Category: 2020s

Bring Her Back (2025)

Danny and Michael Philippou | 1hr 39min

On paper, there is nothing explicably wrong with Andy and Piper’s new foster mother, Laura. Even when they first meet her, she greets them with a friendly smile, offering sympathy for their father’s recent passing as she welcomes them into her home. Everything might almost seem completely ordinary were it not for the strange, unsettling presence of Oliver – another young foster child whose vacant stare and eerie muteness suggest a deep disturbance beneath this household’s bubbly surface. The fact that Laura’s daughter Cathy tragically drowned in the pool shouldn’t necessarily be cause for alarm given the evidence of her sincere grief, yet as Bring Her Back draws stepsiblings Andy and Piper into her crushing embrace, it is that obsessive, unresolved heartache which rots the foundations of their new life.

After plunging into the realm of ritual occultism with Talk to Me, Danny and Michael Philippou continue to explore the twisted horror of necromancy and possession in their follow-up, capitalising on their tremendous indie success. The expanded budget is not explicitly revealed in the small-scale narrative, but rather through the exceptional casting of an Australian-accented Sally Hawkins, flipping her familiar, maternal warmth upside-down as Laura and distorting her face through refracted surfaces. Her apparent affection toward Andy and Piper is not so much an act as it is a memory of who she was before losing Cathy, anchoring this villain to her humanity, and masking a curdled, neurotic fixation on the barriers between life and death.

Manipulation and gaslighting are Laura’s psychological weapons of choice here, seeking to erode Piper’s trust in her big brother. Although she confronts Andy with private knowledge of old mistakes and intrusively pries into his text messages, she clearly holds even greater secrets close to her chest. In the darkness of her bedroom, this enigmatic caretaker watches bootleg VHS tapes sourced from Russia, where grotesque, arcane rituals flicker through layers of lo-fi static. By establishing these forbidden videos as a sinister motif, the Philippou brothers imbue the film with a demented mythology, foreshadowing the demonic depths that Laura will pursue to mend her broken heart.

For those familiar with Danny and Michael Philippou’s work, the self-mutilation that takes place in Bring Her Back should be no surprise, yet the gore is enough to make even the strongest stomachs churn. Next to Hawkins, child actor Jonah Wren Phillips leaves the strongest impression in the role of Oliver, his body degrading over the course of the film with bloodshot eyes, a bloated belly, and shattered teeth as he consumes all sorts of inedible objects. Whatever lives inside him, it possesses a ravenous appetite that not even Laura can control, culminating in one particularly harrowing scene where a knife finds its way into his mouth. Andy and Piper are evidently not the only ones far out of their depth – Laura’s entire existence is consumed by desperate delusion, struggling to maintain the illusion of normalcy amid uncanny, uncontrollable forces.

That Bring Her Back pours so much time into developing the siblings’ relationship too only makes the stakes that much more intimate. Even beyond the loss of their parents, the two have endured significant hardship in their short lives, carefully navigating Piper’s severe visual impairment while Andy conceals their late father’s abuse. The codeword “grapefruit” reveals the intricate depth of their bond, cryptically asking for complete openness while hiding its meaning from others present. It is a survival tactic of children who have grown up in unstable environments, and consequently safeguard an unconditional trust between them, thus making Laura’s attempts to undermine it particularly cruel.

The Philippou brothers refuse to sanitise the reality of child abuse for Andy and Piper here, depicting its full range from subtle exploitation to shocking physical assault. As a result, Bring Her Back also pushes beyond conventional horror boundaries in its assault of innocence, leaving our young characters mortally exposed. It is no coincidence after all that Laura chooses to take in a blind child with the same condition as her late daughter, effectively condemning Piper to a devastatingly similar fate. Through one particularly crafty match cut, the two are visually entwined, reinforcing the recurring pattern of surrogacy and death that underpins multiple relationships within the film.

For stepsiblings like Andy and Piper, securing family beyond one’s own bloodline may be the most powerful redemption they can find. Had Laura accepted these children as more than just vessels of her grief, perhaps she might have even found similar healing too. As it is though, obsessive attachment to that which has been irrecoverably lost blinds this human monster to the possibility of renewal, and ultimately surrenders Bring Her Back to the tragic despair of a corrupted, maternal love.

Bring Her Back is currently available to rent or purchase on Apple TV and Amazon Video.

Caught Stealing (2025)

Darren Aronofsky | 1hr 47min

Years have passed since a devastating car crash ended New York bartender Hank’s baseball dreams, but just as life seems to have settled, the curveballs come back hard and fast in Caught Stealing. What initially seems to be a simple request to cat-sit for his neighbour rapidly escalates into a bloody scramble through alleyways, bars, and apartments, locking him in the crosshairs of rival gangs seeking a mysterious key hidden in the litterbox. If Hank knew its significance when he first uncovered it, perhaps he would have turned it over and walk away unscathed – so it’s poor luck indeed that he should carelessly lose it on a drunken night out.

Caught Stealing isn’t exactly a return to form for Darren Aronofsky after the overwrought theatrics of The Whale, but its eccentric crime caper is nonetheless a refreshing shift in style and genre. It’s less a subtle nod to Guy Ritchie’s sardonic urban thrillers than a full-volume homage, basking in a 90s rock soundtrack dominated by post-punk band IDLES and throttling forward with the desperate momentum of a base runner rounding third. Austin Butler’s savvy performance certainly helps too, toning down his brooding intensity and leaning more into his natural charm, thereby giving us a hero whose street-smart ingenuity keeps him afloat – but not quite enough to shield loved ones from the fallout.

Aronofsky may be eschewing his trademark psychological intensity, but he can’t stray too far from the body horror that often comes with it, rendered here in creatively grotesque violence. His camera doesn’t shy away from stitches cut open mid-interrogation, stab wounds to the feet, nor the recurring, slow-motion nightmare of that life-shattering car collision. It is especially through the latter that Hank’s trauma continues to surface, replaying the loss of both his friend and baseball career, yet constantly drowned out by the sedative haze of alcohol. The frequent close-ups we get of Butler’s panicked expression waking up in unfamiliar locations only underscores the relentless grip of his past, exposing a man on the run from his guilt, yet driven more by reflex than reason.

Despite Hank’s Californian upbringing, he is undoubtedly a man of New York, modelled here after the dingy lighting, trash-strewn sidewalks, and feverish nightlife of Taxi Driver. Graffiti smothers the derelict apartment building where he resides, while the city itself is a vast, multicultural ecosystem, churning with Jewish gangsters, Russian mafioso, and British punks who all stake their claim in its underworld. The extraordinary ensemble casting certainly plays a part here too, drawing on the talents of character actors such as Carol Kane, Vincent D’Onofrio, and Liev Schreiber, while Matt Smith and Regina King fill in morally grey characters with disarming nuance.

Zoë Kravitz is commendable as Hank’s girlfriend Yvonne too, doing what she can in an underwritten role that functions more as a narrative device than anything else. Charlie Huston’s screenplay often gets caught up in predictable plot conventions such as this, quite literally giving Hank a ‘save the cat’ moment as the film’s inciting incident, though at least executing them with enough flair to barrel past its more formulaic beats.

Besides, along with the baseball motif, the introduction of this animal companion anchors Hank to an enduring sense of purpose amid kinetic disarray. “You have the same eyes,” a stranger remarks late in the film, by which point the two have indeed become mirrors of each other, bound by shared trauma and resilience. Loyalties flicker with slippery inconsistency in Aronofsky’s chaotic world, but through the blur of violence and loss, Caught Stealing settles on a redemptive union of man and feline that feels much less like triumph than weary, hard-won survival.

Caught Stealing is currently playing in cinemas.

Eddington (2025)

Ari Aster | 2hr 29min

Sheriff Joe Cross does not appear to be a particularly dangerous man in Eddington. He may belong on the more conservative end of the political spectrum, denouncing COVID-19 mask mandates and asserting police authority during Black Lives Matter protests, but his ineffectiveness in both public and private life is also clear. Especially next to Mayor Ted Garcia, he recedes into an uncharismatic emblem of old-fashioned masculinity, deciding to run for office yet failing to rally the support which that beloved, progressive politician effortlessly whips up among locals. Plastered across the buildings of this rural town, Ted’s election posters bear giant, beaming smiles, while Joe physically shrinks beneath them in palpable discomfort.

When this embittered sheriff’s misfortunes consequently reach a breaking point midway through Eddington, Ari Aster’s sweeping narrative takes a shockingly dark turn. There is a malevolence in Joe which we severely underestimated, transforming him from a comically tragic figure – not unlike Joaquin Phoenix’s usual roles of late – into a chilling embodiment of paranoid authoritarianism.

The ‘woke’ protestors who Aster lightly mocks may be misguided in their attempts to instigate social justice, but this is not a story of parallel evils. Even when Eddington submits to the right-wing fantasy of one man standing against an army of violent terrorists, its satirical target is blatantly apparent, dismantling the delusional bravado embedded in modern American mythology. What initially begins as a portrait of impotence here gradually reveals itself as a study in reactionary control, and those ideological narratives which legitimise it. Naïve idealism might falter in this twisted reflection of recent history, but self-aggrandising power fatally corrodes.

Eddington does not waver from the trajectory of Aster’s career thus far, leaving behind the pure horror of Hereditary and Midsommar, and embracing psychologically distorted mirror worlds one step away from our own. Where Beau is Afraid dove in the deep end of one man’s anxious self-loathing, Aster instead anchors Eddington to May 2020, during the tumultuous early days of the COVID-19 pandemic. Traces of Robert Altman’s Nashville can be found in the idiosyncratic ensemble which makes up this Southwestern town, exposing the politics that hide in every corner of mundane life, though Aster uses a global health crisis to stoke its simmering tensions rather than a country music festival. The result is thematically ambitious, capturing a microcosm of America’s fractured political landscape, creeping religious extremism, and digitally mediated existence, but there is nevertheless a formal lack of focus here which struggles to handle the combustible chaos waiting to be lit.

It is a rocky road that Aster has traversed once before in the expansive, metaphysical odyssey of Beau is Afraid, though without the same dedication to motifs which effectively tie its looser elements together. In comparison, Eddington tends to wander, sacrificing tension in subplots concerning a fringe cult and viral conspiracy theories that only intermittently surface. At the very least, each still play a part in Aster’s patchwork tapestry, obliquely illustrating a declining, disillusioned nation.

With Eddington’s lone lawmen, frontier justice, and desert landscapes as well, what better genre is there to reveal the rot in America’s heartland than the Western? Composer Bobby Krlic evidently understands the task at hand in his dissonant, off-kilter callbacks to Ennio Morricone’s musical cues, tensely underscoring stand-offs in the town’s main street where asphalt replaces dirt, and assault rifles supplant pistols. In tense wide shots too, Aster visually places physical distance between Joe and Ted as they verbally spar, transforming these classic archetypes into subjects of political theatre. With the sheriff’s posturing and the mayor’s virtue signalling, neither seem entirely adept at running the town, but their rivalry nonetheless locks them in a performative struggle for control.

The collateral damage of this conflict is ravaging, though not always necessarily fatal. Among the first of its victims is Louise, Joe’s anxious, reclusive wife, played by a gaunt-faced Emma Stone with deep mental scars. Living almost entirely behind closed doors, she spends her days sewing creepy dolls to decorate their home, and longing for connection beyond her preoccupied husband and overbearing mother. Although Joe occupies his free time watching YouTube videos on ‘How to Convince Your Husband or Wife to Have a Baby [5 STEPS!]’, he completely neglects to inform Louise of his intention to run for mayoral office before publicly launching his campaign, leaving her wounded and betrayed. Even worse, she is rendered a political pawn in his attempt to smear Ted with allegations of sexual assault, not only forcing her secrets out into the open but misrepresenting them in the process.

As grim as Eddington gets in its grappling with real traumas and events, Aster holds his darkly comedic ground, capturing all-white crowds protesting institutional racism and attempting to bring progressive ideologies home to close-minded parents. Their cause is not trivialised so much as detached from the motives of individual characters, at least one of whom joins purely to get closer to his crush, Sarah. That the woefully infatuated Brian should flip so easily and become a conservative influencer when given the opportunity amusingly reveals the moral vacancy at his core, drawing an especially pointed allusion to the viral elevation of teen vigilante Kyle Rittenhouse. Meanwhile, the romantic drama that entangles Sarah, Ted’s son, and the town’s only Black cop Michael further muddies the waters of identity politics, becoming a lightning rod for Joe’s ambitions in his self-serving climb to the top.

With long tracking shots sinking us into the sheriff’s unravelling psyche, it is easy to lose ourselves in Eddington’s polarised tensions and overlook the third power at play, insidiously nudging everyone towards mutually assured destruction. The tech industry’s influence is woven into the fabric of the narrative, propagating misinformation and manipulating police investigations, but its encroaching presence is also subtly present in the development of a hyperscale data centre just outside of town. Few residents are particularly supportive of its development, especially given the land ownership dispute between Native Americans and local authorities, yet the project continues to quietly progress as more explosive conflicts dominate the public eye. Its growth is passive but persistent, reshaping the entire town while everyone else is too distracted to notice – right up until its construction is finished, inescapably looming in Eddington’s final shot.

For a man whose greatest fear was always loss of control, Joe’s fate is almost poetic in its cruelty, thrusting him into the feeble, helpless state he has spent his life trying to avoid. As diffuse as Aster’s storytelling may be at times, he is always cognisant of the threat which turns fragile men into dangerous myths. America’s faceless institutions of power are much larger than any one individual, and in Eddington, they do not distinguish between idealists or opportunists – only those who serve the narrative, and those who are sacrificed to sustain it.

Eddington is currently playing in cinemas.

Warfare (2025)

Alex Garland and Ray Mendoza | 1hr 35min

For a filmmaker as cerebral as Alex Garland, Warfare is an unexpected swing away from the realm of speculative fiction, chronicling a mission undertaken by U.S. Navy SEALS in the thick of the Iraq War. For his co-director Ray Mendoza, it couldn’t be more personal. Not only did he serve as a combat communications specialist during the Second Battle of Ramadi, but his experiences form the autobiographical foundation of this narrative, following in the steps of Oliver Stone to bring a visceral, firsthand authenticity to cinematic depictions of war. He is our anchor within this ensemble too, offering the subjective perspective through which the procedural banality of war is filtered, and ultimately transformed into a harrowing, disorienting horror.

Mendoza has his own fair share of experience in the movie industry, acting as a military advisor for many Hollywood productions including Garland’s own Civil War, though it is evident where the co-directors’ respective skill sets lie here. Credit must be given to Garland for the neat handling of Warfare’s real-time structure, focusing on day-to-day operations within the armed forces as Mendoza’s platoon takes control of a house, executes a sniper overwatch mission, and drastically pivots when they come under attack. Having honed his skills directing some of the best high-concept films of the past decade, he brings patience and precision to the storytelling, while Mendoza draws on his own direct experience to shape its emotional core with remarkable detail.

With that said, it is no coincidence that this significant step outside Garland’s usual mode of filmmaking also results in one of his weaker efforts. This is a director whose contemplations of consciousness, identity, and fate have often been grounded in otherworldly settings and soundscapes, encouraging a psychological disconnection from the physical world, though here he trades off introspection for the brutal immediacy of combat. The result is immersive, mounting tension as Mendoza’s platoon observes suspicious activities around the market down the street, yet Dunkirk this is not. Perhaps out of respect for his co-director’s vision, Garland’s direction never quite mounts to anything more than the primal, sensory experience of each passing moment, leaving it slightly lacking in formal ambition.

Still, Warfare’s tactile realism gives plenty of opportunities to admire the collaboration between these two directors, particularly when the enemy lands their first attack on the platoon’s hideout with a hand grenade and a hail of bullets. The injury suffered by their medic Elliott is reason enough to call him an emergency evacuation, though when the team taking him out are blindsided by a makeshift bomb, the mission spirals into chaos. Yellow smog fills the air, smothering wounded and fallen soldiers alike in a sickly hue, and Garland periodically drops out sound altogether as the survivors struggle to regain their senses.

That this building hosts a pair of innocent Iraqi families who have been forced to wait inside a bedroom only adds to the moral complexity at play. They are largely sidelined in the narrative, yet their terror exposes the collateral impact of such an invasive mission, treated as secondary to the platoon’s strategic objectives. This tension between duty and consequence is further amplified too when Lieutenant Jake’s request for a second evacuation is denied due to concerns over another explosive device, effectively leaving them stranded. In response, he orders his subordinate to impersonate a commanding officer, giving unauthorised approval and breaking a whole host of protocols along the way.

Garland and Mendoza do not bother with any sort of epilogue to close out their tale of full-throttled panic and strained procedure. As the platoon’s evacuation tank noisily rolls out of town, it leaves an eerie silence in its wake, broken only by the quiet sounds of Iraqi civilians nervously exiting their homes. If there’s any catharsis to be found in Warfare, it is suspended in this uneasy ambiguity, emptied of soldiers yet filled with uncertainty for those left behind. There is little time for reflection amid the violent chaos, but as the dust settles and life feebly resumes, Garland and Mendoza leave us with a sobering image of the enduring psychological residue that lingers long after the fighting has ended.

Warfare is currently streaming on Prime Video.

The Fantastic Four: First Steps (2025)

Matt Shakman | 1hr 55min

Leading up to its release, The Fantastic Four: First Steps seemed to have all the right ingredients for a standout instalment in the Marvel Cinematic Universe, poised to defy the iconic superhero team’s history of poor movie adaptations. WandaVision and It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia have previously benefited from Matt Shakman’s direction, and even the marketing heralded a rare Marvel film with its own unique aesthetic, blending retro-futurism with mid-century modern production design. For the first act too, we’re given exactly what we were promised – a cosy family dynamic à la The Jetsons, set in an eternally optimistic, never-ending Space Age held together by these noble astronauts.

It is once the threat of the planet-devouring Galactus emerges that The Fantastic Four falters, shedding its kitschy 60s fashion and Kubrickian interiors for overblown digital effects rendered with far less imagination. Either Shakman suddenly forgot how to use colour at this point, or he was too distracted by the apocalyptic scale to carry through his commendable style, but either way there’s little which gives these climactic stakes any visual character. For what is effectively one of the most powerful beings in the Marvel multiverse, Galactus is disappointingly dull, only vaguely becoming a figure of interest when he carelessly treads through New York City like some cosmic kaiju. Even when Shakman does return to his inspired production design, it feels wasted, relegated to the background of conversations and denied any thoughtful framing.

This is a film which works best when its central cast is simply allowed to relax in each other’s company, letting Mr. Fantastic and Sue Storm work through their new roles as parents, while Johnny Storm and the Thing fill in as uncles to the newborn Franklin. Besides the insufferably forced running gag around one character’s cheesy catchphrase, their collective chemistry is organic, especially capturing the joys and concerns of raising a child in Pedro Pascal and Vanessa Kirby’s performances. With each core member of the team representing the four classical elements, they are firmly rooted in archetypes that shape and balance their relationships, yet are also given room to evolve beyond them.

Family is about having something bigger than yourself, we are told, though it’s hard not to wish their story engaged more closely with the moral dilemma which forces them to choose between their baby and the world at large. That it takes little agonising to decide which direction to take is fine, though even the social consequences are relatively muted in this utopia which elevates them to an almost unquestionable, godlike status. Their ability to unite every single nation against an alien threat is effortless, and as such, the story never truly tests our heroes beyond the superficial strength of their willpower. Shakman’s vision of the The Fantastic Four may gesture towards greatness, but it ultimately retreats into hollow grandeur, leaving behind a world rich in style and depth for a simulation that never dares to challenge its own ideals.

The Fantastic Four: First Steps is currently playing in theatres.

28 Years Later (2025)

Danny Boyle | 1hr 55min

The reports at the end of 28 Days Later suggesting that the ‘infected’ would soon die of starvation were wrong. These zombie-like creatures are no longer simply people driven to their most primal, aggressive instincts by the Rage Virus – they have effectively evolved into their own species by the time we join Lindisfarne’s remote island community in 28 Years Later, feeding off worms when more warm-blooded food sources are scarce. Extraordinarily, there even seem to be signs of culture developing among them, with rituals, family units, and social hierarchies giving structure to their otherwise chaotic existences. It is enough to make an observer pause in wonder at the sheer persistence of life, though not for so long that one might hang around and risk their own.

Danny Boyle’s return to the horror series which redefined the zombie genre is very welcome, shifting back to his cinematic strengths that were absent in the disappointingly milquetoast Yesterday. This is a filmmaker whose passion bleeds from his craftsmanship, building upon the gritty kineticism of the digital camcorders he experimented with in 28 Days Later, and turning to iPhones as the main tool to recapture that raw immediacy. Lightweight film technology has improved vastly since then, now allowing for a higher-resolution image, yet 12-year-old Spike’s journey to the perilous mainland is nevertheless well-served by this handheld, guerilla-style shooting. Through his coming-of-age, he must confront a broken world stripped of its humanity, but in that visceral chaos 28 Years Later also uncovers a melancholy beauty that so many survivors stubbornly reject.

Gone are lo-fi digital textures of the preceding films in this series, as Boyle turns instead to higher-resolution iPhones while maintaining a visceral immediacy in his cinematography.

Local scavenger Jamie has no reason to suspect that a father-son hunting trip to the infested mainland would inspire Spike to run away from home, but upon discovering his dad’s lies and selfishness, that is exactly what he does. His mother Isla has been sick for some time, and whispers of a reclusive doctor spark his desperate hope, so the young boy ultimately sees no other option than to seek him out with her in tow. Intercut with his initial departure are newsreels and clips of wars from throughout history, often featuring children marching in military units, and drawing parallels to his own abrupt transition into adulthood. Boyle does not rely heavily on any musical score here, but rather a passage read from Rudyard Kipling’s haunting poem Boots, transposing the bleak thoughts of a Second Boer War infantryman onto Spike’s expedition. Through the sheer force of repetition, the maddening, hypnotic monotony of the battlefield rises to a panicked urgency, yet never changes its relentless rhythm.

“(Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin’ up and down again!)

There’s no discharge in the war!

Don’t—don’t—don’t—don’t—look at what’s in front of you.

(Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin’ up an’ down again);

Men—men—men—men—men go mad with watchin’ em,

An’ there’s no discharge in the war!”

‘Boots’, Rudyard Kipling (1903)
Excellent location shooting upon the Holy Island of Lindisfarne, weaving its unique geography into the narrative itself.

This entire section may very well be the cinematic peak of 28 Years Later. Boyle’s bullet time effect is established here when the infected are killed, freezing the action as the camera rapidly hurtles through space around them, and jump cuts also imbue the action with a grating abrasiveness. Unfortunately, he doesn’t follow through on everything that he sets up, eventually repurposing the use of infrared filters from horrifying cutaways to dream sequences before dropping them altogether. The overall stylistic coherence is somewhat questionable, especially given the handful of other offhand embellishments that aren’t revisited at all, but the film’s dramatic angles and abrasive editing continue to flourish even when his erratic swings falter.

Boyle uses silhouettes effectively when shooting the infected from a distance, raising tension through these gorgeous long shots.

Boyle is often far more appreciated for his dynamic pacing than his mise-en-scène, and yet the cinematography of 28 Years Later still finds a wondrous beauty in the natural world, striking haunting silhouettes against the sky and revelling in its surreal aurora borealis. When Spike eventually reaches his destination and meets the elusive Dr Kelson, Boyle also delivers what may be the film’s defining set piece, revealing a forest of bone pillars constructed around a soaring tower of skulls. It is called Memento Mori, the doctor explains, Latin for “Remember you must die.” The sight of this macabre art installation may stoke fear from a distance, yet it also becomes the channel through which Dr Kelson expresses his immense respect for all life, incorporating the remains of infected and uninfected alike – “because they are alike,” he insists.

A wildly creative set piece at the film’s climax, paying immense respected to the cycles of life and death through this formidable forest of bones.

Ralph Fiennes is remarkably well-cast in this relatively small role, embodying a gentle eccentricity that has been deprived of human contact for many years, but which has made peace with things no one else dares face. He stands at the centre of the film’s entire ethos, nudging Spike forward in his journey to confront death with grace, birth with tenderness, and transformation with courage. Through the three characters who represent each, Boyle constructs an unusual trinity, echoing those natural rhythms of existence that persist in a world that has seemingly destroyed them.

As Spike reaches this milestone in his maturation, fires and memories intertwine through an ethereal montage set around the Memento Mori shrine, now illuminated as an icon of extraordinary hope and reverence. For all its pulpy violence and bloody horror, 28 Years Later is also surprisingly soulful in its lyrical contemplations, asserting a belief in the soul that transcends whatever version of humanity we abide by. With various references to a mysterious “Jimmy” scattered all throughout this film, the stage is set for an intriguing sequel which Boyle is unfortunately not returning to the director’s chair for, instead passing the considerable responsibility to Nia DaCosta. Regardless of where that future instalment goes though, Boyle’s return to his beloved, existential franchise stands as a fierce act of anthropological curiosity, not so much questioning if humanity can be saved than whether it is still worth defining.

The tease of ‘Jimmy’ laced through 28 Years Later makes for excellent foreshadowing, fully earning that cliffhanger as we head into the sequel.

28 Years Later is currently playing in theatres.

Superman (2025)

James Gunn | 2hr 9min

For DC Studios, the stakes riding on Superman’s success are arguably higher than any superhero movie in recent memory. Not only must they reboot a cinematic universe, but also entirely rebuild it, paving a path forward that restores brand confidence after the collapse of the DC Extended Universe. On a broader level, Warner Bros. Discovery is also banking on a smash hit to ward off a potential merger, while James Gunn himself seeks to balance the character’s old-school sentimentality with cultural relevance. In the end though, all it really takes for this version of Superman to triumph is vision, dedication, and craftsmanship – not exactly a high bar to clear, yet nevertheless a meaningful one in a franchise so fragmented by directionless ambition.

It certainly helps that Gunn is now steering the ship, having earned his stripes overseeing Marvel’s Guardians of the Galaxy trilogy and gifting the DCEU its single strongest instalment in The Suicide Squad. Even if the resounding cinematic triumph of The Batman or the Spider-Verse series has somewhat eluded him, he has taken his place among the most creative auteurs in the comic book movie industry, resisting detractors with his curated brand of offbeat humour and colourful stylisations. Gone is the unsmiling stoicism of Man of Steel, and in its place is a lighter yet equally sincere idealism, giving us a Superman whose humanity is ironically his greatest power.

Gunn forgoes the usual hero origin story here, besides some text briefly explaining Superman’s heritage and the history of metahumans. We instead open in media res with him crashlanding in Antarctica, broken and bloodied after his first loss, and immediately subverting the image of physical strength that the character typically projects. It seems he has met his match against a villain apparently representing the tyrannical nation of Boravia, though as we soon discover, it is truthfully just one of many catastrophic distractions unleashed by billionaire Lex Luthor upon the city of Metropolis. Behind the scenes, commercial and government forces conspire to occupy the developing country of Jarhanpur, thus wrapping Superman up in the complex, sensitive arena of foreign affairs.

Clark Kent’s sympathy for the marginalised people of this nation is no trifling character detail. He himself is an alien who lost his home and has since made a new one in the United States, embracing its culture while wistfully holding onto remnants of his past. The immigrant narrative is easy enough for Luthor to twist using his immense media influence, leaving Superman to the ruthless scrutiny of public opinion and consequently clearing the magnate’s road to power. This is not the film to watch for sophisticated takes on global politics, especially seeing how it flattens complicated matters into straightforward wins and losses, yet the emotional clarity applied to Clark Kent’s moral compass stands out in Luthor’s world where so many others would rather sit by and watch.

Radiant hope is at the core of Superman, so it is fitting that Gunn should imbue it with a luminous vitality that diverges significantly from Zack Snyder’s desaturated DCEU. This is not to say it doesn’t fall into familiar traps of muddy CGI, particularly when the narrative enters a pocket universe with an “antiproton river” seemingly made from Minecraft blocks, but this is fortunately offset by far more imaginative uses of digital effects. The image of a giant, neon monster spraying fluorescent plasma across Metropolis isn’t out of place for Gunn, though here it also serves as an inventive backdrop to Clark Kent’s personal crisis, humorously sidelined while shining vivid purple and green hues through the apartment window.

The retro-futurism of Superman’s sleek production design also thankfully gives this far more aesthetic appeal than the standard comic book blockbuster, notably redesigning the Fortress of Solitude as a laboratory, observatory, and archive grown from ice crystals. Paired with Gunn’s signature use of long, fluid takes in both dialogue and action scenes, the result is a cohesive, formal throughline, avoiding any choppy post-production compromises. Piercing wide-angle shots and artfully deployed slow-motion only reinforce the film’s vibrant visual identity, lending the spectacle a clarity that elevates it beyond sensory chaos.

Gunn handles comic relief better than most directors working for Marvel or DC, though the tension between Superman’s banter and earnestness occasionally gives way to uninspired wisecracks, and some exposition-laden dialogue certainly doesn’t help the screenplay either. Nevertheless, his characterisation of these familiar characters is refreshing, establishing a version of Superman who half-jokingly lays claim to being “punk rock” yet truthfully embodies those countercultural ideals beneath his boy scout appearance. Radical kindness in a world of passive bystanders is its own rebellion, and David Corenswet approaches it with a sensitivity that stands in stark contrast to the conniving, corporate evil of Nicholas Hoult’s Luthor, focusing on rescuing individual victims from harm rather than directly preventing world-ending threats.

Though it is a little disappointing to see Gunn step into more of a producer’s role from here on, putting him in the pilot’s seat is possibly the best move DC Studios could have made. Superman’s blend of emotional sincerity and stylish flair offers a workable blueprint for future entries, proving that clarity of vision can be more powerful than scale. Comic book movies aren’t going anywhere, so perhaps the best we can hope from the DC Universe are these small, modest evolutions of the genre, nudging it towards stories that prioritise character over spectacle without sacrificing either.

Superman is currently playing in theatres.

F1 (2025)

Joseph Kosinski | 2hr 35min

Casual audiences would be forgiven for finding F1’s team-up between a cocky youngster and an ageing expert extraordinarily familiar. Given the plot similarities to Top Gun: Maverick, it’s certainly no coincidence either. In bringing motorsports to the cinema screen, Joseph Kosinski has chosen to brazenly run with the formula which granted his last soaring blockbuster both critical and financial success, charging this adrenaline-pumping sports drama with the same high-stakes camaraderie.

In simple terms of course, the setup looks very different. Instead of jets, F1 has race cars. Instead of striking an enemy base, the Grand Prix stands at the pinnacle of our characters’ ambitions. In the absence of Tom Cruise, Kosinski centres Brad Pitt, essentially swapping out one old-school movie star for another. With its fundamental elements laid bare, the shine has at least partially rubbed off Kosinski’s grand endeavour to recapture Top Gun: Maverick’s magic – but if anyone is going to run through old archetypes with flair, then he is certainly among the most adept modern directors at stylishly redressing them.

The struggling APXGP F1 team is at risk of sale here, potentially threatening the career of promising rookie Joshua Pearce, who suddenly feels greater pressure than ever to prove his value. The arrival of former Formula One prodigy Sonny Hayes should hopefully secure the team at least one Grand Prix win by the end of the season, though naturally the enormous egos of passionate and talented men stand in the way. Where Sonny sees a chance at redemption for the brutal collision which ended his career some years ago, Joshua strongly believes he must outshine his teammate to climb the ladder of success, and in turn publicly channels that aggression towards Sonny.

Pure self-interest is not an effective strategy in a team sport, and it doesn’t take a huge stretch of the imagination to predict how this rivalry is resolved through compromise and cooperation. The repetitive structure which constantly moves from one race to the next wears a bit thin as well, but F1 is simply not a film of clever genre subversions. Kosinski’s set pieces are extraordinarily polished, smoothly mixing the sharp sound design of cheering crowds, roaring engines, and live commentary with propulsive editing that builds tension through both driving and pit stops alike. On occasion he will even throw to a rhythmic montage, split screen, or slow-motion shot, though no cinematic technique is so consistent as to develop into a formal motif.

Like Top Gun: Maverick, F1 is primarily a bold, sensory experience built on the work of its craftsmen, with Apple especially playing a notable role in pioneering camera technology that uniquely situates us in the cockpits themselves. On a more emotional level, Hans Zimmer’s score offers dynamic layers with his typical blend of electronic and orchestral instruments, while Kosinski’s actors viscerally throw themselves into the heart-pumping action. The pairing of Pitt with rising star Damson Idris reflects the generational struggle of the sport itself, constantly balancing its historical traditions against technological innovations, and underscoring how their synergy elevates veterans and rookies alike to new heights. Humility is certainly a virtue, but it is also a strategy cultivated through injury, resilience, and discipline, setting both on a mutual path to victory.

The ”racing ballet” metaphor given to Sonny and Joshua’s teamwork may be elaborate, but it isn’t too far off nailing the elegance that F1 attaches to motorsports. Fluidity and momentum are one in Kosinski’s action, choreographed with absolute precision, and imbued with a visceral energy that builds to rumbling crescendos. Like a duet performed at breakneck speed, F1 finds its soul in the synchrony between rivals, and is is there where friction finally gives way to steady, hard-won trust.

F1 is currently playing in theatres.

The Phoenician Scheme (2025)

Wes Anderson | 1hr 41min

Having survived six attempts on his life, wealthy industrialist Zsa-Zsa Korda is a man well-acquainted with death. His blasé attitude is somewhat reasonable given the circumstances, proclaiming “Myself, I feel quite safe” with nonchalant, deadpan regularity, and coming to expect peril around every corner. Nevertheless, he knows his days are numbered. After surviving a recent plane crash, monochrome visions of heaven have started raising far more existential questions than the comforts of his fortune ever managed, prompting reflections upon his soul, his legacy, and the immortality of both. Perhaps then Liesl, the daughter who he sent to a convent at age 5, is the most suited of his ten children to inherit his estate – if he can earn her trust while executing his most ambitious project to date.

Wes Anderson has frequently explored the redemption of estranged father figures through their reconnection with scorned children, and here Zsa-Zsa and Liesl fit nicely into this mould set by Royal and Margot Tenenbaum. Still, his work has never quite taken on such spiritual dimensions before, especially with the weariness of Benicio del Toro’s patriarch predisposing him to his daughter’s ecclesiastical influence. She does not approve of the slave labour required to overhaul the infrastructure of fictitious Middle Eastern country Phoenicia, but by accompanying him on his journey to win over investors, she sees the potential to do good along the way.

Anderson gathers a talented cast in this tale of redemption through family, with Benicio del Toro, Mia Threapleton, and Michael Cera leading its eccentric dynamic.

With Anderson’s last few films taking the form of ensemble pieces, The Phoenician Scheme returns to the focused character studies that defined his earlier work, recognising those contrived social pretences which exacerbate his protagonists’ loneliness. Del Toro thrives at centre of his second collaboration with Anderson, playing into the unexpected vulnerability of a businessman whose life has been built on the callous exploitation of others. Zsa-Zsa’s freedom to travel anywhere is virtually unlimited, though only at the expense of citizenship and personal rights – minor sacrifices for an affluent lifestyle, in his opinion. Belonging is an inherently submissive act, far out of reach for one so set on owning everything, and it is in this stateless void that the Korda family patriarch finds himself totally isolated from the world he wishes to possess.

Anderson’s first proper character study since The Grand Budapest Hotel, examining the peril that threatens a life founded on exorbitant wealth, and he conducts it with his usual deadpan wit.

Rather than Zsa-Zsa’s dominant character arc compromising the narrative scope though, his expanding actors’ troupe sprawls out across subplots and settings. The Phoenician Scheme briefly shines the spotlight upon veterans Bill Murray and Willem Dafoe, revels in the deadpan wit of recent additions Richard Ayoade and Benedict Cumberbatch, and invites two talented newcomers into the main cast. Kate Winslet’s daughter Mia Threapleton has clearly inherited her mother’s shrewd edge, carefully treading a narrow line between Liesl’s altruism and her cynical self-indulgence, while Michael Cera’s turn as Norwegian entomologist Bjørn simultaneously conforms to and subverts his awkwardly endearing screen persona.

So many of our best living actors are lining up to work with Anderson, and he knows how to make the most of their unique talents, giving them each a moment in the spotlight.

In painting out the imbalanced dynamic between our three leads, Anderson’s blocking proves to be particularly rigorous. The first meeting between Zsa-Zsa and Liesl establishes their disconnection through height, situating him upon the dais in the centre of his grey, austere dining hall, or otherwise seating him on a chair while she crouches on a footstool. Even more amusingly, Bjørn’s occupation as Zsa-Zsa’s administrative assistant often relegates him to the background and edges of the frame, comically underscoring his painfully polite presence.

Magnificent framing and blocking to illustrate the power dynamic between father and daughter, giving the powerful low angle to Zsa-Zsa, while Liesl is belittling pushed further back in the shot.
Bjørn meanwhile is often framed as the third wheel in this dynamic, amusingly interjecting from the background or otherwise lingering on the edges of the shot.

Of course, this meticulous staging is crucially an extension of his exquisitely curated sets, shot by renowned cinematographer Bruno Delbonnel in his first team-up with Anderson. Zsa-Zsa’s palazzo-inspired manor of is almost entirely stripped of colour, making for a particularly stunning slow-motion, overhead shot in the tiled bathroom where dedicated staff attend to his every need, yet also lavishly embellished by marble columns and priceless art. Against these muted tones, the crimson rug upon which he organises his business plans appears all the more vibrant, and the shoeboxes that they are divided into strike an especially whimsical note.

Zsa-Zsa’s manor is an impressive and devastatingly bleak set piece, defining his character through harsh angles stony textures, and a monochrome palette.
An overhead shot so perfect that Anderson hangs on it for the opening credits and returns to it again later – the sheer, minimalist precision is astounding.
A vibrant blaze of colour announcing Zsa-Zsa’s bold business plans upon the grey tiles of his dining hall, but even the rug’s vertical and horizontal lines run at odds with the floor’s diagonal pattern.

True to Anderson’s offbeat formalist sensibilities, this is the system he chooses to structure The Phoenician Scheme around, representing each shoebox as a different investor to whom Zsa-Zsa must appeal. A train tunnel, a nightclub, a ship, and a dam become dioramic set pieces on his journey through Phoenicia, each hosting potential stakeholders who fall prey to his unscrupulous negotiation methods. Whether he is threatening blackmail or suicide bombings, it isn’t uncommon for these discussions to erupt into unintelligible uproars, nor for Zsa-Zsa to offer one of his many hand grenades as a gesture of goodwill.

Anderson’s narrative effortlessly sprawls across varied locations, giving him countless opportunities to flex his visual design.

Needless to say, The Phoenician Scheme is quite easily Anderson’s most violent film yet, and consequently one of his most darkly comedic. His immaculate formal control never descends into chaos even when characters find themselves blown up, shot, and poisoned, rupturing the cool distance of wide shots with grotesque reminders of the stakes at play. Though shocking in its frequency, this heightened brutality is rendered with a deliberate absurdity that feels right at home in Anderson’s miniature, mythologised vision of history, vaguely anchoring Zsa-Zsa’s dealings to the messy geopolitics and espionage of the 1950s. While globalist governments conspire, spies gather intel, and rumours swirl around the mysterious Uncle Nubar, our morally compromised protagonist boldly advances his imperialist ambitions, slipping between the cracks of warring powers with the elusiveness of a tycoon who’s made scheming into an artform.

Anderson’s most violent film to date, confronting life-or-death stakes with a dark sense of irony.
Anderson’s take on 1950s global politics is vaguely adjacent to our own history, yet firmly set within his own curated, fictionalised world.

It’s little wonder then that this man who is so accustomed to dodging danger should find himself haunted by cryptic visions of the afterlife. Neither is it a surprise that Anderson draws so heavily from Michael Powell’s metaphysical fantasy A Matter of Life and Death here, similarly using the black-and-white photography of these ethereal scenes to set a stark contrast against the pastel palettes of Zsa-Zsa’s mortal endeavours, and equally weighing his soul in both worlds. In one, it is Liesl whose earthly judgement holds him accountable, illuminating the tangible impact of his selfishness. In the other, the jury consists of his grandmother, his deceased wives, the five-year-old Liesl he once abandoned – every loved one he has hurt now spurring a reckoning through obscure metaphors and exchanges.

Formal black-and-white interludes take us into the afterlife where Zsa-Zsa faces loved ones and God himself – of course taking the form of Bill Murray.
Props play an important and whimsical role in all Anderson’s films, but are especially used in The Phoenician Scheme to illustrate Liesl’s journey as she adopts more worldly influences.

Still, reconciliation is a two-way street, most evident in Liesl’s gradual adoption of her father’s vices – a curious expression of empathy in its own right. As she embraces his world, emerald eyeshadow and red lipstick begin to colour her face, and so too does she swap out her old pipe, dagger, and rosary beads for bejewelled versions of each. This is not an abandonment of her religious principles, but rather an unforced harmony where she is met by her father, setting aside those trivial luxuries and grudges that fractured their family many times over. Amid epic entanglements of industrialists, assassins, and terrorists, this is the divine humility concealed within The Phoenician Scheme’s dysfunctional family reunion, cutting entrepreneurial egos down to size through the stylish, self-effacing manner of Anderson’s inimitable charm.

The Phoenician Scheme is currently playing in cinemas.

Mission: Impossible – The Final Reckoning (2025)

Christopher McQuarrie | 2hr 50min

The end of a franchise as culturally dominant as Mission: Impossible is bittersweet. Bitter because Tom Cruise’s physics-defying dedication to practical stunts and spectacle has held the series up as a mainstay of action cinema through even its weaker instalments; sweet because, as thrilling as the ride has been, we know that both Tom Cruise and Christopher McQuarrie can thrive outside its familiar formula. Still, what The Final Reckoning lacks in deftness it makes up for in raw impact, unleashing a rousing conclusion to the nuclear threat posed by the rogue AI parasite from Dead Reckoning, and tying off plot threads that stretch all the way back to the very first film.

At its most cumbersome, McQuarrie drags his narrative through throwback montages and exposition, paying homage to everything that has led to Ethan Hunt’s final mission while establishing the extraordinarily high stakes at play. As much as he tries to sustain momentum through dialogue, the dense information dumps are transparent, serving only to link one set piece to the next and exorbitantly blow out the nearly three-hour runtime. It is especially disappointing given the extraordinary peril at hand – plain discussion does not serve to underscore the weight of human extinction fuelled by disinformation, civil unrest, and global paranoia. Instead, it is up to McQuarrie’s ingenious, heart-pounding action sequences to drive home The Final Reckoning’s daunting stakes, often intercutting between characters located nations apart.

This is a film built on deadlines after all, from the U.S. President’s 72-hour timeframe to launch nuclear warheads, to the bomb that gives Luther only minutes to save London. McQuarrie’s parallel editing expertly demonstrates the efficiency his exposition lacks, juxtaposing Hunt’s hand-to-hand struggle in a submarine against the icy tundra where his team fights Russian special forces, and using their hostile environments against them. Even more astounding is the film’s climax which spans Washington DC, a South African bunker of data servers, and an unconventional biplane dogfight, which sees Cruise climb from one aircraft to another mid-flight to hijack the controls. There is clearly a touch of Top Gun in this aerial sequence, but where that franchise would solely focus on its impressive manoeuvres, McQuarrie skilfully raises the urgency by tightly synchronising them with other moving parts of this time-sensitive mission.

When McQuarrie does slow down and stretch out the suspense though, his visual storytelling is no less effective, giving total attention to Hunt’s underwater heist of the Entity’s source code in an extended, dialogue-free sequence. The sunken submarine he must infiltrate to retrieve it is effectively one giant, hazardous set piece, holding weak defence against the immense water pressure outside its walls, as well as the deep crevice it is very gradually rolling towards. Inception’s rotating hallway is the clear inspiration here, constantly evolving the submarine’s interior terrain as gravity tilts and water pours in, while the muffled, groaning sound design intensifies with the gathering speed.

If there is a missed opportunity in The Final Reckoning at all, then it is the Entity’s lack of personal threat to Hunt and his team, especially after its ability to impersonate voices and manipulate radar signals proved to be fatal in Dead Reckoning. Instead, it is primarily occupied by its takeover of nuclear command centres across the world, while power-hungry terrorist Gabriel becomes a more tangible villain directly competing with Hunt for control over the deadly AI. The strength of the cast rather lies in our heroes, giving long-term teammates Luther and Benji fond farewells, while newer allies Paris and Grace carry over from Dead Reckoning and slot smoothly into the existing dynamic.

Not that we will necessarily see them integrate any further. Although Cruise and McQuarrie have definitively called The Final Reckoning the last in the series, this distinction is somewhat arbitrary, as the narrative itself only lightly commits to the end of Hunt’s journey. The doorway to future instalments is certainly there, but the ceiling for Mission: Impossible is only so high, and there may not be any better place for it to conclude than in this bombastic homage to the franchise’s history. We can only hope their word holds true – in an era increasingly reliant on digital artifice, The Final Reckoning stands as an overstuffed, operatic monument to what practical filmmaking can still achieve when pushed to its edge, and so utterly devoted to the impossible.

Mission: Impossible – The Final Reckoning is currently playing in theatres.