in their world —a visually rich Earth-828, set in a retro-futuristic 1964 New York City. We meet the team four years into their tenure, and are shown how they have become beloved heroes across the globe. Director Matt Shakman (WandaVision), confidently helms this film, allowing it to dance between interpersonal drama, sci-fi action, and tender family moments. I greatly appreciated Shakman’s willingness to let the movie lean on scenes where the Four talk, eat, argue, or put their heads together to solve a problem, rather than relying on a string of massive fights to move the plot along.

Visually, this is the prettiest film in Marvel Studios’ catalogue. The production design is outstanding and so fitting of the spirit of Jack Kirby’s(no relation to Vanessa, who plays Sue Storm) art and the 1960s origins of the Fantastic Four. The team’s costumes are solid, and I really enjoyed how each one has a distinct style rather than a uniform look. In keeping with most films in the Multiverse Saga, I felt that the CGI was generally below par, especially in scenes that featured Franklin Richards, Reed and Sue’s son, and some of the scenes where Reed stretches looked noticeably fake to me. That said, the depiction of Galactus is a major win here. Ralph Ineson’s (The Witch, The Green Knight) booming voice is perfectly suited to the cosmic giant, and his comic-accurate look was magnificent to behold on a big screen. I was initially skeptical when it was announced that Galactus would be the primary antagonist, but there is no denying that Shakman and co. have done justice to the space god. Now, let’s talk about the most important aspect of any superhero film: casting.

I’ve been a Marvel fan since I was about 3 or 4 years old, and have loved the Fantastic Four in particular for most of my life. Naturally, I was always going to be impossible to please, and while I respect some of the actors in previous iterations’ casts, I was never sold on those casts. The announcement of Pedro Pascal as Reed Richards/Mister Fantastic, Vanessa Kirby as Sue Storm/Invisible Woman, Ebon Moss-Bachrach as Ben Grimm/The Thing, and Joseph Quinn as Johnny Storm/Human Torch was a welcome one indeed. This is a troupe of generally well-regarded actors, and Pascal’s star power in particular was surely needed to convince detractors that these characters were worth giving another chance.

While none of them would have been my personal choices, the four actors in question all do a fantastic (I promise I won’t do that again) job in this movie. Credit is also due to the writing, which not only adequately depicts the obvious traits of each member, but gives us a strong understanding of their humanity: Reed’s insecurity about his obsessive quest to solve every problem, Sue’s grit and tremendous power, Ben’s passion for life in spite of his physical setback, and Johnny’s often-overlooked intelligence. Not only does each actor understand how to play each character, but they also play off each other in a way that makes them a believable family unit with the dynamics of a spouse, sibling, or close friend. I was particularly struck by Reed and Sue adjusting to parenthood, as I myself welcomed a son last year, and I identify with Reed the most. There is one scene in particular, where Reed and Sue argue about something I won't spoil pertaining to Franklin, that hit home for me in a big way. I think Pascal and Kirby give a stellar portrayal of this couple as equals, and I’d argue that even though this is an ensemble film, Sue is its heart. In that spirit, Kirby really shines here, though she will need to refine her American accent slightly next time.

In addition to Ineson, the supporting cast features Julia Garner as Shalla-Bal/Silver Surfer, Galactus’s cold, calculating herald, and Paul Walter Hauser as Mole Man, a former adversary of the Four who has since reformed. Both actors do a fine job. Aside from Kirby, my favorite performance was easily from Herbie the Robot, who played Herbie, the Fantastic Four’s helper robot, and I want one of my own immediately. In all seriousness, Herbie is great in the comics and was a welcome addition to the movie, which added an extra smile to each scene he featured in.

The overall tone of the film ranges from silly to somber in a way that feels appropriate. The Fantastic Four feature in some dark comic book storylines and events, but their own adventures are typically lighthearted in tone but epic in scale. I think Shakman’s film perfectly captures the essence of this wonderful family, and while I think this cast has their work cut out for them going forward, they have earned the esteemed honor of being the definitive live-action Fantastic Four.

We have officially entered the final phase of the Multiverse Saga. Sighs of relief all around, am I right? Just kidding. You know there’s at least another 10 years of this nonsense to come, and with the X-Men taking center stage after 2027’s Avengers: Secret Wars, I’m as excited as ever for yet another helping of superhero movies. I look forward to enriching your lives with my very correct opinions on next year’s MCU movies, Spider-Man: Brand New Day and Avengers: Doomsday, where the Fantastic Four will next be seen.

Until then, thank you for reading, and now go read a comic book!

The Snyderverse is dead. Long live the DC Universe. The road to get to these words is a long and bizarre one. To kick things off, I’d like to provide a primer that summarizes the events that have led us to this point for those who might be out of the loop or confused about why there’s a new guy wearing the red cape.

In 2010, Warner Bros. hired filmmaker Zack Snyder, of 300 and Watchmen fame, to helm their upcoming Superman reboot following the conclusion of Christopher Nolan’s The Dark Knight trilogy. This Superman origin film would be the first in a series that would culminate in an Avengers-style “Justice League” team-up movie, and continue henceforth, ideally mirroring the success of the juggernaut that was the Marvel Cinematic Universe.

Despite its divisive reception, 2013’s Man of Steel, starring Henry Cavill, ultimately paved the way for a shared universe of DC films, colloquially known as the DC Extended Universe (DCEU). Still, a lack of a cohesive structure, drastic reshoots, and underwhelming box office and critical performance ultimately doomed WB’s answer to the MCU.

With this knowledge, welcome to the new age of DC Comics on film. Enter: James Gunn’s Superman. As a comic book/superhero nerd who appreciated some of what the DCEU did, but was mixed on the pulpy action and humor of Gunn’s Guardians of the Galaxy trilogy, I was hesitant to join the movie’s hype. With the film’s announcement, I was skeptical of the idea of a lighter tone for DC adaptations that would potentially pander to the MCU audience, despite that franchise starting to decline. Needless to say, I was exhausted by years of constant DCEU controversy and WB’s poor management and longed for a reboot. Once it was announced that Rachel Brosnahan (The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel, The Amateur) had been cast as Lois Lane and Nicholas Hoult (Juror No. 2, Nosferatu) had signed on to play Lex Luthor, however, the light began to appear to me.

Those casting choices, along with the then-unfamiliar David Corenswet as Clark Kent/Superman, convinced me that this new outing had potential. Brosnahan is an adaptable actor with great comedic ability, which suits Lois Lane perfectly, since her wit is just as important as her grit. Lex Luthor, being a slimy, cruel, rich bully, was a departure for Hoult, but he has a career going back to his adolescence (see 2002’s About a Boy) that showcases his range. These crucial decisions make all the difference, especially in a film based on characters with storied histories and strong visual identities.

Superman opens with a brief text summary of the world state, giving the audience the rundown on why we’re about to see our hero crash into the snow and call his unruly dog, Krypto, for help. This immediate choice to tell rather than show makes a strong impact when people are so familiar with the concept, and from there, a consistently entertaining and heartfelt film follows.

Taking heavy thematic inspiration from the beloved Christopher Reeve Superman films of the 1970s, and light narrative inspiration from Snyder’s work, Gunn creates an all-encompassing, familiar but fresh Superman that feels like the formula has been perfected. Corenswet is undeniably charming in this role, not only being a physical match for the character, but embodying the sweetness and resolve that defines Clark Kent/Superman. Pair that with his exceptional chemistry with Brosnahan and you have a Clark and Lois for the ages based on acting alone.

We learn that Lois and Clark have only been dating for three months, and in one of the film’s best scenes, Clark allows Lois to interview him as Superman. It’s the kind of scene that actors live for, and Corenswet and Brosnahan are at their absolute best under the emotional strain of this tense clash of business and personal. I greatly appreciated Gunn’s interest in allowing Superman to be frustrated with both the world and himself, which calls back to Henry Cavill’s take on the character in the Snyder films, but Gunn also makes him wholesome, which harkens back to Christopher Reeve tremendously. This balancing act is reminiscent of the Superman from DC’s early 2000s animated series’ Justice League and Justice League Unlimited, and as someone who has always held a deep reverence for those works, I was absolutely thrilled to see it play out in live action.

The plot is less remarkable, but still completely serviceable. Gunn wrote the script in addition to directing, and I think his experience thus far lends to the quality of the pacing and the movie’s ability to juggle many elements. You will be pelted with CGI action sequences and copious destruction along the way, and if you haven’t already reconciled that that aspect of superhero films is here to stay, you might be a masochist. That isn’t to say the action isn’t exciting, as there are some solid anime-esque fights. On the other end, you have a compelling story about Clark’s struggle to come to terms with who he is vs who he needs to be, And while Man of Steel explores this quite well, and honestly, catches more flak than it deserves, I think it is more powerful in Superman, because we see it through the eyes of Clark Kent, the human instead of Kal El, the Kryptonian.

Musically, the soundtrack is typical James Gunn fare. Gunn is a self-proclaimed punk rock music nerd, and you will hear many, many songs in this movie, many of them likely unfamiliar to you. It’s one of those directors’ signatures that can work really well sometimes, and fall a bit flat other times. Take that as you will. John Murphy’s score calls back proudly to John Williams’ iconic theme from the Donner films, but I wasn’t amazed in all honesty. While the title track in particular is excellent, I think the score is eclipsed by Hans Zimmer and Junkie XL’s brilliant work for the DCEU, and I hope to see bolder choices made for future films.

In writing this review, it was difficult to avoid spoiling this movie’s “twist,” and I will keep my word and let you experience that for yourself. However, I want to note that the twist plays into the dominant theme of the movie, which is ultimately the importance of empathy. Clark’s mission in life, while centered around heroic feats and saving lives, is really about being kind to others, be they human, alien, superdog, or giant monster. This is a movie about the power of helping someone, simply because you can. It’s the character's greatest strength, but also the movie’s.

As I watched this movie, I sat in awe of one of my favorite characters brought to life yet again, not just because of the epic battles or the easter eggs, or the massive IMAX screen, but because I saw something real life rarely offers us. I saw a powerful person empathize with his enemies. I saw Superman save the world with kindness, in addition to his great strength. I saw Clark Kent fight evil, all in the name of doing the right thing. I think that now, possibly more than ever before in our lifetimes, this message of empathy is needed. I think that is why this movie has resonated so deeply with so many people. I did not expect to get misty-eyed during this movie, but I’m not ashamed to admit that I did once or twice.

It’s a silly and bombastic comic book romp, packed to the gills with characters and references. It’s messy sometimes, and triumphant most of the time. What this movie truly excels at, though, is showing us the impact of empathy. We get to see the kind actions of a nice person from a small town who isn’t always sure of himself, but is sure that he wants to do his part to make his world a place where people are free from fear and persecution and pain.

That’s who Superman is, after all. What more could I ask for as a lifelong DC fan who just loves to see his heroes fly?

Superman is rated PG-13 for violence, action and language. Now playing in theaters.

Warning: The following review discusses plot elements of all three entries in the franchise.

The first two entries in the 28 [Unit of Time] Later… series are remarkably prescient films about 21st-century paranoia.

There are surface-level concerns with disease and how people turn on each other in the face of an all-consuming pandemic and the breakdown of civil society.

And then there is the deeper concern with what happens when those charged with protecting us are the ones who harm us.

Danny Boyle’s 28 Days Later, released in 2002 and written by series collaborator Alex Garland, tells the story of the immediate aftermath of the outbreak in London. The film’s third act plays directly with the most prominent zombie story trope: “Fight the Dead. Fear the Living” by pitting the central adoptive family unit against a group of soldiers who present clear threats of sexual violence.

28 Weeks Later, produced by Boyle and Garland, is a direct reflection of post-Iraq invasion fears about nation-building. It depicts an arrogant American military undone by its overconfidence in its knowledge and abilities. Some of its most disturbing moments come when, during an outbreak, the military members begin shooting indiscriminately into a crowd of fleeing people, unable (or perhaps unwilling) to discern between infected and uninfected.

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But beyond the two films’ depictions of the rage-infected people, there’s a very clear through-line about abusive parental figures. This is most explicit in 28 Weeks Later, where Robert Carlyle’s Don opens the film by abandoning his family to their death to save himself. He later seeds the outbreak in the quarantine zone because he wants to salve his conscience. The film repeatedly brings the infected Don back to threaten his children.

28 Years Later, the third entry in the franchise and the second directed by Boyle, builds on these themes during its fairly conventional first half before a significant tonal swing turns the second half on its head. The first half plays out like a straightforward post-apocalypse story. We are introduced to the island enclave where a New Britain has been created, complete with a portrait of a young Queen Elizabeth.

Boyle splices in film reels of cinematic depictions of battles in British history, cementing how the story of the Rage virus outbreak takes its place alongside other retellings of British history. It situates this story as the latest in a line of stories about the conflicts that create British history and culture.

Jaime (a characteristically gruff Aaron Taylor-Johnson) takes his 12-year-old son Spike (a breakout performance by Alfie Williams) on a coming-of-age journey to the mainland to get his first kills. The pair encounter requisite Infected trouble and after a number of tense encounters, they return. An undercurrent of rough hostility in Jaime comes to the forefront, causing a fallout between father and son.

Lurking in the background of the story is Spike’s sick mother (a transformative Jodie Comer). Spike, determined to diagnose and save his mother and disillusioned with his father, strikes out from the safety of the island with her to locate a mad doctor (the always dependable Ralph Fiennes, who does incredible work in limited screentime). Spike hopes against hope that the doctor, without access to modern medicine and whom Spike has been warned away from pursuing, can cure his ailing mother.

The second half maintains its intense pace, but it becomes a much quieter film about the other sides of sickness and death. Spike’s faith in preserving human life is contrasted with a cold, amoral world where might makes right and the only relevant disease is the one that transforms you into a monster. Spike’s desire to save his mother and care for a new life in their midst give the film its emotional core.

The tonal shift away from a standard action movie elevates 28 Years Later to the status of a near-masterpiece. The quieter, subdued third act allows the viewer to breathe and contemplate the film’s central theme of preserving life in a world where survival is the objective, not the means, of living. Comer’s portrayal of a struggle with a non-Rage disease is gut-wrenching.

The film is a surprisingly hopeful and emotional story that feels thematically connected to its predecessors in its depiction of a dishonest and failing patriarch, but that explores new ground. There’s enough in 28 Years Later to satisfy zombie genre fans while still leaving more than enough meat on the bone to tell a bigger story about human mortality. For a franchise preoccupied with 21st-century concerns, it’s a refreshingly timeless story.

‘28 Years Later’ is now playing in theaters nationwide. Rated R for strong bloody violence, grisly images, graphic nudity, language and brief sexuality.

Summer movie seasons are often dominated these days by rampaging dinosaurs, people in spandex, and children’s entertainment. That’s true for this year, too. Since Memorial Day weekend, the biggest hits have been Tom Cruise defying death (again) for our amusement and Disney’s live-action remake of Lilo & Stitch. And while we’re approaching a dynamite streak of F1: The Movie, Jurassic World: Rebirth, Superman, and Fantastic Four all within five weeks of each other, there have been three pictures that have stood out from the pack thus far.

The movies in question — The Phoenician Scheme (dir. Wes Anderson), Materialists (dir. Celine Strong), and The Life of Chuck (dir. Mike Flanagan) — have nothing in common. They do not look, sound, or feel alike. Their genres do not criss-cross, nor are they geared towards the same audiences. As movies, they are as far apart as one can be from another. Yet some tiny but non-insignificant thread tangentially connects them.

All three movies seem interested in examining and subverting what we value in the modern world. This results in either rejecting twenty-first-century idols or recognizing that they have a place alongside the simpler things of life.

Case in point: Anderson’s espionage dark comedy The Phonecian Scheme, wealthy businessman and arms smuggler Zsa-zsa Korda (Benicio Del Toro) appoints his only daughter, a nun (Mia Threapleton), as sole heir to his estate and bets his entire fortune on a risky scheme to overhaul the infrastructure of the Mediterranean with slave labor. If successful, his wealth will be secured and multiplied for the next century. To him, life is wealth.

In Song’s romance Materialists, Dakota Johnson’s Lucy works as a professional matchmaker in New York City. She and her colleagues view finding love like it’s a Hinge algorithm, forced to mine through her clients’ desires from the perfect partner: good-looking, well-educated, and what’s the other one? Oh, rich. Filthy rich. To her, dating is a game, the people are the chess pieces, and she never expected to be a sap enough to play it herself.

In the science fiction drama The Life of Chuck (which won the Toronto Film Festival’s People’s Choice Award), a younger version of the titular character (Benjamin Pajak) wishes to learn how to dance for the Fall Fling. And he’s good at it. Really good. But his grandfather and guardian (Mark Hamill), a man of logic and mathematics, dismisses the young man’s passions for dance and extols the virtues of numbers and their place in every facet of life. Chuck dances at the fling, sure, but he spends his life as an accountant yearning for a chance to express himself truly. To his curmudgeon grandpa, life is numbers.

These cold worldviews are confronted and changed; each in a unique way, but all of them life-affirming. Del Toro’s Zsa-zsa realizes that the love he has for his religious daughter is worth more than a century’s worth of wealth. Not only that, but her faith is worthy of admiration and aspiration.

Johnson’s Lucy is confronted with a choice between a Hinge equivalent of a perfect man (Pedro Pascal) and an old flame (Chris Evans). The character of Chuck (eventually played by Tom Hiddleston) is given a moment in the last few months of his life to do the very thing that his grandfather dismissed. In doing so, he showed that he contained multitudes.

Each character learns that their lives, for better or for worse, are more than the cold, impartial, unfeeling social mandates we are handed today. In fact, they all seem to be rejections of how we live life in some capacity. But let’s be clear, the similarities stop there.

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The quality of the movies themselves is mixed, to be kind, ranging from good to fine to outright failure. It is strange to try to juggle reviewing three movies at once, so please read on with indulgence as I hopscotch through the rest of the piece.

Phoenician is the strongest of the trio after what I believe was a backward slide for the Oscar-winner Wes Anderson with his lesser flicks, Asteroid City and The French Dispatch. It has a better sense of space and motion than his immediate predecessors, particularly Asteroid City, which often visually felt like a parody of a Wes Anderson film, and has a much bigger heart, too. And while I will be the first to admit that Anderson’s ultra-staged style of filmmaking is not my cup o’ tea, there is no denying that his restraint here serves the dark comedy and its touching father-daughter story.

It also has the best cast assembled this year, which I will not write out but encourage you to Google if you’re interested. My word. Don’t expect this to be in conversation for Anderson’s best films, but do anticipate consensus that this is a solid entry in his filmography and a charming anecdote to the blockbuster fare.

Celine Song offers another recommended summer tonic. Hot off her acclaimed, Oscar-nominated romance Past Lives, she keeps to the same genre with Materialists but with a much different approach. While the former keeps the yearning simmering under the surface, the latter joyfully wears its influences on its sleeve. While it is unquestionably an entertaining take on modern love, it feels more like the traditional movie romances that audiences gravitate to. With that in mind, I prefer Materialists to Past Lives. That’s not the last controversial take you’ll hear in this piece.

That said, the movie is not entirely successful. But what it does well, I liked. Song’s script is commendable if a little too monologue-heavy at times, and Chris Evans has returned to form after a dismal post-Avengers streak. He best succeeds as an actor when he’s in the extremes — ultra noble or ultra sleezy — or when he’s a loveable loser. Song utilizes Evans’s skills there to craft a character impossible not to root for.

The same, sadly, cannot be said for the other two performers. Pedro Pascal, a perfectly fine actor, gets much less to do in the film than I expected. And Dakota Johnson? Well, the less said, the better. To be brief, Johnson doesn’t have the skills as an actor to anchor a movie like this. We’re supposed to be following her journey. But how can we root for her if it's impossible to empathize with her? Johnson’s cold, detached style of acting does her no favors here.

And now, by process of elimination, you can probably assume where Life of Chuck lands: with a thud. A clanking thud. Don’t think I’m telling the truth? Well, folks will remember that I walked out of Francis Ford Coppola’s Megalopolis last fall. I thought about doing so again more than once here. In fact, at one point, I was so bored with the tension-less, aimless, story-less series of moving images that I went to use the restroom just to do anything else. After the movie, my friend and beloved Cinemantics writer Graham commented, “If you just left and texted me when you got home, I wouldn’t have blamed you.”

Based on a Stephen King short story of the same name, Life of Chuck is utterly lifeless. It is visually flat. At best, it has the visual language of a bad hour of Netflix television. It is emotionally vacant. Writer-director Mike Flanagan recently said in an interview that he didn’t want to lean too heavily into one emotion or feeling because “that’s life.” Well, that may be life, but that’s not a movie.

It is also poorly acted. Karen Gillan and Mark Hamill especially gave two bad performances for different reasons. Gillan, who I like as an actor, is as flat as cardboard and colorful as a newly painted white fence. Hamill, on the other hand, hams it up with a bizarre hairpiece, an even more bizarre delivery style, and an accent that is best described as Foghorn Leghorn by way of Brooklyn. That’s not to mention a near constant narration by *checks notes* Nick Offerman who does not shut the fuck up. Seriously. In the movie’s quietest moments, where the emotion is all there and you just want to be with them in the silence, fucking Ron Swanson starts talking and I feel like I’m in a Parks and Rec episode.

The great sadness of this movie is that there are glimmers of a good movie — nay, a great, euphoric movie — in here, but not enough to recommend this to even my worst enemy. It’s ironic. For a movie that’s supposed to be life-affirming, it makes you wish it were all over.

It’s fitting that the Mission Impossible franchise is bookended by films that deal with emerging technology.

1996’s first entry constructs what feels like an entire set-piece around Tom Cruise’s Ethan Hunt using newfangled technology to send an “email” to another character. 2025’s Mission Impossible: The Final Reckoning, the conclusion to the eight-film series, sees Hunt face off against “The Entity,” an all-powerful AI in a bid to prevent the destruction of the world.

It’s exactly this escalation and attempt to reckon (pun intended) with changing technology that makes Mission: Impossible so great. And it’s what makes The Final Reckoning a huge, messy, but ultimately satisfying swing for the fences.

Final Reckoning picks up shortly after where 2023’s Dead Reckoning left off: The world is in turmoil, thrust into crisis by The Entity’s ability to twist the truth and the encroaching threat of the AI infiltrating major world powers’ nuclear arsenals. An early montage informs the viewer that The Entity’s ability to manipulate the truth includes changing footage of school buses into tanks and guns into cameras. It’s an effective—and highly relevant—visual that sets the stakes.

Where Dead Reckoning hurtled like a freight train through its rousing, and often quite funny, set-pieces, Final Reckoning spends significantly more time on exposition and set-up in its first act. The film takes some time to rumble to life as it puts all its different characters and subplots into place, giving the following two acts a weighted and epic feeling at the expense of a brisk pace. But it’s never boring. Writer-Director Chistopher McQuarrie (director of the previous three Mission films and frequent Cruise collaborator) knows how to frame emotional beats to keep the stakes feeling as high as possible.

It does feel disjointed at times because, in a curious creative decision, the film sidelines major franchise characters in favor of introducing a bevy of new faces that often lead to the audience wanting more. A thread involving Nick Offerman’s general and other government leaders managing the nuclear crisis is inserted while fan-favorites like Vanessa Kirby’s White Widow are dropped entirely. And after an intriguing setup in the previous installment, the film also doesn’t seem to know what to do with Haley Atwell’s Grace. The result means Final Reckoning lacks a strong second lead like Rebecca Ferguson or Henry Cavill to bolster the proceedings. But, on the plus side, Tramell Tillman’s submarine captain is a delight!

These decisions, intentional or not, put the film entirely on Cruise’s shoulders. And he delivers. He and McQuarrie spend an inordinate amount of time flashing back to previous films, pulling in plot threads and characters from previous films with varying levels of success. The montages don’t just tie the series together: They make clear that this is, and always has been, Cruise’s franchise.

And while we can quibble about the success of every narrative thread, there is one universal element that can be celebrated by anyone who watches Final Recknoning: Every dollar of the reported $400 million budget is on-screen. Every. Single. One. A sequence featuring Hunt swimming to and surviving the wreck of a submarine is among the franchise’s best. The nearly dialogue-free sequence is brutally tense, gorgeously shot, and a refreshing change of pace from the film’s and franchise’s other louder, more boisterous set pieces. And the much-hyped biplane finale is jaw-dropping to watch. Together, these two set-pieces make for the best second-half of any Mission Impossible movie.

Final Reckoning’s disjointed and slightly bloated nature feels more reminiscent of a series finale like The Dark Knight Rises, another overstuffed conclusion with an epic scale that delivers big emotional payoffs. Even if certain threads and ideas don’t pay off as well as they could, the film’s preoccupation with the threat AI poses to knowledge and phenomenology feels all too relevant.

Film critic Sonny Bunch described the series as the “first major franchise of the digital age.” I couldn’t agree more. May more action franchises be this interested in ideas about the threats of new technology while placing such an emphasis on practical, tactile action sequences. If this is indeed the end, what a luxury we have as moviegoers to see a series of films this committed to giving us the biggest and best experiences possible.

Later this week, my esteemed writing partners and I sit down for a group chat on what movies, if any, are worthy of seeing so far in 2025. Spoiler alert: it’s been pretty dismal thus far.

We met before I watched Sinners, writer-director Ryan Coogler’s original Southern Gothic vampire flick. I wish I could go back and tell the Tyler of two weeks ago to hold on to any overly negative opinions of the moviegoing year so far. I wish I could say to him just wait a few more weeks. At a time when cinephiles want to lament that “it’s so over,” Sinners seductively tempts us to say those immortal words:

We are so back.

Because if rapturous reviews and a stellar opening weekend indicate anything it is that we are, indeed, so back.

A wholly original genre flick, Sinners follows a day in the lives of twin brothers (both played by Michael B. Jordan) who return to their hometown to start again by opening a Juke Joint for the local black community in the Mississippi Delta, only to be confronted by a supernatural evil.

Folks, I’ll keep this short and simple: Sinners is a cinematic jolt of adrenaline. It’s fiery and sensual and funny and creepy and deeply entertaining. Coogler, who has spent the last decade in franchise fare with his Rocky reboot Creed and the first two Black Panther movies, has cemented himself as one of the true bona fide American filmmakers working now. His relationship with Jordan, which has spanned every major film he’s made, is quickly becoming this generation’s DeNiro and Scorcese.

Every performer and craftsperson deserves high marks. Across the board, the company produces stellar work. Special shoutout to composer Ludwig Göransson, whose task in this film is incredibly high, editor Michael Shawver, and DP Autumn Durald Arkapaw for truly memorable work. Much like Oppenheimer two years ago, Coogler and company play with every analog tool in the sandbox. Damn digital, give me 60mm film stock all day, every day! The frames have tremendous depth and richness, the music is evocative, and the pacing is well done for a movie over two hours and ten minutes.

And then there’s… the scene. One that comes at basically the halfway point of the movie; a scene so bold and phantasmagorically beautiful and weird and singular, combining the best elements of all the crafts and actors that it might become the best movie scene of the year. It can’t say anymore but, much like the Supreme Court’s definition of porn, you’ll know it when you see it.

It’s all just so entertaining.

Maybe someday I’ll have more time to put my thoughts into words (it’s close to midnight as I write this), but for now, just watch the movie. It’s really good, it’s really well made, and it’s really what Hollywood needs right now.

Movies rock. Sinners reminds us that they still can.

Okay, I know what you’re all thinking: What in the country fried f*** are you doing writing a review for television show on a movie Substack? Is there no sanctity anymore? Must everything, even our precious cinematic art form, come back around to the glutton of television?

These are fair questions, kind (and vulgar) reader. But, to paraphrase a certain animated warthog and meerkat, hakuna your-tatas. There is good reason to celebrate this particular show on Cinemantics.

Produced, written, starring, and sometimes directed by Seth Rogen, The Studio explores the chaotic life of Matt Remick, a newly appointed head of a movie studio. Desperate for celebrity approval and the chance to make “cinema” and not movies, he and his executive team (featuring Catherine O’Hare, Kathryn Hahn, and Ike Barinholtz) must juggle corporate demands with creative ambitions as they try to keep movies alive and relevant.

Not intrigued yet? Well, after only seeing the first three episodes, my simplest pitch to make is imagine the venerated Curb Your Enthusiasm if Larry David was lovable and made movies. Rogen’s Matt Remick is neither cantankerous or hostile; his sole passion in life is movies and making them. Whatever situation the episode finds himself encountering, we leave neither hating him or wishing ill on him for his well-intentioned flubs — whether it be killing a Martin Scorcese-directed movie about Jonestown or ruining a perfect oner at Golden Hour with his car parked in the driveway. His heart is never misplaced. He’s just a dopey guy trying to capture magic.

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In that sense, while the comedy is often cringey and vulgar, it’s a deeply empathetic portrayal of the studio system and those who are tasked with being the middle men between corporate suits and the principled artists.

It’s not easy, folks. They love movies but are the ones responsible for making sure they make money. They have to kill Scorcese’s Jonestown movie to make the drink Kool-Aid into a franchise; they have to talk out of both sides of their mouths to make an irate Ron Howard cut the deeply personal ending. They’re often the bad guy but they don’t want to be. That tension at the heart of the most populist form of art makes The Studio’s premise and characters incredibly watchable and engaging.

A real shout out belongs to Rogen and co-creator and writer Evan Goldberg for finding the right balance between pathos and cringe, as well as cinematographer Adam Newport-Berra. Berra’s camera hardly stops moving the entire time. Crackling with an undefinable personality and energy, it matches the energy of its characters and wild scenarios with gusto.

Only three episodes in, here’s hoping Rogen and company keep up the antics and its unapologetic love for movies — cause we need it now more than ever.

‘The Studio’ is rated TV-MA. New episodes stream every Wednesday on Apple TV.

Author’s Note: Spoilers for the film ‘The Brutalist’ are mentioned. Please be advised.

I hate brutalist architecture. Yes, it’s sturdy and can withstand the petty erosion of time, but it's also cold and inhuman—the architectural equivalent of a calculus equation. It neither arouses the soul nor inspires beauty. It represents the suffering humanity can inflict upon each other, yes, but it does little to nothing to connect us to the larger world we inhabit. While imposing from the outside, the glass, steel, and concrete construction denigrates its human occupants as little more than cogs in a machine, not individuals with agency, purpose, or possibility. It is a nihilistic reminder of the ugliness in our nature with no appeals to our better angels. Born out of a world at war, it does not inspire peace. It’s a memorial to despair and evil and suffering. More often than not, it reminds me of Thomas Hobbes’ noted sentiment about the state of nature: cold, brutish, nasty.

Want proof?

Pull up an image of the J. Edgar Hoover Building in Washington, D.C. That should be all the proof you need. The movie in question, Brady Corbet’s three-time Golden Globe-winning The Brutalist, often feels like a brutalist creation of the film’s titular architect, László Tóth: A grand, immovable piece of art aspiring to greatness that, somehow, feels hollow.

Spanning nearly a decade (three if counting the film’s epilogue), The Brutalist explores the dramatic American life of Hungarian-Jewish architect and Holocaust survivor László Tóth (Adrien Brody) and his wealthy benefactor Harrison Lee Van Buren (Guy Pearce) as the two men set out on an ambitious project in the Pennsylvania countryside. As the project continues, László’s pursuit of the American Dream grows increasingly dark as he and his wife Erzsébet (Felicity Jones) struggle to succeed in the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave.

Much ink has been used exploring the unique production of this “micro-epic,” especially the decision of shoot the picture in an all-but-dead format of VistaVision, 35mm film stock on a shoe-string budget of $10 million. Last used in 1964, The Brutalist beautifully attempts to capture the grain and texture of the Golden Age of Hollywood—and in that, it is a remarkable achievement. What could have easily been nothing more than a marketing ploy to bring in cinephiles, Corbet and DP Lol Crawley’s ability to take this analog format of filmmaking and modernize it through hand-held cinematography gives the picture both the tint of antiquity and a thoroughly modern sensibility. It looks like few films made today; it’s technical precision alone is something to behold.

Narratively, the film is less impressive. Divided into two acts, Corbet and co-writer Mona Fastvold struggle to keep the subtext of film in its place. Thematically, the precision of the film’s first act— titled “The Enigma of Arrival”— lies in how Corbet and company keep the societal, economic, and repressed sexual tensions between Tóth and his American benefactors simmering just under the surface. We know it’s there, we can feel in every element of the film. It’s what makes the first act such a success in moviemaking; so much so that it leaves the audience wanting more when the ‘Intermission’ title card and countdown appears.

However, once the lights dimmed and we are transported into the film’s second act—titled “The Hard Core of Beauty”— we find that those simmering tensions have become the literal text of the film. While we knew one of the primary themes of the movie is that America’s wealthy, to put it bluntly, have f***ed over the “huddled masses yearning to breathe free,” the decision to depict Pearce’s Van Buren raping Tóth feels lazy. And if the first act is marked by its storytelling precision, Corbet takes the latter half of the film to reach for greatness, often stumbling in the process. We jump across states, through time, and over oceans. There are new characters, incredible visual montages, moments of emotional catharsis, and even a few Oscar-baiting speeches. But, like the architectural style the film is named after, it all feels relatively hollow.

Part of the blame can be set at the feet of the screenplay. But not all of it. Enter: Oscar-nominee Felicity Jones, best known for The Theory of Everything and Rouge One: A Star Wars Story. While a perfectly fine actor, Jones is woefully miscast as Tóth’s wife, Erzsébet. Confined to a wheelchair due to osteoporosis, Jones’s performance feels more appropriate alongside Boris and Natasha from The Adventures of Rocky and Bullwinkle. Her accent work is comical and the makeup designed to help her look sickly belongs in Annabelle rather than an Oscar-caliber picture. She struggles to hold her own against both Brody and Pearce, each providing career best performances, and against the backdrop of the larger film. In a moment of emotional catharsis at the climax of the movie, we’re expected to be shocked by Erzsébet’s act of defiant bravery. It landed with a thud (I promise, that’s not a joke about her osteoporosis).

All that being said, The Brutalist is worth watching if only because it tries to be great. I mean, it really tries. Evoking imagery and ideas at the heart of Coppola’s greatest works of the 1970s, Corbet announces to the world “I am here and I have something important to say.” We don’t see that enough in movies. In a world of content defined by mediocrity, it is so apparent how his cast and crew really tried to make something so singular that it demanded to be seen and appreciated. That should be celebrated. Even if its not always successful, The Brutalist is a good reminder of the possibilities of cinema and, given its recent success over wider releases like Kraven the Hunter, offers promise that audiences still want stories that test us. Should it be leading the Gold Derby when the horses enter the final lap on Oscar Sunday, I would not be mad— even if I do hate brutalist architecture.

“The Brutalist” is now playing in select theaters. Rated R for strong sexual content, graphic nudity, rape, drug use and some language.

There are few movie-making challenges greater than making a successful modern movie musical.

More than a half-century removed from Hollywood’s Golden Age of Gene Kelly, Doris Day, Fred Astaire, and Dorothy herself, Judy Garland, truly great musicals of recent years are few and far between. The audience is more cynical than it used to be. It’s tougher now for the average viewer to buy in to a character earnestly breaking out into song amid brightly colored sets and an ensemble of professional background dancers. Just look at recent musicals like the new Mean Girls, Wonka, or The Color Purple which hid their musical elements from marketing materials entirely. It’s in large part the reason why many modern Broadway shows lean more into pop and hip-hop or alternate story-telling styles than the traditional tones and structure of musical theatre.

But here’s where Wicked comes in.

Based loosely on a book by Gregory Maguire that’s based loosely on L. Frank Baum’s famed children’s tale The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, Wicked debuted on Broadway in the early 2000s to rave reviews, numerous Tonys, and thunderous applause that continues to this day. And with seriously good reason. But this legacy, beloved by the theatre community and tourist audiences alike, left director John Chu with a serious uphill battle.

To successively do justice to this long anticipated film adaptation, Chu needed to successfully land 3 separate concepts 1) Casting performers who can act, sing, and embody the iconic images of Glinda and Elphaba, 2) Create a world that is both a familiar fantasy and original setting, and 3) do justice to music that has been memorized by devoted fans for multiple decades.

Let’s start with the strongest element; casting. It’s well-known that many talented people tested for both of the lead roles and it is clearly with good reason that Ariana Grande and Cynthia Erivo were ultimately chosen. It shows on screen that both were devoted to these roles and each other, nailing every note live, looking past the fantasy of it all to draw real emotion allowing the audience to fully buy into the musical elements with ease.

Grande’s comedic performance and soaring high notes made what could be a silly caricature feel grounded and substantial. Oscar-nominated Erivo is comparatively lesser-known than Grande but anyone who has seen her perform “I’m Here” from The Color Purple on Broadway (a performance which won her a much-deserved Tony Award) won’t be surprised by her ability to extract feeling in even the smallest line and carry the leading role effortlessly. From the moment their voices join together in “What is this Feeling?” it’s clear they were the ones destined for these roles all along.

Rounded out by Jonathan Bailey as a perfectly charming Fiyero, Michelle Yeoh as the horrible Madame Morrible, and Jeff Goldblum as the Wizard himself, a huge kudos should be given to this casting department for a masterclass in balancing name recognition with true, unadulterated talent.

Now for what can be argued is the weakest element; the setting. Much like other fantasy properties (i.e., Harry Potter, Lord of the Rings, or even the 1939 Wizard of Oz), Chu had to create a world that doesn’t have much comparison to the one we live in and in trying to pay homage to the MGM musical, he slightly missed the mark. While the sets certainly feel unique and he should get plenty of credit for utilizing practical effects rather than CGI, many of the sets (Shiz University in particular) feel cheap and plaster rather than cinematic. It’s noticeable that the story’s physical backdrop lives on sound stages rather than a fantasy world we’re meant to immerse ourselves in. The performances, writing, and music largely distract from these flaws but it pulls from truly beautiful moments like Erivo’s “The Wizard and I” when you’re distracted by an obviously, brand-new staircase that’s meant to be aged stonework. This could have been rounded out by more real-world filming locations that would look less like live-action Disney remakes.

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Finally, arguably the most important element of any musical, the music itself. Chu’s decision to directly involve the original composer Stephen Schwartz pays off big time with soaring melodies that remind you of the sweeping overtures of classic movie musicals. New arrangements and musical additions were adapted to sync with Grande and Erivo’s vocals while staying true to the original music. With small changes to “Popular” and “Defying Gravity” both performers are able to make these numbers their own for maximum audience impact.

It’s impossible to respond to every internet critique but to summarize; yes, dividing into 2 movies makes perfect sense; no, Jonathan Bailey is not a convincing 18-year-old but who cares, he’s cute; and I personally think the coloring is lovely but if you want your movies to look yellow far be it from me to silence you. This film’s political storyline also feels particularly prescient (as evidenced by the stranger sitting next to me in the theatre who had audible reactions to each plot point) and I am fascinated to see how Act II/Part II will keep up the energy of the first film while adding a much darker tone.

Whatever you think of Wicked Part I, it is now officially a box office success and murmurs of a musical renaissance abound. Before we rush in to make big budget versions of every successful stage musical (lest we all forget Cats), let’s look at what made this film and many classics work; excellent source material, beautiful music, and star power that is genuinely worthy of its name.

‘Wicked’ is now playing in theaters nationwide. Rated PG for some scary action, thematic material and brief suggestive material.

Let me start out by saying that I am a horror girlie through and through and that this film is not going to be for everyone. As the credits were rolling, I turned to my husband and said, “I loved it! We will not be able to recommend it to anyone in our family.”

If, unlike my family, you are not dissuaded by icky images in service of big social questions, I highly recommend The Substance as a modern classic.

The film follows Elizabeth Sparkle, an aging actress turned televised fitness coach played by Demi Moore, who is being let go from her contract – and on her 50th birthday! Her birthday! Her boss, Harvey (Dennis Quaid) breaks the news in perhaps the most indelicate way possible, and shares with her a parting gift that only serves to rub salt into the wound (I won’t spoil how). In desperation, Elizabeth turns to a product called the Substance, ignoring about five red flags along the way to achieve a ‘better version of herself’. Sue (Margaret Qualley) is that better self.

But the film will constantly remind us that they are one. Sue is hired on as the replacement programming shortly thereafter. The product works exactly as promised, but of course, issues arise immediately around the boundaries that the use of the product requires, and the tensions between Sue and Elizabeth boil over into resentment fast. It’s a deeply provocative and carefully assembled film, from aesthetics on down.

Take for example the wardrobe. All of Sue’s accessories are made to accentuate her youth, the element that sold Demi in the first place. Her earrings are little rhinestone hearts and stars that wouldn’t look out of place in the Pretty Pretty Princess game. Then there is how elegant the presentation of the titular ‘substance’ is. The inclusion of tubing, syringes, empty ampules, and a clear coherent brand sold me on its realness, while hand-waving away the pesky science bits that would explain - or worse over explain - how a younger hotter you could be birthed fully formed from beneath your skin. It’s like the Greek story about the emergence of Aphrodite from Zeus’s skull, but only if you left that skull like a wet robe on the bathroom floor the way that Demi spends a good portion of the film. 

Why can’t I widely recommend such a thought-provoking piece then? Because this film is really gross. Brilliantly and effectively utilized, but very gross.

The last 20 minutes of this film had me grinning ear to ear at the gleeful amount of blood they were spraying onscreen; Tenebrae called and wanted her to tone it down a tad. The grossness does not stop with the sanguine, however: we are treated to some of the least appetizing looking food this side of Hannibal, and the prosthetic work throughout mines our lizard brains for the discomfort we feel around the very old as well as some good old fashioned monster lab fare to round out the experience. 

There’s easily a shorter film to be pulled out of this 2-hour and 21-minute spectacle, but the overemphasis on certain images was clearly the point. The length of time we spend lingering on the curves of Margaret Qualley’s body pins the audience to their seat with heavy voyeurism. This type of imagery is usually relegated to magazine spreads, music videos, or perfume ads, where it is either easily skippable or short. The film format renders it almost pornographic if it wasn’t so confrontational (accusatory porn, now there’s a thought!).  

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I was asked, fairly, if Demi deserved an Oscar for her performance in the film. What Demi is doing in this film is really brave, considering how she very honestly and unflinchingly appears as an older woman without a stitch of clothing and allows the camera to rove over her. But as an acting project, she is the only person in the film behaving in any sort of understandable way. Her hurt, dejection, and then willingness to facilitate her own abuse are deeply familiar to anyone, but mostly women, who have tortured themselves to look like an ideal. So I guess the question then would be, do we award women for doing brave things aside from acting in film?

I myself would say the over-acting that everyone else is doing is worthy of consideration by the Academy. Dennis Quaid is going down in history as one of the biggest villains in recent memory! He’s achingly foul, and for that, I can say I want him on the Best Supporting Actor ballot. 

There is a question—if the film wants us to examine the premise this deeply—if there is perhaps an amicable relationship that we could form with our toxic beauty standards. If we really could respect the switch of every 7 days and replenish our stabilizing fluids and reap the benefits of having built a part of ourselves that is societally perfect. Or, is the very existence of, and desire for, the substance a condemnation of our society as a whole? 

If you are not dissuaded by the icky or the length I described, I encourage the brave to check out The Substance, ideally in theaters, to receive the reward of a truly original and seasonally scary fun ride. 

The Substance is now playing in theaters. Rated R for strong bloody violent content, gore, graphic nudity and language.

Final scenes can make or break a film. There are numerous classic films whose final shots alone come to mind the moment you mention their name: the two main characters in The Graduate, John Wayne walking while framed through a doorway in The Searchers, the door closing on Kay in The Godfather. 

Anora makes a strong argument for inclusion in that pantheon. Without giving too much away, it’s a long take of an intimate moment between the eponymous protagonist and an ancillary character. Director Sean Baker lets the camera linger as the audience waits for the film to conclude. But the central character arc would be incomplete without the film’s vulnerable final moments. It’s devastating.

That shouldn’t come as a surprise to anyone familiar with Baker’s oeuvre. He has mastered the art of making a devastating ending — his 2019 film The Florida Project closes on a moment that toes the line between fantasy and reality and whose euphoria drives home the heartbreak of the film’s themes.

Baker has made a career out of telling stories that humanize sex workers, and Anora is his magnum opus in that category. Baker crafts an often laugh-out-loud funny romantic comedy about an unlikely pairing of a sex worker and the spoiled child of a Russian oligarch.

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His biggest coup of the film is his casting of Mikey Madison, whose performance will have her rightfully on the shortlist for Best Actress. As an actress whose two most high-profile roles involve playing (spoilers for Scream VI and Once Upon a Time in Hollywood) sadistic murderers, Madison’s edge is on display in the early scenes of Anora, where she plays the titular sex worker-turned-green-card-wife. Her Anora has a worldliness about her, an awareness of exactly how the dynamics in her strip club play out, and how she can work the system while protecting herself.

Madison maintains that edge throughout the film. Anora never feels taken advantage of, even as she makes decisions that feel naive at best and actively harmful at worst. But it’s a credit to Madison that she’s able to craft such a nuanced character whose harsh exterior can pay off in a final scene that hits hard. 

It helps that Baker imbues the film with a sense of humor throughout. There are so many memorable little moments where humor reveals character. A throwaway facial reaction here, a big laugh from a side character there. Baker is a filmmaker who demonstrates deep empathy for all of the characters on screen, and it’s a credit to him that no one in Anora feels like a stereotype, even as many of them often play for laughs.

Baker’s direction also plays up the emptiness of so much of the wealth on display. Vanya’s home, the setting of a significant amount of the first half’s action, is extravagant and stunning but clearly lacks any human touch. Its destruction during a show-stopping 28-minute set-piece rightfully puts the characters at the forefront while making any property destruction feel satisfying for the audience. All of the more middle-class locations feel so much richer and more lived-in than Vanya’s superficial abode (complete with an elevator!).

Anora makes a strong case a major Oscar contender, which tracks with its success at the Cannes film festival. So much of the film plays like a raunchy raucous romp. But those final moments pull the story and the emotional arc of its central character together in a manner that will remain with audiences long after the credits roll. It deserves all of the praise it’s going to receive come awards season.

‘Anora’ is now playing in theaters. Rated R for strong sexual content throughout, graphic nudity, pervasive language, and drug use.

Bring tissues.

That was top of mind as my wife and I entered Regal Cinemas to watch an early screening of Super/Man: The Christopher Reeve Story on September 25 — which would have been Reeve’s 72nd birthday. That date made the event all the more significant, but it would have been special to us regardless. Everyone there was old enough to have grown up with Reeve as their Superman, and it was immediately apparent that it was going to be an emotional experience.

Regal did us no favors, either. One of the previews was for the very film we were about to see, which ensured that we were a theater full of grown adults sobbing like babies before the movie even started.

I was ten years old when I saw Christopher Reeve in a wheelchair for the first time. It was the premiere of his Barbara Walters interview, which aired just four months after the horse riding accident that paralyzed him from the neck down. I was inconsolable. I had of course already heard about what happened, but the picture of him in my mind up until then was still Superman — stoic, stalwart, and soaring over the Earth, flashing us that charismatic and comforting smile. Reality hit me hard as I saw Reeve looking so aged and frail, breathing through a tube, struggling to get his words out. His fragility was a heartbreaking contrast to the image of him I had known my whole life.

The beauty of Super/Man, however, is that it shies away from neither vision of Reeve. In fact, it leans into and emphasizes both — making the film’s title, complete with the forward slash splitting the two sides of Reeve’s public identity, as well as the two most prominent phases of his life, quite literal.

Through home movies, archival footage, interviews with Reeve’s colleagues, friends, and family, and even audiobook narration from Reeve himself, Super/Man interweaves two parallel narratives: That of a young actor who achieved success portraying a hero on screen, and that of a man whose accident and subsequent activism would make him a hero in real life.

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Directors Ian Bonhôte and Peter Ettedgui, who also brought us McQueen and Rising Phoenix, do a masterful job digging into and showcasing Reeve’s humanity throughout the film’s one hour and forty-four minute runtime. Even as we’re guided through his early life and rise to fame, the filmmakers never fail to deal with the complexity of the man beneath the cape. We’re shown Reeve’s trauma after his parents’ multiple divorces; the effects of his desperate longing for his father’s approval; and his subsequent fear of commitment and antagonism towards marriage, which strained his relationship with his first two children and ended his relationship with their mother.

And as we move through the post-Superman years — when Reeve struggled to be taken seriously as an actor; when he met, married, and started a family with his wife Dana; and when he suffered the accident that would upend his life — we’re not shielded from any of the difficulty or pain he experienced, or the flaws it exposed. Far from being another clichéd hagiography, Super/Man courageously depicts Reeve being all too human, succumbing to all the depression, despondency, and despair that comes with being in his situation. This is at times difficult to watch, but it’s also necessary to truly contextualize and underscore the eventual dutifulness, determination, and drive that would redefine him for so many of us.

Importantly, the film also shows that overcoming this kind of adversity takes much more than one man’s will. It is often through the ones we love — and those who love us — that we can summon that will at all. Early on we recognize Dana Reeve’s towering presence, both in the film and in Christopher Reeve’s life. His optimism, and indeed his very desire to go on living, was a direct result of Dana’s influence and support. They also made a miraculous team. Together, they founded and ran what would become The Christopher and Dana Reeve Foundation, with Christopher focusing on awareness, activism, and funding research for a cure while Dana devoted her energy to care, compassion, and dignity for those currently living with disability.

Hope and heroism are the strongest and most prominent themes in Super/Man, and it’s easy to see why. Superman is a hero that symbolizes hope, after all. Bonhôte and Ettedgui deftly draw those themes out, not only by tastefully incorporating footage from Reeve’s Superman films, but also by fusing John Williams’ iconic score into the original music composed by Ilan Eshkeri. This could easily feel excessive or exploitative, but Super/Man executes it brilliantly because it never loses sight of the point: The Superman character, themes, and imagery are merely metaphors for Reeve himself.

As a lifelong fan, I’ve often argued that Superman’s greatest power isn’t his ability to fly, shoot lasers out of his eyes, or lift school buses over his head. Rather, it is his capacity to inspire, to kindle within us our desire to be better and braver than we are. Similarly, the greatest strength of Super/Man is its emphasis on Reeve as a model of perseverance and a source of inspiration — a hero in his own right. Throughout the film we see people moved and motivated by Reeve’s words and deeds, people who have benefited from the funding and research secured by Reeve’s foundation, and people who have been galvanized by Reeve’s spirit into becoming forces for good in the world.

That is the mark of true heroism, and walking out of the theater that night with all those other teary-eyed strangers, it was clearer than ever that Christopher Reeve — the actor, activist, and human being — is one of the greatest heroes we’ve ever had.

“Super/Man: The Christopher Reeve Story” opens nationwide October 11. Rated PG-13 for some strong language and thematic elements.

This will only be technically half of a review as I, of my own accord, left halfway through Francis Ford Coppola’s latest movie, Megalopolis.

For context, the last time I left a movie theater while the picture was still playing was when my aunt and uncle took me to watch Ron Howard’s The Grinch. That was December 2000, and I was approaching the age of four. In that case, I didn’t “leave” the theater so much as I screamed bloody murder and ran down the aisle when Jim Carrey’s green-furred creature first showed us his devilish grin. If only it were socially acceptable for me to do that as a twenty-seven-year-old.

Despite my own hype over possibly the most expensive independent movie ever made, Megalopolis is philosophical psychobabble masquerading as a movie, a tome of anecdotes and thoughts but no singular idea. It is a beautiful piece of art but an incomprehensible, baffling moviegoing experience.

A sci-fi Roman epic set in twenty-first-century America, Megalopolis tells the story of an idealist architect, Cesar Catilina (the ever-reliable Adam Driver), who is hell-bent on rebuilding the decaying city of New Rome as a sustainable utopia using Megalon. This magical material allows him to control space and time because… reasons?

Standing in his way is the city’s regressive mayor, Franklyn Cicero (Giancarlo Esposito), who, at another time, attempted to incarcerate Cesar for the murder of his wife. Tension! Between the two men stands Julia (Nathalie Emmanuel), Cicero’s daughter, who must choose between family and love.

On the edges of this political and philosophical tug-of-war is Clodio Pulcher (Shia LaBeouf), who attempts to leverage the people’s anger against Cicero and Cesar to gain political power. Then, there’s Wow Platinum (Aubrey Plaza), a shock jock-style newscaster lusting for Catalina who works her way into the higher Escalon of New Rome by marrying Cesar’s uncle Hamilton Crassus III (Jon Voight).

Did you track all that? No? That’s alright, cause neither can the movie.

Opting for brazenness over subtlety, Coppola beats the movie’s themes over your head in obnoxious fashion from the beginning, in which Laurence Fishburne warns of the similarities between the American republic and early Rome in an laughably bad narration over an image of the monologue’s words etched into the walls of Grand Central Station. It was really right then and there that I knew this was going to be rough.

In the seventy minutes I was able to stomach, the obvious allegory was played out in the most obvious of ways. New York City, with the Chrysler Building serving as Catalina’s headquarters, becomes New Rome. Clever! And Madison Square Garden still exists, but its famous basketball floor is now a gladiatorial arena. Cool? Yes, but still about as subtle as a sledgehammer to the face.

The writer-director-producer is correct to warn about the parallels between America and Rome, but his conclusions are half-baked at best. Yes, politicians like Cicero and populists like Clodio scheme for themselves first and the people second. Yes, American politics has seen a dramatic uptick in populism over the past decade. Yes, we have a presidential election this year. However, it is not new. These tensions are as old as the Untied States. In one interview, Coppola said that we’re in the worst historical moment for the United States since the War of 1812. I guess he forgot what happened fifty years later.

In the title card, Coppola brands Megalopolis “a fable.” This might be the only act of modesty in a $120 million epic in which, essentially, the Old Master yells at the clouds. As a thought experiment, it’s provocative. As a movie, it’s incomprehensible. Having recently watched Apocalypse Now at my local Alamo Drafthouse on the biggest screen available, it’s baffling to me that the same man who had the greatest four-film run in movie history could make such an irredeemable slog.

Entire sections of the film, including a fifteen minute extended sequence in Madison Square Garden, are effectively self-contained episodes that hold no baring on the rest of the plot. The chunky dialogue elicited so many laughs from my Georgetown screening you would have thought it was a comedy. Pacing be damned! Plot? Who needs it! The bluntness in which the exposition was conveyed shocked even me and the human characters felt like their personalities were themselves carved from stone. I cared about none of them and, frankly, it seems like Coppola didn’t either. They were merely vessels for a freshman-level political philosophy course. The legendary director wanted to make his own version of Plato’s Republic, where ideas were debated and the good, the beautiful, and the true were pursued. What we got felt like the auteur equivalent of Battlefield Earth.

No actor—except for maybe the ever-reliable Adam Driver—escapes this movie unscathed. Even worse, none of them seem to be in the same movie. Nathalie Emmanuel turns in the most remarkably one-dimensional performance I may ever see. It’s almost miraculous how lifeless she is. Laurence Fishburne, mostly relegated to offer laborious narration, offers up the emotional range of Siri. On the other hand, Shia LaBeouf prances from one ridiculous costume to the next, often laughing through manic tears as if he’s about to be eliminated from RuPaul’s Drag Race, while Aubrey Plaza acts more like April Ludgate’s fake persona Janet Snakehole from the sitcom Parks and Recreation than she does an actual person. Putting any combination of actors together feels like an exercise in (dis)organized chaos, the result of a troubled production where Coppola encouraged his cast to improvise extensively on set. It felt like I was watching the world’s most expensive community theater production.

Nothing in the seventy minutes I watched gelled. Francis, who has had a long history with troubled film productions, just couldn’t bring all of his ideas together in a cohesive way. The actors never seem to be on the same page, the world building doesn’t demand the biggest of theatrical experiences, and the story struggles to hold its lofty ideals up.

Now, there are some good things about the movie, chief among them being the production design and cinematography. While an utter disaster on almost every level, this movie is a wonder to look at. And, as a visual filmmaker, Coopola directs with an energy reminiscent of George Miller in Mad Max: Fury Road. Often avant guard, it pushes the boundaries of anything he’s done before. It’s just a damn shame the story he’s telling can’t meet the moment.

There’s a world in which I return to this movie again out of nothing more than morbid curiosity—but I’d be alone on that front. Initial box office tracking for Megalopolis is anemic, with the most liberal estimates suggesting it could make $5 million on opening weekend. I wish I could say I feel bad, but I don’t. The man has five Academy Awards, owns one of the largest wineries in the world, and made The Godfather. He’ll be fine.

In a few different interviews, including at last night’s live Q&A with Robert De Niro and Spike Lee at the New York Film Festival, Coppola has claimed that he cannot see a fully formed movie in his head at first. “I’m not like Steve [Spielberg],” he claims. He has to write and re-write and write some more before he can see it in his mind. If only the Old Master rewrote Megalopolis a few more times.

Between this and the Cincinnati Bengals starting the season 0-3, I’m pissed.

“Francis Ford Coppola’s Megalopolis: A Fable” opens nationwide this Friday. Rated R for sexual content, nudity, drug use, language and some violence.

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Few people have seen Sing Sing, and that’s a problem.

Since premiering roughly a year ago at the Toronto International Film Festival, this independent film, shot over 19 days in upstate New York on 16mm film, has barely scratched $2.5 million domestically. On paper, it’s not hard to see why business types would write it off: It’s a small-scale prison drama featuring a leading performer, Colman Domingo, who is only now earning “movie star” status after his Oscar-nominated turn in Rustin. Apart from Paul Raci, his co-stars are all unknowns. The closest thing to existing IP in this film is Hamlet’s famous “To be, or not to be” soliloquy.

But that is what makes this movie special.

Based on real-life people and events, Sing Sing tells the story of Divine G (Domingo), a wrongly imprisoned man who finds purpose and healing through the theater as part of the Rehabilitation Through the Arts (RTA) program at the Sing Sing Maximum Security Prison. As Divine G struggles to clear his name, he and his fellow prisoners attempt to stage an ambitious original production.

Stripped of penance and cinematic flair, director and co-writer Greg Kwedar made a bold decision that takes emotional material and elevates it to another level. Aside from Domingo and Raci (who plays the RTA director), all the primary actors are former inmates at Sing Sing and former RTA participants. This works on three levels: First, they’re damn good actors. Second, on a textual level, it creates an authenticity that can be lacking in conventional prison dramas, themselves uniquely aware of the liberating power of theater in such a hopeless place. Third, on a meta-textual level, it validates the mission of RTA: that the arts can help the incarcerated work through the pain of their past and give them a purpose for when they become free.

These three levels powerfully collide with each other in the singular performance of Clarence Maclin, who plays a younger version of himself. Referred to as “Divine Eye” while in prison, Maclin’s turn in Sing Sing is the stuff that stars are made of. Refreshingly raw, his work makes co-star Domingo’s acting look varnished and overprepared, bouncing effortlessly between frightening and cold to vulnerable and shy. In a just world, The Academy would have mailed Maclin his Oscar already with a note saying: “You won. There was no contest.”

For the sake of art, Maclin and company open the door and welcome their demons back in. And we should thank them for it. Well-staged cinematography by Pat Scola captures the oppressive reality of living within the cold, barbed-wired, brutalist architecture of Sing Sing. It’s not an easy place to live. While not outright addressed save for a handful of references to “system,” it is really through these haunting performances up and down the call sheet that we see the toll being incarcerated takes on the soul. It also reveals the Herculean task needed to both change and gain your freedom once more. In a place where most humanity goes to die, the reformed cast members reveal the small ways in which their souls could find renewed life.

Thematically, the film evokes the classic prison drama The Shawshank Redemption and future masterpiece The Fablemans: “Fear can hold you prisoner, art can set you free.” (Yes, I know that’s not the actual line from the movie but bear with me).

Distributor A24 tried to position this film as their great awards contender. Sadly, its botched rollout that put its expanded rollout in the August graveyard and the recent acquisition of the much-praised epic The Brutalist means there is little hope for the movie to take home multiple trophies this season. That’s a shame. Hopefully, like Shawshank, it finds life after its theatrical release and touches audiences for decades to come.

Sing Sing is now playing in limited theaters. Rated R for language throughout.

WARNING: Spoilers for the movie Alien: Romulus ahead.

Much of Alien: Romulus’s promotional campaign has centered around the “back-to-basics” approach that writer and director Fede Álvarez took in crafting the latest entry in the Alien franchise. The film’s setting between Alien and Aliens promised to bring the film back to its roots as a haunted house film set in space before it transformed into a franchise with lofty ideas about the origins of humanity and the terror of actually meeting God-like beings.

Álvarez is largely successful in returning the franchise to its horror roots. As the director of the underrated 2013 Evil Dead, which smartly leaned into the body horror of the original without trying to ape its darkly comedic tones, and 2016’s taut Don’t Breathe, Álvarez did feel like an obvious choice to make an Alien film. He felt like the right director to draw on the claustrophobia of the original, the sexualized body horror inherent in how the aliens reproduce, and the franchise’s more gory elements.

Much of Romulus works well because of Álvarez’s direction. He consistently frames characters from the back as dark silhouettes entering darkly lit, hostile environments. I also love how he uses the facehuggers as antagonists during some of the film’s tenser scenes – he understands that a swarm of facehuggers jumping can tap into an innate fear of spiders or other leaping creepy-crawlies (or maybe just mine). He also crafts a couple of brilliantly tense and creative set-pieces, providing some of the best moments of pure Alien horror in the franchise.

While the performances are largely unremarkable, David Jonsson’s performance as the android Andy is the film’s breakout part, as Jonsson balances the character’s naivety and innocence with its newfound power. It’s the only character arc that feels compelling and almost makes the film’s emotional core, the sibling relationship between Rain and Andy, work. 

But the arc is undermined by the film’s biggest and most controversial misstep, which is the CGI resurrection of Ian Holm. Putting aside the distractingly uncanny CGI, the Rook character is just in the film way too much, without actually accomplishing anything for the story besides providing a familiar face for audiences to recognize and a villainous voice-over for the third act. It’s an unnecessary addition in a film that’s already chock-full of fanservice – I couldn’t have been the only one to groan at the direct quoting of the finale of Aliens. 

The swing the third act takes feels like the most original and creative part of the film, making literal the visual motifs of maternal nurturing threaded throughout the rest of the film and franchise (it also produces the best jump scare I’ve seen in a long time). The design of the child-creature is horrifying and feels like a natural finale to the franchise’s obsession with birth and motherhood. Granted, the plot point is lifted directly out of Resurrection, but it works far better here.

However, at the end of all of it, I can’t help but feel like Romulus rings a little hollow. There isn’t much of an idea behind the film. The Alien franchise has endured not just because of the appeal of the central premise and the iconic nature of the alien, but because the most successful movies in the franchise had very clear ideas and themes. 

Alien is a story of truckers in space trapped in a haunted house that turns against them because of their employer’s indifference to their fate. Aliens is a Vietnam War allegory about a group of overconfident military men who find themselves woefully underprepared and out of their depth in a hostile environment. Alien3 (yes, I’m including it in the “good” category) is one of the most nihilistic mainstream blockbusters ever made, a film about the necessity of self-sacrifice and the pointlessness of faith in a cruel and indifferent world. 

Prometheus is, for all of its flaws, a wildly ambitious film that manages to be a top-tier science fiction-horror movie. A lot of that is because of the nightmare logic that Ridley Scott injects into the film – things happen without much motivation, characters don’t act rationally, subplots seem to come out of nowhere and then disappear without much of a payoff. But it’s still incredibly impactful both as a body horror-infused piece of sci-fi horror and as a story that swings for the fences by wrestling with the theme of “meeting your maker.” It’s also a visually stunning film to watch – Ridley Scott is unparalleled in his ability to craft “big” films. 

Alien: Covenant is the weakest besides Resurrection, largely because of a generic third act that falls flat, but it still follows through on the promise of Prometheus, with Scott crafting a gorgeously empty paradise that becomes hell for the film’s characters. It also ends on a great cliffhanger, and it’s a shame that we likely won’t get to see where Scott was going to take the third film. 

While it’s certainly a coherent and effective film, Romulus feels so preoccupied putting all the pieces in place and ensuring that all of the plot mechanics work that it forgets to include any of the wonder or larger ideas of the previous entries. The narrative choices to incorporate the plot threads of all six of the Alien films makes some sense, but just feels inconsequential. It lacks the ambition of the other Alien sequels, and seems content with remixing the franchise’s greatest hits.

The film’s moderate success at the box office suggests that it will likely get a sequel down the line. I don’t think any of the threads that Romulus leaves demand a continuation. While it would be great to Scott return to complete his prequel trilogy, maybe Alien is a franchise better off allowing different filmmakers to come in and imprint their vision on the franchise. The initial horror and claustrophobia of Scott, the pulpy but emotionally compelling action filmmaking of Cameron, the nihilism of Fincher, the late-stage grandeur of Scott, the body horror of Álvarez – all of these styles make the franchise endlessly rewatchable. I just hope that whatever comes next breaks away from Romulus’s preoccupation with fanservice and remixes. 

We have too many franchises obsessed with that already.

Alien: Romulus is now playing in theaters nationwide. Rated R for bloody violent content and language

Hello, reader. Welcome to my first review for Cinemantics!

Assuming you’ve seen the previous entries—Deadpool, Deadpool 2, and the majority of the 46 movies, shows, and specials in the Marvel Cinematic Universe—you’ll be aware that Deadpool & Wolverine (2024, dir. Levy) functions as both the next chapter for Deadpool/Wade Wilson (Ryan Reynolds) and the continuation of Hugh Jackman’s tenure as Wolverine/Logan.

Now, if you saw 2017’s Logan, you might be wondering why the actor has returned after what was meant to be a deliberate farewell. But as Deadpool is keen to mention in this outing, “he’s going to be doing this until he’s 90.”

I’ll admit that Jackman’s return had me skeptical. Yet, after seeing the finished product, I can say with confidence that his return was well-earned, and the movie as a whole was a delight.

WARNING: Plot spoilers to follow.

The first of many iconic moments in the film is the opening credits dance number/fight scene set to *NSYNC’s “Bye Bye Bye”, where Deadpool uses Logan’s skull and bones (like Hugh, was also last seen at the end of Logan)  to fight off agents of the Time Variance Authority. As Deadpool explains, he’s there for a specific reason: to revive the fallen hero and convince him to help him with his mission.

As a 90s kid, let me tell you something: I needed this.

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In a welcomed change of pace for the series, the opening minutes of the movie show that Wade has been in a bit of a slump since the end of Deadpool 2. Hijacking Cable’s time travel device only provided a temporary fix, and several years on, he finds himself at an impasse with his ex-girlfriend Vanessa (Morena Baccarin), rejected from joining the Avengers and drifting along at a dead-end job.

I liked that Deadpool & Wolverine gave us this arc for Wade. It allows us to see his human side, which can sometimes get lost in his endless barrage of jokes. That said, the humor in this movie is the best the Deadpool franchise has offered us yet, and in my view, it’s the funniest MCU project by far. I was genuinely surprised that Disney and Kevin Feige approved some of the jokes in this script. This really is an R-rated film, so parents be warned. The quality of the humor was the real surprise, though, as I’ve had a contentious relationship with the MCU since 2015’s Avengers: Age of Ultron.

I love these characters, and this live-action shared universe, but the MCU’s cardinal sin since 2015 is that it has leaned too heavily on goofiness to sell itself. That said, Wade’s incessant chirping is the best it’s ever been in Deadpool & Wolverine. I have to tip my hat to the writers (Reynolds, Levy, with the help of Rhett Reese, Paul Wernick, and Zeb Wells) for how deep they went with some of the jokes here, even poking fun at the personal lives of some of the cast. With the full Marvel checkbook, Reynolds is fully in his element here: An accomplished and comfortable jokester who takes each fourth-wall-breaking moment to the maximum.

The movie’s other star is no slouch, either. In what I would argue is Jackman’s best performance yet, we meet a Logan who has failed the X-Men and humanity. Jackman is given some good comedic lines throughout the film, but it’s the heavy scenes that stand out. This somber take on a Wolverine with nothing left rivals even the most powerful moments in the Oscar-nominated Logan. There is one scene in particular where Logan verbally (and physically) rips Deadpool apart, which was brilliant on Jackman’s part. His costume hits all the right notes, too. As a huge Wolverine fan for most of my life, the novelty of finally seeing the yellow and blue suit in live-action was only the second-best thing about Jackman’s return to the role. Top marks, Hugh.

But the most talked about element is not Reynolds or even Hugh, but the fan service. It’s common knowledge that 20th Century Fox owned the X-Men characters as well as smaller superhero franchises for decades. After Disney bought the studio, Marvel regained the rights to all the properties which then could become integrated into the MCU. And boy, do they not waste any time doing that. After being sent to the Void, a wasteland for those the TVA deems naughty, our heroes encounter the villainous Cassandra Nova (Emma Corrin). Along the way, we meet variants from the defunct Fox Marvel universe. What could have been a tired way to pander to millennials ends up being a clever use of nostalgic cameos to not only move the plot forward but to close the loop on the arcs of several beloved characters from the pre-MCU films. The Fox cameos are so numerous that they include one that never actually happened, which is arguably the highlight of the Void portion of the film. My inner adolescent was enthralled by how well this was executed, and the second of the movie’s three group fight scenes was truly one of those perfect movie moments. 

I finally understand what Nicole Kidman has been saying in those AMC ads.

On the technical side, director Shawn Levy pulls off the difficult task of simultaneously telling a meaningful story and making a really enjoyable and silly movie. The pacing is solid, the action is terrific, the CGI is an improvement over recent projects, and the supporting cast (Corrin, Baccarin, Matthew Macfadyen, Rob Delaney, and the great Leslie Uggams) do a fantastic job in their respective roles. The soundtrack also deserves a shout-out. While the score in any given MCU film is typically unremarkable, the slew of pop songs in this one are used quite well, especially Madonna’s “Like a Prayer.” 

Alright, I’ve kept you long enough, reader. 

Deadpool & Wolverine is a filthy, unhinged, utterly absurd film that simply needs to be experienced, whether you’re a longtime superhero movie enjoyer or a normal person who is tired of the genre.

“Deadpool & Wolverine” is now playing in theaters nationwide. Rated R for strong bloody violence and language throughout, gore and sexual references.

It’s rare that a film with a budget of less than $10 million will be the kind of picture that demands to be seen on the biggest screen possible.

But Longlegs, the horror hit of the summer, is a film that demands to be seen on the big screen. That’s not just because the film’s relentless sense of dread works like gangbusters with an audience. Or because theaters are having a rough 2024 and need all the help they can get. Or because original works should be rewarded.

Longlegs demands a big-screen viewing because so much of the film’s effect depends on how writer and director Oz Perkins frames each of his shots. The opening scene plays out in a 4:3 aspect ratio, forcing the viewer to account for what is – and isn’t – in frame. Its first shot, an eerie POV shot in the front seat of a car, both implicates the viewer in the proceedings, and immediately calls attention to what visual information Perkins chooses to impart. 

Throughout the film, Perkins repeatedly draws attention to his composition by framing the protagonist against negative space. Whether sitting at a desk or standing at a phone, the viewer’s eyes will be repeatedly drawn to the empty areas of the screen, to the shadows, watching for some sort of dark figure to reveal itself. On a big screen, the effect is unmissable.

That effect means that a sense of dread permeates every moment in the film, never letting the viewer relax. It helps that Nicolas Cage’s performance as the eponymous Longlegs manages to strike a delicate balance between camp and terror. His presence lingers over the film whether he’s on- or off-screen, and Perkins teases and delays the full reveal of Longlegs’s visage, giving the character a supernatural tinge that becomes more explicit as the story proceeds. 

While Cage’s performance is certainly the most prominent part of the film, credit for holding the movie together must go to Maika Monroe, whose protagonist Lee Harker is on-screen for nearly every scene in the movie (and is often alone in doing so). Monroe plays Harker with an initial aloofness and reservedness that comes unraveled as she discovers more about her connections to Longlegs and the murders. That distance is key for establishing the character Perkins and Monroe build. Monroe allows the character to become more vulnerable as Harker’s world unravels. The audience needs a grounded performance to make the world believable, and Harker delivers.

What may make or break Longlegs for audiences (and what may have caused it to have a low Cinema Score, although that can be common for horror films) is just how explicit the supernatural presence becomes. We start with hints, like Harker’s preternatural intuition about the location of a murderer’s location, and by the end, are in full-fledged Satan-walks-among-us territory. How a viewer feels about this transition will govern the reaction to the third act.

But even if you don’t fully buy into the supernatural, the journey is well worth it.

“Longlegs” is now playing in theaters nationwide. Rated R for bloody violence, disturbing images and some language.

I chose to go watch Kinds of Kindness in the theater because I saw a funny clip of Emma Stone dancing. Unfortunately, this long-anticipated moment was the last and only funny scene of Yorgos Lanthimos’ almost three-hour movie. The film suffers from delusions of artistic significance coupled with a heavy dose of meaninglessness. 

Kinds of Kindness is really three *cough cough* conceptual stories paired together. The first shows an abusive employee/employer relationship. The second is a violent marital relationship and the third shows a spiritually abusive cult. All three contain graphic and frankly, strange forms of violence.

While watching it, I felt tense, even anxious over what would happen next. The film had a way of both fulfilling the absolute worst outcomes I could imagine and subverting my expectations. The problem is there isn’t any payoff. Lanthimos relentlessly builds tension. He includes staccato bursts of tension grotesquery but they only seem to lead to more meaningless violence.

Spoiler alert: One of the more horrifying scenes includes a main character chopping off her own finger. This immediately reminded me of The Banshees of Inisherin – a film that arguably accomplished everything Kinds of Kindness intended to about a hundred times better. Banshees discusses loneliness, years of interpersonal drama, and a town’s worth of vivid personalities as the grounding device for its strange and often shocking plot. Kinds lacks all of this humane depth but keeps the shock value.

For example, Joe Alwyn’s character in the third part is pure evil without any mitigating humanity. The cult leaders played by Daniel Defoe and Hong Chau are esoteric and vague in their cruelties. Most of the film’s characters’ motivations are entirely obscured from the viewers making them uncompelling. The most humane moments in the film are with characters experiencing extreme desperation such as Emma Stone’s characters in the second and third parts or Jesse Plemons’ in the first. Without spoiling too much, the plots of each story though unpredictable are incredibly simple making the film feel stretched out in an attempt to build tension rather than full of plot and character development. The story might have held up better as 20-minute vignettes, not nearly 3 hours of cinematic gobbledygook. 

Although I can sympathize with Yorgos’ delight in oddities, his strangeness needs to be backed up by compelling storytelling. Horror and ennui are fine in their places but they don’t make sense on their own. To be completely honest, while watching I found myself waiting, not for the plot to ripen but for the film to end.

A general plea to filmmakers: if you’re going to make a 3-hour film, make something, anything matter during the movie.

“Kinds of Kindness” is now playing in theaters nationwide. Rated R for strong/disturbing violent content, strong sexual content, full nudity and language.

Here at Cinemantics, we try not to show too much ill will against the pictures we don’t care for. Usually, we leave those complaints to our group chat, the bar, or around the coffee maker at work. So, in the spirit of that, I’ll try to be as charitable as possible.

This review will be relatively short, while the film in question, Horizon: An American Saga—Chapter One, is long, confounding, and nearly unwatchable.

This pains me to write, folks. Friends, family, and colleagues know my love for the most American of genres. From the Charles Portis novel True Grit to television’s Deadwood to The Searchers and The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, nothing perks my interest more than a Western. Add Kevin Costner’s pedigree, and, well, you have a contender for my most anticipated movie of the year. But even if you eat, sleep, and breathe Westerns like me, you should sit this out.

Usually, my reviews begin with a quick synopsis of the film’s plot to help give context to my commentary. The problem I’m running into with reviewing Chapter One is that, well, I can’t really do that. While the planned four-film franchise will tell the story of the settling of a community in the Wild West, Chapter One merely sets up the pieces on the chess board. Nothing happens. That’s not an exaggeration, folks. Except for a standout set piece in the first forty-five minutes (which might be one of the best scenes of the year), almost nothing happens. Nothing. Zilch. Nada.

Then, to add insult to injury, just as the pieces start to move, the screen cuts to black, and the next, more interesting, installment is teased. This is strange. Normally, when one pays money to see a movie, they expect something to happen, not be blue balled for three hours. This first installment feels more like the first few episodes of a limited television series than a movie.

If you’ve followed the press junket, you’ll see the irony.

An apostle for the big screen experience, Costner left Yellowstone, television’s most popular show, to make, frankly, another damn television show. It’s clear that Costner’s former collaborator, Yellowstone creator Taylor Sheridan, has rubbed off on ol’ Kev. Here, the grandeur of film and the storytelling devices of television are in constant conflict. We see this in every scene and frame. On one hand, the visual scope of each scene rivals anything John Ford put on screen. On the other hand, it is shot digitally and cheap. Gone is the rich texture of Monument Valley; gone is the depth of focus and the graininess of the film stock that gave twentieth-century Westerns a tactile grittiness. Even the most beautiful vistas of Wyoming and Utah feel flat and lifeless.

The film’s pitch of exploring Westward Expansion and the great toll it took on Indigenous peoples and American settlers is incredibly cinematic. It harkens back to How The West Was Won. But the structure and plot lines—three primary ones with a few subplots—are incredibly episodic, and they often feel like they belong in a soap opera. Hardly a compliment for a film that wants to be a commentary on the settling of the West and the creation of the American mythos.

The very nature of how Costner wants audiences to see Horizon conflicts with the story he wants to tell. Audacious as it is to tell a television-level story on the big screen, this audience member is sad to say that he has no real desire to see the next installment. And I don’t think I’m alone, given current box office projections.

Characters come and go like tumbleweeds, many without names, motivations, or personalities. But do not fret about remembering them; they’ll probably be killed off in the next scene. More than likely, their “tragic” or “shocking” death will be witnessed by some mourner, accompanied by a John Debney score that strains for greatness and stumbles, often feeling like it belongs more in Days of Our Lives than a Western in the tradition of Hawkes and Ford and Leoni. To make matters worse, whole new characters and plots are introduced well into the third hour! And we’re expected to care about them immediately?

It is not hyperbolic to say that I had to ask myself several times throughout the movie: “Who are they? Why are they doing this? Why do I care? Why am I still sitting through this?” The setup is everything, the payoff is nonexistent, and the characters we’re meant to care about are dull and lifeless.

On X and in my personal sphere, I am guilty of gushing over vanity projects from the Old Masters. In the modern studio era, the idea of directors like Costner or Francis Ford Coppola investing in their own projects when the Mouse House or Netflix won’t dare go near it is incredible. Dumb, yes, but incredible.

As both a movie lover and someone who wants to be a filmmaker one day, it’s important to see and learn from the Don Quixotes of Hollywood. Because, as history has shown time and time again when the bet pays off, you can have Star Wars or Apocalypse Now. But, as future generations will warn aspiring filmmakers when you bet and lose it all, you’ll get Horizon: An American Saga.

Go West, sir, but this is one journey I won’t be following you on.

“Horizon: An American Saga—Chapter One” is now playing in theaters nationwide. Rated R for bloodshed, discreet sex, and partial nudity.