Dangerous Animals (2025)

Score: 2 / 5

Rarely, anymore, are entire films carried by a single performance, but Jai Courtney is the Atlas bearing up Dangerous Animals. A mildly clever combination of serial killer and killer shark narratives, the film needs a strong and memorable monster at its core, so we never quite know who might enter, revolve around him, and have to fend off his attacks. His character, Tucker, is the kind of killer we almost like; we can imagine, under the right circumstances, meeting this charismatic guy and wanting to grab a beer and hear his story. He's also a beast hiding in plain sight; unlike sharks -- his favorite animal, and his evidence disposal method -- Tucker selects his victims before there's any blood in the water, disappearing them with callous efficiency. In fact, even his method of reducing stress and putting his prey at ease, disarmed me right off the bat: getting his nervous tourists to breathe and chant, they end up singing "Baby Shark" in aware goofiness. The film opens with one such case in a pseudo-Pyscho-esque focal redirect that sets quite a brutal tone for the film to follow; we learn eventually it is only Tucker's most recent of a long string of crimes.

Courtney manages to evoke a hell of a lot while negotiating a screenplay that doesn't give him the meatiest material. Imposing and confident, Tucker is his own Ahab; despite channeling Robert Shaw in Jaws with some clear parallels, Courtney differentiates his character by making him slightly less articulate and more physical. Like Kathy Bates in Misery or Robert de Niro in Cape Fear, Courtney is truly charming despite -- or perhaps because of -- his brusque personality and quiet moments of internal conflict. Not conflict between right and wrong, no; conflict between self-awareness and masking. These are characters utterly convinced of their rightness in wrongness, yet aware that their murderous designs must be hidden. They use doublespeak and partial-truths, welcoming their prey into an invisible web where, once entangled, they can feast at leisure. On the actor's face, we see shivers that curl the edge of the mouth, that strain the corners of the eye, in those moments of transition between earnestness and deception by omission. The devil is indeed in the details.

Courtney isn't helped much by the rest of the film, however, which feels oddly inert and familiar. The high concept, if you haven't extrapolated, is that Tucker abducts tourists visiting the Gold Coast in Australia, taking them out to go shark cage diving and filming them while they're eaten alive. It's cool enough, and there's some novelty in the first time we see it happen: Tucker lowering the victim into the incarnadine ocean in a harness as sharks swarm. But once that's done, there's little to maintain interest the rest of the film's runtime beyond a few chase scenes around the boat and some consternation about handcuffs, a harpoon gun, a flare, and drugged food. I half-expected Tucker, as he checks on his captive females, to bring them lotion in a basket. Instead, he mostly waxes prosaic about his love of sharks, how he survived a shark attack as a boy, how he views sharks almost as gods; it never feels too talky in the sense of a villainous monologue, but most of it also never comes to fruition. That's because Tucker, no matter his relationship with the sharks, is just a sadist: he films his victims (seemingly mostly women) and cuts off a piece of their hair to keep in the videotapes of his little library. 

This isn't necessarily a knock on the film; familiarity doesn't determine a film's entertainment value or success. Sean Byrne is a capable enough director, with The Loved Ones and The Devil's Candy in his filmography, but he does tend toward more lurid material. In fact, he seems like the kind of guy most influenced by '80s and '90s thrillers, and that should have manifested just a bit more here. This story had the potential to lean more into Dead Calm than The Silence of the Lambs, and I wish Byrne had chosen that route. These characters aren't, however, sexualized much -- despite some suggestion -- and this film is less about a psychological war between spider and fly than it is about a series of cat-and-mouse action encounters. 

And this was my main problem with the film. Handsomely directed and shot, the film nevertheless falters in increasingly stupid decisions made by its protagonist. Hassie Harrison plays Zephyr, the Girl Who Fights Back, with admirable strength and physicality, certain enough; as written and directed, though, her character infuriates with her refusal to ensure Tucker is dead. She "escapes" several times during this movie, sneaking up on Tucker with various plans to overpower him, and even when she succeeds in an ambush, she then runs off so that he can come to and give chase again. Why does nobody double tap? Or at least tie him up, break his leg, make sure he's knocked out? He's actively torturing you, trying to kill you, and there is no chance someone else can help you. Why don't you fight back?

Its B-movie foundation is never quite shaken, and in that it finds its groove. As an action and/or erotic thriller, Dangerous Animals never quite matters beyond its central conceit; similarly, as a shark horror movie it all but fails. I'm a bit of a shark movie aficionado at this point, and this one mostly treats them with a less-is-more eye that undermines Tucker's worship of them. That fatal flaw in the film's internal logic spoiled it for me in a way it probably won't for most other viewers. Case in point: the climax, when a great white shark finally arrives in an admittedly chilling moment, turns when the shark, having been stabbed by Tucker, appears to choose to not eat Zephyr and opt instead for revenge on Tucker. It's silly and completely took me out of the moment, to say nothing of the rather poor CGI. On the other hand, during some of their chases, Byrne's team seamlessly integrate fight choreography, cinematography, and editing with a finesse and attention to earned violence that we don't even often see in action films. It may be nonsensical in design, but it's well-shot, and that makes it all at least watchable.

Keeper (2025)

Score: 2 / 5

Osgood Perkins has been the weird new kid on the block for a while now, and he's still doing weird new kid stuff. He plays around in various genres (fairy tale, haunted house, detective procedural, school kids) and makes them creepy, uncanny, and loaded with suggestive and subversive meaning. This time, it's a romantic drama at center, which I recently discussed a bit with this year's Together (so check out that review in the link). It's interesting that Perkins did not write this, though: penned by Nick Lepard it is, whose other notable work this year, Dangerous Animals, will be reviewed by yours truly presently, but suffice to say for now that it too has some really fucked up gender messaging. Protagonist Liz is visiting a private cabin in the woods with her boyfriend of one year for the weekend, and we know it won't end well. Part of the pleasure in these movies is to see just how and where things go wrong, as they inevitably will.

Liz and Malcolm are cute enough that I at least hoped they might work out. That's rare for me in a movie about heterosexuals. Tatiana Maslany is a capable actress, and this is one of the rarer instances of her doing some nice understated work. She's a bit mousy and slight, taking in her surroundings with a believable wide-eyed wonder, but too skittish for me to understand why she even trusts her beau enough to not be with him in public. But when things get scary -- and they indeed do -- she reminded me more than a little of Sally Hawkins, and that's where Maslany's skills really manifested. Rossif Sutherland (unknown to me) plays Malcolm, a gentle but firm bear of a man who seems to have ulterior motives and secrets while ingratiating his girlfriend to the large and luxurious cabin. While he has the challenging role of being an obvious bad guy, I was disappointed that Sutherland (and, to be fair, the way Malcolm is written) didn't work harder to complicate the character or at least breathe life into him. He channels the energy of an SNL parody of a sad dad during the holidays, which is decidedly not the vibe for this story. 

Thankfully, I was distracted from the [insert the antonym for chemistry] by the house itself. If you know my cinematic tastes at all, you should know I'm a sucker for the architecture in a horror film. And Perkins and cinematographer Jeremy Cox have the delicious pleasure of bringing this stunning house to life visually. And thanks to the house's designers and, I suspect, the editors (who do some really amazing and meaning-laden slow dissolves transitioning between scenes), it's almost impossible to understand the house's layout. There always seem to be too many doors and floors and windows. If the story calls for a house to literally lose oneself in, your production designers can't do much better than to make a physically impossible house! It's become all the rage, I daresay, since Danielewski's House of Leaves was published, but that's a different conversation. 

The enchanting house loses its fascination as the plot fails to keep up. Blatantly obvious in its thematic and narrative purpose, the film only remains watchable thanks to the qualities I've already mentioned. Beyond these, it's a terrible doldrums to endure. The couple has some serious issues when it comes to communication as well as personal esteem, and almost every line feels on the verge of an argument neither wants to have. They're both clumsily attempting to negotiate expectations and affection and hesitation in ways that feel like they're incapable of comprehending independently. Their borderline codependence is aggravating to witness in the same way sitcoms can be: if they would just communicate more honestly and openly, we wouldn't even be in this mess!

Yet in the mess is where Perkins wants us. Malcolm awkwardly insists on Liz eating a slice of chocolate cake apparently left for them by the housekeeper. Bizarre request notwithstanding -- he has a housekeeper? Who bakes? And just does this? For anyone? And we know nothing about ingredients or cleanliness or the kitchen itself for fuck's sake -- Liz objects because she simply dislikes chocolate cake. His passive aggression simmers until an equally bizarre and uncomfortable encounter occurs: Malcolm's obnoxious playboy cousin arrives with a model who supposedly can't speak English but warns Liz not to eat the cake. Yet, seemingly in defiance of the bimbo, Liz does. Lo, and behold that bad things ensue.

Yet this point is reached so early in the film that it can't ratchet up the tension slowly. The familiar premise devolves into familiar patterns of heavy genre tropes: Liz, often alone in tedium, hears a noise or sees a shadow, explores the house, finds nothing or gets scared by something banal, and then has a nightmare about it in which there is something horrific lunging at her. She awakes, certain that something is very wrong yet doing nothing sensical about it. Perhaps most interestingly, and thanks to Maslany more than to the screenplay, we witness Liz mostly nonverbally calculating the extent to which she loves Malcolm and herself in ways that suggest she knows it's a zero-sum game. She mysteriously keeps eating this disgusting cake in nauseating ways, seemingly beyond her own control; yet her waking self wavers on thinking it's an innocent price to pay for the man she loves and might actually want to "keep," as the title suggests.

So when the climax and denouement buckle down on our very correct first impression, this intriguing aspect of the title is also applied in various ways: Liz may be a "keeper" (one who is kept by a man) for Malcolm, but she's also a "keeper" of new charges. We double down on the men being cartoonish villains who systematically collect and use women in a nonsensical supernatural lore that is unceremoniously dumped in the film by a character who literally enters for the sole purpose of explaining this dumb plot to us. It makes no sense, not least because it's basically a Faustian bargains with a monstrous woman reproducing a la The Brood who needs to consume other women so the cousins can live forever. Thankfully, as by the halfway point of the film I was bored to distraction, the miserable second half of this film does benefit from the presence of monsters so cool in appearance that they captured my attention each time they graced the screen. Really fantastically creepy design, there guys.

And then there's the final scene, which I'm sure has layers of obscure symbolism, as in all Perkins films. It just doesn't make enough sense to feel satisfying, and I will spoil it here because its frustrating opacity is a prime fault of this film (and of its auteur). Having been accepted and possibly possessed by the monsters, Liz's eyes turn black like theirs while Malcolm, his bargain undone, ages rapidly. She hangs him upside-down from a tree and force-feeds him the drugged cake (I told you this crap wasn't subtle) while he insists that he loves her. Knowing full well his lies, she dunks him into a jar of honey to die (a symbol associated with his original victim, the mother of the monsters, who Liz resembles, hence her acceptance by the monsters). That's it. I understand the female revenge plot, but not if she's now part of a monstrous family or cult. The film's otherwise thoughtful spins on gender and norms fail utterly in the final scene, cementing the legacy of this film as one with some neat visuals and a compelling lead performance that is in no other way significant to the genre, the craft, or our memory; in other words, not a keeper.

Predator: Badlands (2025)

Score: 4 / 5

I was never a big fan of the Predator series, mostly because action flicks aren't to my taste. Knowing that Dan Trachtenberg was continuing his streak in the franchise, however, led me to watch all the damn movies. And I was right; the first has its notable plot and memorable imagery, and the second I actually quite liked. The third makes its lore a bit too explicit, but its casting makes for a fun time; the fourth similarly has a fabulous cast, but its writing and direction doubles down on the franchise's weakest points for no clear reason. When Trachtenberg released Prey three years ago, I was only able to see it on Hulu, and I was amazed. Beautiful and gritty and violent and smart, not to mention culturally fascinating while branching out the lore in exciting new ways, the film remains the high point of the franchise for me. 

Badlands is Trachtenberg's second outing in this franchise, and again he proves his astonishing ability to think outside the box of familiar territory and deliver something substantially fresh and innovative. Fans of the franchise will, doubtless, decry it for being "woke" or some such drivel; it seems any time a female becomes a main character in an action film that's the result from a vocal subset of obnoxious white men. And while there is tons of action to be had here, this entry is notable for its plot structure, which is more adventure than action. Here, we're treated to a Star Wars-like (or Star Trek, perhaps, especially with the Klingon comparison, though I'm not familiar enough with that franchise) excursion to a wonderfully realized alien world known in-universe as one of the most dangerous habitable planets. And, even apart from the considerable visual artistry that makes this film an eye-popping pleasure on a big screen, Trachtenberg and writer Patrick Aison have crafted a meticulously plotted screenplay that hinges on the nature of what makes humans human. Even though there are no humans in the film, it's a fascinating and thrilling ride that doesn't skimp on the violence or marginal scares while ratcheting up emotional tension the franchise has long failed to master.

I'll interject here with some geeky personal admiration. I remember an interview in which Trachtenberg claimed, while making Prey and his subsequent Predator films, that he was inspired by various kinds of filmmakers like Sergio Leone and Terrence Malick. And while I can certainly see that at work in these movies, it goes to show how intricately intertextual genre films so often are, and how liberally well-read quality filmmakers have to be to work in these genre films. So much of the Predator vibe, in general, is just about action and badassery. But when Trachtenberg steps in with these kinds of ideas and muses, he makes the stories as much about the nature of nature, and how sentient beings can/do/do not exist well in such environments, as about the nature of killers. That is so brilliant and refreshing in our age of endless sequels and reboots that rehash original ingredients without so much as care for new inspiration. Trachtenberg did this with 10 Cloverfield Lane as well: a film that works wonderfully as a psychological thriller between two terrifying people, and then reveals its shocking and weird place in what we didn't even know was a burgeoning franchise.

I won't labor in retelling the plot, because there's not a ton. Suffice it to say that this is -- to my admittedly recent knowledge -- the first time a titular Predator is the main character of one of these movies. And he's fabulous. Played with impressive physicality by Dimitrius Schuster-Koloamatangi, protagonist Dek is a Yautja (the actual Predator species) who is called a runt. He's shorter and less accomplished than his own brother, much to the chagrin of his resentful and dismissive father. Preparing for a suicide mission to prove himself on the "death planet" Genna -- I wonder if this is a corruption of the hellish place Gehenna near Jerusalem -- his father suddenly orders his brother to kill him. Refusing, the brother sends Dek to space, but not before Dek witnesses his father summarily execute his kin. Thus, the story takes on the mythic proportions of a hero's revenge against a wicked clan leader.

His goal is to slay a Kalisk, supposedly unkillable, and return its skull to his father, as their culture deems their purpose to be. Yet once on Genna, he must first survive. A gauntlet of biological horrors, the planet is so hostile to Dek's presence that he gets a severe beating after his crash-landing. Thankfully, he soon encounters Thia, an android (like Ash in Alien), who helps him navigate the terrain and learn how to find the Kalisk. Elle Fanning plays Thia and her sister Tessa, who elsewhere plans to antagonize them; the dual role allows her lots of room for showcasing her considerable thespian skills. Not only can she be hilariously blunt as the only character who speaks English, but she can also be quite scary in her attempts to manipulate her way out of jams. She's legless, you see, from her own encounters on Genna, so Dek must carry her around like a humanoid backpack; it's outrageous and clever in equal doses. Genre movies so rarely laud actors with awards, and it's a real shame; Fanning unleashes her powers in a dazzling display of dynamism and insight and sheer fire-forged skill that should decorate her with many medals. 

While I've not yet seen the AvP flicks, and have no intention to, I appreciated the Weyland-Yutani Corporation subplot here, a clear connection to the Alien franchise. You know, I don't need crossovers between these IPs, but if the writers continue to hinge any connections as a problem of uber-capitalistic empires like this, then I'm all for it. While it's not the focus of this film, it does underscore the connection in what may be the most material way that we've yet seen. Thankfully, the film only uses that to excite the nerdy fans. Mass audiences are treated to the real feast of the film: the way it combines genres. Because for all my descriptors thus far here, I've yet to say that the entire midsection of this film is a delightful buddy adventure.

Thia and Dek collect a ragtag group of misfits to help them find and kill the Kalisk, and it's all very endearing and sweet. They discuss new meanings of words, like a heartwarming moment of Thia claiming Tessa as her sister after learning about the concept from Dek and his brother, and when Dek learns that emotions (the touchy-feely stuff real Predators eschew) not only help people become stronger but make success worth achieving. Through it all, moreover, Dek is never infantilized, feminized, or otherwise meaningfully different than a brutish, hulking warrior; the actor's amazing physical performance is often nonverbal, and he conveys essays of meaning with the subtlest of movements. For all the complaints I expect will be levelled at this film by dubious "alpha males," Dek remains one for the entire runtime, especially in his final battle against his father. And it goes a long way to show that a true alpha male isn't admirable because of superficial qualities of isolation, brusqueness, indifference and cruelty, or even violence. It's about thoughtful and caring leadership, integrity and perseverance, and resourcefulness cultivated from community-building.

Apparently Trachtenberg preceded this release with an animated feature on Hulu: Predator: Killer of Killers, which I'll eagerly be watching soon. My impression, based on its trailer, is that of separate vignettes of various times and places in Earth's history in which humans have clashed with Yautja hunters. We've already seen a jungle war a la Vietnam but in Central America, street fighting in downtown Los Angeles, the American frontier, and alien hunting grounds; it looks like we'll expand into Viking and samurai historical settings soon enough, and that's even more brilliant. With Trachtenberg at the helm, I have no doubt even an animated feature will satisfy me well. But there is little right now that can compare to the gorgeous visual effects of the films in live action, and if you get a chance to see this on a big screen, you've got to take that shot.

Together (2025)

Score: 4 / 5

Guilty pleasure. Schadenfreude. Sadistic indifference. Call it what you will, but I find immense pleasure in horror stories of heterosexual relationships. And no, I don't mean sentimental claptrap of realistic relationships falling apart, like in Marriage Story. I mean fantastic stories of what dating these days is really like (Fresh, Drop), Gothic spins on gender inequalities and microaggressions (Companion, Strange Darling), and brave interrogations of codependency (Midsommar). This last one actually helps inform my approach to Together, the feature debut of writer and director Michael Shanks, which was quietly released this past summer. I nearly missed it on my own radar due to my chaotic season and because of its rather niche subject matter; the marketing was minimal, and if it weren't for Neon distributing it -- and the considerable star power of its leads -- I might have missed it entirely.

As its title suggests, Together concerns Tim and Millie, a young man and woman who move to a rural cul-de-sac so that she can teach elementary English. Tim, an aspiring musician, has been despondent since his parents died; we don't get much information about the bulk of their apparently lengthy relationship, but it's clear the two love each other. So much, in fact, that their impending move spurs Millie on to propose to Tim in front of all their friends at a farewell party. He freezes -- a hesitation that at first seems bizarre but eventually makes sense when you start picking up on the really awkward passive-aggression and emotional manipulation that characterize their relationship -- and Millie is embarrassed and self-pitying. Which makes sense, even beyond the botched engagement; she's preparing to fully support his lazy ass, and his simpering personality seems put-on, likely after a long time of her demands and expectations. So when they go hiking through the forest around their new neighborhood in a rain storm, we know things won't end well. Even if you haven't seen Significant Other or Backcountry, you can expect this is the beginning of the end for our fair lovers.

They fall into a sinkhole together, filthy rainwater pouring down around them, not grievously injured but enough to stay put until they can climb out in a drier and safer way. Before settling down to rest, Tim drinks from still water deeper in the cave they've found, and this is really the one moment I almost lost the plot. Even Millie says something to the effect of do not drink from stagnant dark water in a random muddy cave you foolish suicide risk. Without spoiling things, the water here plays a part of the lore of the story -- which involves a defunct cult and its marriage rites -- that is interesting and fun while firmly making the story clear-cut supernatural horror. I wondered, while watching, why the filmmakers chose that route; sometimes, a film like this that is really about an abstract concept (in this case, romantic codependency) works best in its ambiguities. Think of The Night House or Relic: you can enjoy them as thoroughly straightforward supernatural horrors, or you can enjoy it as a deeply emotional parable in which the supernatural elements could just be generic trappings or even manifested by the protagonist's psyche. Not so in Together, where the point is still codependency, but it's exacerbated by explicit external forces. Indeed, the introductory sequence ends with a horrific yet split-second shot of two dogs becoming one in a grotesque image reminiscent of Carpenter's The Thing. And that's not even five minutes in.

It's not quite on the level of psychological thriller as those titles, though, and Together works best as a chamber piece between its two leads. Franco and Brie, who are married in real life and produced this project, must have had a wickedly good time playing these characters, though one shudders to think of the therapy and intimacy coordination the two surely underwent during this process. Love, as we know, is often both frightening and angry, and to play a relationship in which the separate parties are literally beginning to meld had to have broken open tons of fascinating and intensely private conversations. Oh, to be a fly on those walls....

For melding is the name of the game. In the cave, Tim and Millie wake to find their legs sticking together, with a gooey fleshy residue combining them. Later, the same -- and worse, much worse -- continues to happen at increasing intervals. Tim occasionally acts almost possessed (I thought of Night Swim more than once), and while that didn't make much sense to me, the film does continue to lean on the invisible forces at work. By the film's climax, the characters are literally being dragged toward each other from opposite ends of their driveway and hallway; the film's internal logic slyly evades who or what is acting upon them by making these sequences opportunities for the couple not to problem-solve but to trade jabs and provoke laughs more than screams. 

Yet it's not a rollicking comedy, either. In the plentiful scenes of their "merging," the couple are subjected to body horror like I haven't seen on screen in years. This is golden age Cronenbergian shit. A scene with their forearms and a reciprocating saw had me yelling into a pillow; the film's only sex scene in a bathroom stall had me clenching in a fetal position. These are the brilliantly devised scenes that make the film unfortunately memorable, but in the best way. Actually, the more I think on it, this film is quite a lot like Lars von Trier's Antichrist, and though I had once said I'd never revisit that nightmare of a film, I'm inspired to take some chill pills and give it another go with Together fresh on my mind. They're definitely cut from similar cloth.

What happens when you've finally got the relationship you've always thought you wanted, but the settling and renegotiation of that relationship reveals that you're probably better off alone? That seems to be what the film is getting at, and it's helped by an inscrutable and highly effective Damon Herriman as Jamie, the couple's closest neighbor and a perhaps too friendly coworker at Millie's school. He's sweet and a little creepy, and neither we nor the couple knows exactly what he's after. He helps us understand the couple's isolation and codependence by giving them someone to discuss and avoid, a counterpoint to their apparently large friend group in the city. And I will absolutely not spoil the end, which goes in perhaps the one direction I did not predict. That I will leave for you, dear reader, to discover, if you think you want to stomach the body horror that leads you there.