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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
In a small English police station, 13-year-old Jamie Miller is charged with the murder of his classmate, Katie Leonard. Back at school, an entire community is left reeling with confusion and grief over what has unfolded. In a youth detention centre, Jamie’s motives are uncovered by a forensic psychologist, and some months later his family continue to grapple with the long-term consequences in their own home. Four snapshots across thirteen months are all that Philip Barantini needs to uncover the humanity in the horror of Adolescence, plunge into its despairing depths, and lift this crime beyond the sort of freak occurrence that most people are fortunate enough to only ever see in news headlines.
Where a lesser series would thinly spread its sprawling drama across dozens of episodes, Adolescence weaves the fragmented nature of television into its very structure, dedicating an hour at a time to its characters’ messy lives. It is not an anthology of self-contained stories, but neither does it maintain the straightforward continuity that we often expect from serial dramas, letting us fill in the days and months that separate episodes. As such, its narrative economy is remarkably efficient, unravelling four vignettes in real time while intertwining the movements of police officers, students, and relatives.
We are pulled right into the action with this in media res opening, storming the Miller household as the police pull Jamie from bed – all captured in one continuous take of course.
Barantini’s stylistic conceit of playing out each episode in single, continuous takes must be credited for our immersion in this harrowing study of modern-age masculinity. Right from the in media res opening of episode 1, we are launched into the police force’s raid of the Miller residence, sharing in the same shock as Jamie’s panicked family as he is arrested. The handheld camerawork keeps us in Barantini’s tight grip, disorientating us as we move with Jamie from the house into the police van where we finally get a moment to collect ourselves. In the absence of cuts, we sombrely sit with him for several minutes during his transportation to the police station, tuning out the adults’ muffled speech while a tense, ticking score takes over. The sheer length of sequences like these only deepens our discomfort in Adolescence, growing our dread throughout this first episode.
Barantini orchestrates his camera’s push and pull between wide shots and close-ups beautifully, anxiously tightening on Jamie’s face as his fingerprints and mugshot are taken.
When Jamie’s mug shot and fingerprints are taken, again we hang on the unspoken guilt written across his face, while the agonising humiliation suffered by his father Eddie is given an agonising close-up during the young teen’s strip search. In the consultation room, Jamie’s blue jumper blends in with the muted, melancholy tones of the walls around him, where the camera tentatively circles the emergence of truth. Jamie was caught on CCTV footage stabbing Katie to death in a parking lot the previous night, we eventually learn, effectively rupturing the innocence of a community which never believed such a barbaric act could be committed by one of their own – and least of all by a child.
Adolescence doesn’t feature overly gorgeous mise-en-scène, but the muted blues in the police station and costuming make for an admirable standout in episode 1.
Episode 2 is set only a couple of days later, though it delivers an impressive sense of scale by widening its focus to the staff and students at Jamie’s school, many of whom become witnesses in DI Luke Bascombe’s investigation. With his son Adam only a few years above Jamie, his personal life is not entirely removed from this case, and in their emotionally estranged relationship we begin to see patterns emerge between the fathers and sons of Adolescence. Here, Barantini locks onto the social influences which slyly insinuated themselves in Jamie’s life, mixing a lethal Gen Z cocktail of cyberbullying and incel propaganda with the sort of male insecurities even older generations would recognise.
Episode 2 widens its focus to an entire community impacted by Jamie’s crime, skilfully navigating the school grounds and classrooms where his worst influences begin to show their faces.Patterns emerge between fathers and sons in Adolescence, revealing an emotional estrangement in otherwise close relationships.
This episode features what may be Barantini’s singularly most ambitious shot, traversing the school grounds, classrooms, and offices to reveal the interconnectedness of the local community. The camera often hitches onto characters as they move from one location to the next, linking conflicting accounts of Jamie and Katie’s relationship to a secret emoji language, and the missing murder weapon to Jamie’s friends. During its final minutes, Barantini even seamlessly lifts the camera into a drone shot flying over the entire neighbourhood to a choral rendition of ‘Fragile’, echoing its mournful lyrics as it eventually descends to witness a mournful Eddie laying flowers at the site of Katie’s murder.
A breathtaking highlight of Barantini’s soaring camerawork, lifting the camera above the school, flying over the town……and eventually descending into a close-up of Eddie’s face, laying flowers at Katie’s shrine.
With all this said, the greatest hindrance to Barantini’s long takes are Adolescence’s lengthy dialogue scenes, often leaving the camera to wander without aim or purpose. Within these moments, its ambitions fall far behind other one-take films such as Birdman or Victoria, and this especially becomes restrictive in the single room setting of episode 3. The staging in Jamie’s detention centre is more akin to a play than anything else, focusing on his examination by forensic psychologist Briony Ariston, though in exchange young actor Owen Cooper is given a platform to deliver some of the most outstanding acting of the series.
The stagebound setting of episode 3 doesn’t quite earn its one-take conceit, but nevertheless underscores two brilliant performances at its centre, particularly from the incredibly talented Owen Cooper.
In Jamie’s frustration at Briony’s line of questioning, we see a teenage boy who can’t quite grasp his own emotions, resisting any attempt to probe deeper in fear of what he may find. “Are you allowed to talk about this?” he uneasily asks about half a dozen times when the topic turns to sex, repeating the phrase almost as often as his baseless claim – “I didn’t do it.” Unable to reconcile his guilt and dignity, he desperately tries to convince himself of his innocence, denying the traumatic reality of his actions. When this cognitive dissonance is threatened, he falls back on intimidation tactics to retake control from Briony, throwing insults and even a chair in bitter anger. She is perturbed, yet actress Erin Doherty holds a steel nerve against his torment, only ever revealing how deeply this experience cuts away from his judgemental eyes.
A brief respite in the corridor outside – this line of work is incredibly taxing for Briony, only letting her guard drop away from Jamie’s eyes.
In Jamie’s quieter moments too, Cooper’s angsty performance remains strong, unassumingly being coaxed into contemplating his relationship with his father. When he asked if he is loving, Jamie’s responds is dismissive – “No, that’s weird” – and as Adolescence moves into episode 4, Barantini allows this regretful man to take the final word on the matter. Thirteen months after the murder, the Miller family wrestles with the long-term ramifications of Jamie’s actions which have singled them out in their community as pariahs. Glimmers of healing emerge during their drive to the local hardware store, looking for paint to cover up the graffiti left on Eddie’s van, but even this simple outing cannot escape the cruel taunts of teenagers or conspiracy theorists chillingly advocating for Jamie’s innocence.
Isolated and ridiculed in their own community, the Millers desperately hold the remnants of their lives together in episode 4, as Barantini turns something as simple as a trip to the local hardware store into an entire ordeal.Online incel culture latches onto Jamie’s story and chillingly manifests in real life.Eddie splashes black paint across his van in a fit of rage, finding no other release for his emotions.
Finally exhausting his patience, Eddie throws his fresh tin of paint all over the van, and in this moment we see flashes of the boy who only last episode tossed a chair in anger. Retreating to Jamie’s room with his wife Manda, Eddie ponders where it all went wrong, at which point the dialogue begins spell out its themes a little too directly. The screenplay weakens here, exchanging subtext for literalism, yet Barantini nevertheless succeeds in bringing Jamie’s story full circle back to his biggest influence.
Eddie’s failure isn’t as simple as him being a bad father – that much is clear from the anguished guilt of Stephen Graham’s performance. “If my dad made me, how did I make that?” he laments, beginning to recognise how deeply entrenched his worst habits are in his own childhood and parenting. As he cries into Jamie’s bed, the blues we observed in the police station return in darker shades to envelop him in a familiar sorrow, yet this time allowing an honest outpouring of suppressed emotions. It is a catharsis that we have eagerly awaited in Adolescence, and one that is especially earned through the cumulative weight of Barantini’s long, restrained takes, pushing a quiet form of insistence – not only that we bear witness to this teenager’s shattering crime, but to the raw, fragmented, and unresolved mess left behind.
Emotional catharsis as Eddie finally reveals his vulnerability in the closing minutes of Adolescence, returning to Jamie’s room where it all began.
The face of human evil is insidiously disguised in The Girl with the Needle, though the glimpses that Magnus von Horn’s nightmarish interludes offer us reveal the eerie horror behind its warm, maternal mask. Within black voids, faces morph and merge into monstrosities, transparently layered atop each other like projections. Hands forcefully rub cheeks, mouths stretch open in silent screams, and shadows pass across upside-down features, expressing a pain and malice which could be straight from the depths of hell.
An eerie montage of stretched, distorted faces in shadow, expressing pain, malice, and insidious glee.A codependent relationship between the abused and the abuser visualised in multiple reflections, trapped and helpless.
Within the uncanny blend of close-ups, two faces emerge which we will soon be made familiar with – factory worker Karoline, who finds herself at an impossible crossroads when she is impregnated with a baby she can’t afford to raise, and Dagmar, a middle-aged woman who takes her in seemingly out of the goodness of her heart. The destitute Denmark they occupy has been ravaged by the economic fallout of World War I, flaunting the privilege of the wealthy over the poor who must suffer in squalid conditions, and holding them in the grip of an inherently unjust system. As such, the cruel acts that Dagmar inflicts upon the few truly innocent inhabitants of Copenhagen are supposedly an anaesthetic to this psychological suffering, not unlike the ether she ritually abuses. Through her twisted sense of compassion, single mothers are not only freed of their unwanted children, but may also submit to the fantasy that they have been adopted by a loving, well-off family. When finally arrested and confronted with the severe weight of her crimes, her moral justification of the infanticide she commits is chillingly straightforward.
“That’s what was needed.”
Perhaps most unsettling of all is the historic basis of this character upon one of Denmark’s most infamous serial killers, whose notorious murders of abandoned babies shook the nation to its core. As repulsive as she may be, Horn is sure not to paint her as some aberration of society. She is the product of a post-war civilisation which ruthlessly tramples over the disenfranchised, and consequently births a new form of degeneracy which masquerades her services as gender and class solidarity.
Horn’s wide shots often use longer lens to compress his depth of field, here composing a delicate shot with the two women and stroller framed beneath the majestic tree.The war comes to an end, yet what should be a joyous occasion is accepted with solemnity among these factory workers, who remained resigned to the class hierarchy painted out in this marvellous blocking.Anchored in the destitute poverty of postwar Copenhagen, Horn often uses his setting’s dilapidated architecture and muddied streets in the vein of Béla Tarr, sinking his characters into a hopeless malaise.
Horn’s framing of her story through the eyes of fictional client Karoline effectively applies a grim, psychological lens, clouding our perception of 1920s Copenhagen’s harsh realities with terror, mistrust, and trauma. His stunningly bleak recreation of this period setting echoes Béla Tarr in its ruinous dilapidation, rendering the textures of coarse fabrics and peeling walls in high-contrast, monochrome photography, and slowly zooming in on doors and stairways where horrors unfold just beyond our view. The influence of Ingmar Bergman is also felt in Horn’s intimate framing of faces, notably splitting Karoline and Dagmar’s profiles on either side of the frame during a crucial confrontation, though the shallow depth of field on display is notably his own. Copenhagen’s bitterly cold parks and stone streets melt away into blurred backdrops through his long lenses, disconnecting Karoline from her environment, and especially isolating her from Dagmar once her betrayal is made apparent.
Narrow frames squeezing in on an oppressed Karoline, using the city’s narrow corridors and doorways to impede on her very being.Bergman’s influence in the blocking and lighting of faces, illustrating the poisonous relationship between Karoline and Dagmar as the truth comes to light.Horn’s shallow focus disconnects Karoline from her harsh environment, particularly here as a wealthy couple passes through the background in a blur.
With a score of low drones, rumbling vibrations, and metallic creaks, The Girl with the Needle takes haunting form in its minimalist soundscape too, uncomfortably accompanying Karoline’s descent into helpless reliance upon her child’s killer. This is a woman whose hopes for a prosperous life have been dashed by her affluent ex-lover, and whose husband Peter has returned from war both horribly disfigured and violently traumatised, eroding her faith in men as a source of stability. As such, she is in a deeply vulnerable place when she initially meets Dagmar at the local baths, attempting an abortion with a dauntingly large needle. The comfort provided by a stranger promising a secure future for Karoline’s daughter appears to be the only source of light in a dark world, so it is only natural that she gravitates toward it like a moth to a flame.
A minimalist shot packed with visual symbolism – the dirtied mirror masking Karoline’s face behind a layer of grime as she wrestles with her conscience, and the giant needle offering escape through pain.Gorgeous lighting diffused through windows and bouncing off wet surfaces, setting the scene for Karoline’s desperate escape.
Nevertheless, something seems very wrong even before Karoline learns the truth of Dagmar’s business, especially with Horn leading us to suspect the very worst. Once Karoline gets hooked on Dagmar’s ether, she effectively loses all agency, only finding purpose as a wet nurse to the abortion broker’s younger daughter Erena and a recently abandoned baby boy. Erena’s attempt to smother this infant when Karoline gives it too much attention should be the first major hint that murder is commonplace in this household, and suspicions expressed by her old colleague Frida similarly validate our own, mounting a foreboding sense of dread.
Painterly shots as Karoline stalks Dagmar through Copenhagen’s rough stone streets, mounting a foreboding suspense.A gut-punch of a reveal, confirming our suspicions with jerking, almost inhuman movements as we linger on Dagmar’s back.Horn realises it’s what remains unseen which haunts us most of all, unfolding harrowing trauma just beyond our field of view.
The stretch of purely visual storytelling which leads to Karoline’s discovery sits among the finest sequences of The Girl with the Needle, stalking Dagmar as she carries the baby through Copenhagen, before reaching a lonely alley and mysteriously settling on her back. From Karoline’s obscured perspective, Dagmar’s jerking, struggling movements ambiguously manifest her worst fears, while her subsequent inspection of the open sewer where the child disappeared confirms them. Despite her gut-wrenching distress though, still she can’t separate herself from this codependent mother-daughter relationship, entwining Vic Carmen Sonne and Trine Dyrholm’s performances in a disorientated haze of shame and violence. Horn’s desolate photography continues to submit to the despair through it all too, hovering an overhead shot above these women sharing a filthy bed, and casting creeping shadows across Sonne’s guilty face.
Toxic co-dependency in a single shot, laying these curled up women on a filthy bed.Karoline’s face consumed by shadow, hiding from her own guilty conscience.
Karoline is not the only one to dwell in the darkness though, as Peter too often hides in Horn’s gorgeously low-lit interiors, shamefully covering his mutilated face. Unlike Dagmar, the mask he wears is a shield from society’s prejudice rather than its judicial system. His visage may fit among those terrifying faces which haunt Karoline’s nightmares, but there is also a kindness here which even she overlooks due to his physical and mental scars, effectively rendering him unrecognisable to his own wife. With nowhere left to turn, he resorts to the lowliest job of all as a circus freak, letting others exploit and profit off his deformity in the most dehumanising manner possible. Despite the whimsical props which adorn his caravan, there is no levity in Horn’s shabby, carnivalesque production design here, yet healing and redemption may be found in even the dirtiest environments when one falls into the arms of a nurturing, dutiful lover.
Several characters wear a mask of some kind, and Peter’s is quite literal, covering up his facial disfigurement and hiding it in darkness.Carnivalesque production design at the circus, framing Karoline’s emotional recovery in the unlikeliest of locations.A stifling frame in the oval mirror, yet there is a touch of warmth in Karoline and Peter’s physical and emotional union, enduring a rough life together.
Perhaps it is indeed a stretch too far to believe that any adult in this derelict society would want to raise another’s unwanted child, but for all its misery and sorrow, Horn does not let The Girl with the Needle end without glimpsing a world where this might be possible. Even after abject depravity has shredded Karoline’s faith in humanity, we witness how a single act of love may change an entire life, formally subverting Dagmar’s cynical worldview which once perpetuated even deeper anguish. After all, tenderness is never too far out of reach in Horn’s profound, historical reflection, often hiding within those who have suffered the most, and offering glimmers of tenderness in a society consumed by its own despondent shadows.
Karoline subverts Dagmar’s cynical worldview, carrying out an act of radical love and selflessness.
The Girl with the Needle is not currently streaming in Australia.
When expecting father Justin Kemp hit something on a dark road roughly a year ago, he had no reason to believe it was anything other than a deer. He spent the night up to that point drinking alone at the local bar, relapsing into old habits to deal with the grief over a recent miscarriage, though it is a concerned text from his wife Allison which ultimately distracts him from the road. He exits the car to check on the potential casualty, but after scanning the bridge and river below, it appears that whatever he hit has disappeared into the darkness.
As such, the eerie alignment between details of the criminal case he has been summoned to serve as jury for and his own accident that cold, rainy night seems like a cruel twist of fate. Clint Eastwood’s parallel editing deftly plays out his realisation via flashback, initially through the attorneys’ opening remarks which lay out James Sythe’s alleged murder of his girlfriend Kendall, before revealing that Justin was at the bar during the violent public breakup that preceded it. After James forced her to walk home in the rain, Justin left in his car shortly after – and the later discovery of her body next to the bridge where he supposedly hit a deer appears to confirm his culpability. With the camera hanging on Nicholas Hoult’s face in close-up, moral turmoil begins to stir his conscience, and it is this inner conflict which Juror #2 teases out in its study of stifled, agonising guilt.
It has been many years since Eastwood directed an instant classic like Unforgiven, but the fact that he is still creating quality films is nevertheless a feat for a man going strong in his 90s. Juror #2 thrilling treads that line between honesty and self-preservation, setting up enormous stakes whichever way Justin chooses to go. Should he come clean, he would almost certainly suffer dire legal consequences and lose the chance to be part of his child’s life. Should he stay quiet, he would bear the lifelong burden of knowing an innocent man has suffered in his place. Immense power has been placed in his hands, and with the discerning minds of fellow jurors prying deeper into the truth as well, the matter becomes increasingly complex.
Driven by a feeble moral imperative, Justin is initially the only holdout among his peers to advocate for James’ innocence, despite being unable to openly justify his verdict. Still, the reasonable doubt he instils in others’ minds is enough raise questions, particularly from J.K. Simmons’ fellow juror Harold. When this former homicide detective decides to breach court rules and investigate the crime scene himself, his resolution to find James guilty begins to waver, and is ultimately replaced by an intuitive, cynical suspicion. Although Justin smartly gets him disqualified, the seeds of doubt which he initially planted have sprouted among other jurors, condemning him to reap their poisoned fruits should they be allowed to grow.
Eastwood gathers a talented cast here, integrating their respective talents to drive up the dramatic irony of Justin’s secret. Much like Simmons, Toni Collette possesses a bold screen presence as Faith, the prosecutor whose determination to win this case falters when fresh evidence comes to light. Her interrogation of Allison late in the film sees her come dangerously close to the truth, yet Eastwood wields superb narrative suspense as he resists crossing that line. In the jury room too, what could have been an inert discussion of ideas becomes an active exercise in hypothesising, with the blocking often separating a nervously agitated Justin from his peers.
Although Hoult is largely recognised as a character actor specialising in pompous male egos, Juror #2 proves his ability to slot seamlessly into a leading role, adopting an American accent and raw vulnerability. Beyond the interspersed flashbacks to that fateful night, he continues to unravel Justin’s backstory, revealing a previous car collision that pushed him to his lowest point yet spurred him to start taking responsibility for his actions. As he finds himself trying to cover up his guilt in the present day, his principles are arduously tested, undermining the very integrity he soon plans to model as a father. Freedom and redemption are mutually exclusive within this moral quandary, but as pressures from all sides mount with grim, inexorable foreboding, Eastwood rivetingly raises the question of whether either are truly attainable at all.
Juror #2 is currently available to rent or buy on Apple TV, YouTube, and Amazon Video.
