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.
Music is a supernatural force that can pierce the veil between life and death, we are told in the opening minutes of Sinners, and on the local juke joint’s opening night it is apparent that the local preacher’s boy is specially ordained to make that mystical connection. This Southern Gothic tale is deeply infused with the spirit of blues, thrumming with vibrant, soulful twang of guitars, but as Sammie takes the stage and rouses the crowd, we also witness a cosmic revolution unfold.
No longer is this bar simply a place for African Americans of 1930s Mississippi Delta to dance, drink, and party with their people. It transcends time itself, beginning with an electric guitarist joining the bluesy vocals and reverberating acoustic instruments, before pulling back to reveal a DJ dropping hip-hop beats. Still Ryan Coogler’s camera continues to fly around the joint as Sammie’s act summons spirits of the past and future, integrating tribal drumming with hip-hop and ragtime, while Crip Walks and masked Zaouli dancers fill the space with anachronistic energy. This may be a celebration of Black music from across history, but the Beijing Opera performers who join Chinese couple Bo and Grace suggest an even broader appreciation of cultural expression, folding in its many forms upon a single, eternal moment.
The highpoint of Sinners and Coogler’s career – a floating tracking shot transports the juke joint into another realm where spirits of the past and future join the patrons in cultural celebration. It is a tremendously inspired stroke of surrealism, burning the building to the ground as the living and dead continue to dance, and time folds in on itself.Those who have lost touch with their roots watch on in malicious envy, planning to seize this power for themselves.
It is no wonder why vampire Remmick longs to exploit Sammie’s mystical power to reawaken departed ancestors. Sinners remains relatively faithful to traditional vampire lore, depicting them as predatory creatures who have disrupted the natural course of life and death, while a brief glimpse of Native American hunters hints at a larger battle between spiritual forces at play. Just as these creatures have lost their humanity, Remmick has grown distant from his Irish origins during his time in America, making the purity of expression he witnesses in Sammie’s musical ability all the more awe-inspiring. Assimilation was the cost of freedom for Remmick’s people, and now as he seeks to similarly absorb Sammie’s community, Sinners’ most remarkable metaphor takes chilling form. Subsumed in another collective, these undead monsters lose the sun, their souls, and their culture – but if this assimilation also guarantees African Americans an escape from prejudice, could it possibly be a fair trade?
Coogler has certainly proven his hand at directing and elevating franchise films over the years, though it is no surprise that his first truly original story also marks his finest achievement to date, giving him a platform to explore his most eclectic artistic interests. Michael B. Jordan remains reliably by his side, cast in his most impressive role to date as twins Smoke and Stack who ran from the gangs of Chicago, and have now returned to their hometown in the Mississippi Delta. Jim Crow racism is rampant in the South, but it is better to deal with the devil they know, the brothers reason, not yet grasping the true depth of its inhuman evil.
Coogler recreates 1930s Mississippi in his production design with careful attention to detail, capturing the scope and sprawl of this setting in Leone-like establishing shots.Sinners is a superb addition to Michael B. Jordan’s resume, continuing his collaborations with Coogler as twin brothers Smoke and Stack – rich characters whose return to the Mississippi Delta reunites old friends and lovers.
The juke joint that Smoke and Stack intend to open is an opportunity for them to assemble old friends, family, and lovers, and Coogler is patient with the introduction of each, building out his ensemble with depth and vitality. Hailee Steinfeld plays Stack’s old flame Mary with subtle internal conflict, uncertain of her place as a one-eighth Black woman who passes as white, and drawing parallels with Bo and Grace whose outsider status similarly ally them with the African American community. Weathered pianist Delta Slim, discerning occultist Annie, and loyal field worker Cornbread continue to round out the supporting players here, so that by the time bodies start dropping and rising from the dead, the stakes of losing these characters are agonisingly high.
The time Coogler spends patiently building out each supporting character in the opening act is well spent, with each playing a crucial role later on – Mary as Stack’s romantic weakness, Annie as the occult expert, and Cornbread as the joint’s dependable bouncer.
The structural similarities that Sinners bears to From Dusk Till Dawn are notable, dividing the film in distinct halves that separate the drama from the bloody horror, though Coogler’s narrative goes down far smoother than Robert Rodriguez’s unevenly plotted spectacle. The prologue lands us in the immediate aftermath of the carnage, hinting at the imminent terror through smash cuts to single-frame flashbacks, and promising us that it will all be worth the wait – not that we need such a guarantee with characters this compelling. If there is any cinematic setback in the first act, it is those stretches of stylistic inactivity behind the camera, but the gorgeous period décor and natural light which permeates Coogler’s scenery nevertheless imbues this slow-burn setup with an enchanting effervescence.
Coogler’s prologue lands us in a rural church of spotless white mise-en-scène, disorientating us with smash cut flashbacks to the previous night.The breathtaking landscapes of rural Mississippi bask in the magic hour, and it is not just there for show – it is upon this brink between day and night where the setting’s true danger reveals itself.
Sure enough, our climactic arrival at Smoke and Stack’s juke joint is more than a worthy payoff, heralded by the crescendo of Ludwig Göransson’s acoustic blues and its gradual layering of heavy rock instruments. Here, the golden lighting sinks in an ambient warmth, recreating the spirited atmosphere of a live concert as singer Pearline stomps, belts, and enraptures the audience with her dynamic stage presence.
Coogler’s musical set pieces bask in the golden warmth of the juke joint, lit with lanterns and bulbs strung across the ceiling.
Equally astounding though is Göransson’s musical pivot at this point, ushered in with the unwelcome arrival of Remmick and his recently converted minions. There is a cold, shiny glint in their eyes as they approach the juke joint, seeking the invitation they require to enter. Their jaunty bluegrass tune comedically shatters the tension with the corniest possible rendition of ‘Pick Poor Robin Clean’, though once its incongruity settles, we recognise the menace in its soulless appropriation of a classic blues standard. Remmick’s later performance of Irish folk ballad ‘Rocky Road to Dublin’ is a far more sincere representation of the threat he poses, effectively clashing cultures through divergent musical traditions, and threatening the erasure of everything the juke joint represents. Never has a jig been so menacing as it is here, yet Jack O’Connell also imbues it with an impassioned longing, grasping at the remnants of a life he lost long ago and now seeks to revive through assimilation and bloodshed.
A cold, menacing glint in the eye of Coogler’s vampires.The juke joint becomes a sanctuary for the living, keeping out the evil which lays siege to its defences.The most menacing Irish jig you will ever witness, battling foreign cultures through clashing musical expressions and traditions.
This use of music to represent the division and fusion of cultures weaves incredible formal creativity through Sinners, though Coogler continues to push its conflict further as he draws it into the heart of the film, fracturing Smoke and Stack’s intimate fraternal bond. This archetype of warring brothers reaches far back to the biblical story of Cain and Abel, and Carl Jung’s consideration of doppelgängers as manifestations of one’s inner darkness similarly resonates in Coogler’s vampiric doubles. Hostility and grief bleed through Jordan’s dual performances, but it is also through this split that we see traces of both emerge in each other. Just as humans carry incredible capacity to inflict violence, so too is there a surprising emotional depth to their monstrous counterparts, regretfully aching for reconnection to that which once made them truly alive.
Coogler composes a Cain and Abel fable set in rural America, establishing virtue and corruption as equals and tragically setting them against each other.
The mid-credits scene is not one to miss, as it is here where this pivotal recontextualisation takes places, offering sympathy to those who exchanged one freedom for another in the process of social conformity. For human and vampire survivors alike, that devastating night is remembered with nostalgic melancholy over what was both gained and lost, allowing a mutual understanding to flourish among those who went their separate ways. It is there in Coogler’s epic battle of preservation and assimilation that a timeless riff resonates between warring cultural ideals, and it is through their haunting harmonies that Sinners echoes a harrowing, historic struggle for community.
By the time Mickey 17 is printed into existence, there have already been 16 prior Mickeys that have been stabbed, gassed, burnt, and killed any number of ways – all in service of humanity’s expedition to the frozen planet Niflheim of course. He is a cog in the machine of colonisation to be sent on suicide missions and used as test subjects, often without being warned of the situation he is getting into. With his memories being downloaded into each new clone upon the death of its predecessor, it initially seems as if the collective Mickeys are a single being, blessed with immortality and cursed to live a Sisyphean existence. When a mix-up leads to his seventeenth incarnation coming face to face with Mickey 18 though, death no longer feels like a fleeting bump in the road. Once a Mickey dies, his consciousness truly ceases to exist, even as near-identical future copies take his place.
True to Bong Joon-ho’s savage class critiques, Mickey 17 uses its high concept sci-fi premise to delineate the underpinnings of identity in a capitalist system – particularly one which explicitly labels its workers “expendables.” The labour exploitation here is a continuation of similar concerns illustrated in Parasite, though the satire bears much closer resemblance to the harsh dystopia of Snowpiercer and Okja’s whimsical eco-fable. While Mickey strives to hold onto his dignity, expedition leader and thinly veiled Trump parody Kenneth Marshall wields him as a weapon against Niflheim’s native alien species, colloquially known as creepers, trampling over subservient allies and defenceless enemies to claim this territory as his own.
With Robert Pattinson giving perhaps his most broadly comedic performance to date, what could have been a gritty tale of class oppression and uprising is instead played with a dark sense of humour, narrated by Mickey’s timid, nasally voiceover. Through him we are given the backstory on how he ended up here, the grim state of civilisation on Earth, and the purpose of this interstellar mission – though when we are still getting through the exposition an hour in, Bong’s worldbuilding begins to wear a bit thin. There isn’t a whole lot of efficiency to this first act, so it is largely thanks to his incredible imagination that we remain in the grip of his storytelling, examining the ethical and social implications of a society built on the careless turnover of its working class.
Although Mark Ruffalo plays the main antagonist here with cartoonish sensibilities, Toni Collette’s wit is far sharper as his uncomfortably affectionate wife Ylfa. Her absurd obsession with sauces goes beyond mere idiosyncrasy, and becomes an icon of upper-class indulgence in a totalitarian environment of strictly controlled calorie intake, ensuring the workers do not have energy for prohibited recreational activities such as intercourse. Just as Kenneth and Ylfa are reminding the crew of such rules though, Bong’s parallel editing weaves in this treasonous act between Mickey and his girlfriend Nasha with subversive passion, setting both up as the strongest voices of dissent on the spaceship.
That Mickey 17 seems to have a little too much on its mind unfortunately weakens the narrative here, as for quite a while it seems that Mickey 18’s problematic arrival is secondary to Kenneth’s broader conflict with the creepers. It takes a sudden provocation and shift in character motive for Bong to start forcing these plot threads together, delivering a firm anti-imperialist statement as the native species begins to retaliate against their oppressors.
Designed as an outlandish cross between a pill bug and a yak, the harshly-named creepers turn out to be surprisingly endearing and highly intelligent, desiring peaceful coexistence with the settlers rather than war. For all intents and purposes, they are Bong’s take on the Na’vi in Avatar, albeit far more removed from anything vaguely humanoid. It is ironic then that in fighting for this alien species, those stripped of their humanity are set on a path to regaining it, breaking free of a system which draws a hostile divide between the self and the other.
It is disappointing that the futurist production design on display isn’t always taken advantage of in Darius Khondji’s cinematography, but this does not detract from Bong’s impactful visual symbolism. The furnace where each of Mickey’s corpses are disposed regularly damns him to the pits of hell, while the implications of a human printer which guarantees his eternal servitude are chillingly reframed in the closing minutes, pondering the impossibility of permanently expunging dictators from society. Those familiar with Bong’s tendency to wield both the sledgehammer and the scalpel shouldn’t be surprised at Mickey 17’s inelegant swerve away from Parasite, yet in an era where exploitation is repackaged as progress, his satirical blend of class-conscious allegory and genre spectacle resonates all too clearly.
