Bugonia (2025)

Score: 4.5 / 5

Nobody does black comedy like Lanthimos. His latest, Bugonia, is one of his more accessible and angry films, yet its timely insistence on absurdity fits his oeuvre well. Its premise is deceptively simple: two conspiracists abduct a powerful CEO, convinced that she is an alien intending harm to humanity. The kidnappers, socially awkward and paranoid young men with a plan that goes only about as far as their arms can reach, are led by a beekeeper whose motivations are as hypocritical as they are convoluted. His partner in crime is his impressionable autistic cousin. The CEO, on the other hand, is a sharp, no-nonsense woman who thinks so little of them that it takes some time for her to recognize them as actual humans with real concerns. Their deadly dance, in the men's dingy basement, is the whole of the film's plot.

Reactionary and profoundly irate, the film's heavy-handed messaging is sidelined only by Lanthimos's unique mastery of tone. We're never quite sure if we should laugh at the surreal situation or shudder in fear. After all, this kind of crap has been on our minds for several years in the current American climate. Maybe not about aliens and bees, but certainly about CEOs being disposable, incels acting out violently, and plots against powerful people. It's hard to watch this and not think of what almost happened with Governor Whitmer in Michigan or with Luigi Mangione and the UnitedHealthcare CEO. I also thought more than once of Eddington, this year's other timely bleak comedy-thriller from Ari Aster, who produced this film.

And while the violence in this film is clear and present, so too is its humor. Mind you, I did not laugh out loud in this screening, but you can tell the players likely were between takes. Jesse Plemons and Aidan Delbis are laughably silly as misled conspiracy theorists certain that Emma Stone's biomedical company is responsible for killing the honeybees and, by extension, enslaving humanity. The logic isn't there, of course -- when is it ever in such conspiracies? -- but that's what makes it so funny, at first, when their captive tries to make sense of it. When they further their claims, asserting that she's an alien "Andromeda" and that their own questionable experiments have proven this, we see this for the witch hunt it is. Yet Lanthimos has forced us to see the extent to which the men are certain of their delusions: they have trained for such an act of terrorism. They've even chemically castrated themselves, in one of the film's more insightful details. And it's not all wholly different from what the rich and powerful do regularly (Stone is intercut, in an early montage, running on her treadmill and ingesting vitamins). 

Accomplished cinematographer and sometime Lanthimos collaborator Robbie Ryan does some amazing work in framing the dynamics between the players, especially considering that the bulk of this plot takes place in a single location as a sort of Socratic dialogue/interrogation. Stone's shaved head shines ethereally, usually coated in lotion (there's a hint of The Silence of the Lambs here, too), and the camera is angled just above her, so that she's looking up at us. Plemons's sweaty visage, on the other hand, is often shot from just below his line of sight, so we're looking up at the man in a position of newfound and frightening power. He also utilizes light in haunting ways, bringing surreal hellish vibes to the otherwise workmanlike basement and somewhat otherworldly aesthetics to the stark modernity of the CEO's home and office.

Credit must also be paid to screenwriter Will Tracy, former editor-in-chief of The Onion, who also penned The Menu, the series The Regime and Succession, and who produced (you guessed it) Eddington. The verbal swordplay between characters in absurd yet tense scenes is riveting and ghastly, aided by the A-list actors' unique skills in nonverbal acting. He incisively and wisely avoids totally demonizing any one character, adding emotional baggage to the men that at least humanizes them a bit beyond what could easily have been caricature. He also suggestively resists an easy answer as to the woman's identity and motives, delaying answers in favor of forcing the characters to communicate not only with each other but with us in real time.

We're asked, at various points, to sympathize with each of of the main characters, to the point that, even when the climax and denouement shocked me into stillness, I reeled at the implications Lanthimos seems to be firing away at. What if the issue at stake, the film seems to ask, is just that we're debating issues with incompatible languages? What if, aliens or no, terrorists or no, the real problem is Big Pharma? Sure, we can discuss violence, science, urbanity, financial injustice, culture wars, internet radicalism, but the film isn't trying to preach at us as much as it is attempting to lift the veil on our current social dynamics. Like Plato, Lanthimos urges us to think critically and on a macro-level, to resist succumbing to the invisible powers of our world and the inherent problems of how we interact with each other down here among the commoners. 

Song Sung Blue (2025)

Score: 4 / 5

Another musical biopic? No thanks, said I, thinking bitterly of my resolution not long ago to ignore or at least not care about new entries in the genre. But of course I went, somewhat begrudgingly, to Song Sung Blue, perhaps the last big awards contender released this season, if only to see Hugh Jackman do what he does best. And thank goodness I did.

Based not on Neil Diamond but on a real-life tribute band known as Lightning and Thunder, the story is a rare biographical picture of legit musicians who never quite reached fame the same way as other "original" artists. They are, like so many of us, not writers of their own tunes but still profoundly skilled artists whose love of particular music leads them to their own kind of fame while spreading joy. The Milwaukee couple at the heart of the story -- Mike, a recovering alcoholic Vietnam vet, and Claire, a sassy single mother of two -- fall in love in the unlikeliest of places: a state fair impersonator gig: he as Buddy Holly and she as Patsy Cline. But Mike wants to perform as himself, with his self-styled moniker "Lightning." Claire is instantly intrigued by his charisma and passion, and their chemistry sparks immediately. In only their first date, they begin dreaming of careers beyond their daily grind; it's A Star is Born in the Midwest. 

In a whirlwind, their romance becomes a showmance, starring in their own singing duo and touring with rave bookings. Mike's flashy style and vision of stardom is mobilized by Claire; they share the work of arranging music, constructing costumes, and building set lists. They're destined for success both professionally and personally. Claire's two daughters, though at first somewhat hesitant about mom's new beau, soon enough come around to the infectious joy between them. This is true for us as well, and the film knowingly capitalizes on the winning charms of Jackman and co-star Kate Hudson, who by the film's midpoint takes the reins. 

One of the more nightmarish moments in any film this year occurs when Claire is almost killed in a freak accident at home. I was wholly unprepared for this. Apparently Song Sung Blue is based on a documentary by Greg Kohs of the same name, so if you're familiar with that you won't be shocked. I was not familiar, and shock doesn't begin to describe my sensation of the joyful, rapturous rug that is the first part of this film being ripped out beneath me. I should have been prepared for more depth in this fluffy film, as director Craig Brewer (of Dolemite is My Name) wasn't about to let this star vehicle careen into a puff piece. What was surely a lifelong struggle between the couple, their family, and their careers is boiled down into a montage-laden merry-go-round that highlights the somber, heartrending pain of average people with profound dreams fighting against the crushing tide of real life. Drugs and doctors, medical bills and disabilities, and the looming specter of being irrelevant, purposeless, and forgotten: these things are so relatable and rarely seen in such big-budget productions. 

It's not all dreary, of course, and Brewer wisely sidesteps many classic pitfalls of musical biopics in favor of his stars' unique charms. Jackman wields a bit too much power early in the film, but he evens out into a wonderfully rich character as he settles into a life he wants out of sheer love for his family. Hudson, warm and flat early on, transforms into a bitter wretch in the throes of self-pity and nihilism before rising from her own ashes in time for the film's final act. "Nostalgia pays," the characters repeat, and while there's much ado about Diamond's best songs -- and no, the film asserts rightly, "Sweet Caroline" ain't it -- the film works best as a human drama of average people the likes of which deserve this spotlight more than Hollywood usually grants them. 

I won't lie and say I didn't weep in this film, but it wasn't because of its sad moments. Rather, it was a sense of joy pervading the film that helps it make its mark above the miasma of usual fare. Moreover, its finale provides an inexplicable uplift that I absolutely did not see coming. This is a film more along the lines of Florence Foster Jenkins than Walk the Line, and it'll be a comfort watch in my future for sure. As the song says, "God of my day, lord of my night, seek for the way, taking me home."

And yes, the music numbers are all excellent.

Marty Supreme (2025)

Score: 1 / 5

Remember back in 2016, when Vance's Hillbilly Elegy was released to much fervor and placed on lots of reading lists? It seemed to answer some deeply uncomfortable questions about how and why that presidential election resulted as it did. People craved to understand aspects of rust belt America and tried to make sense of it on a national scale. Taking as its focus desperate people -- desperate for substances, for purpose, for escape -- the story of material rot was then used by its writer to make broad claims about the state of the country and its moral decay. 

The Safdies have done similar things with their films, especially Uncut Gems and now Marty Supreme, the latter a solo directorial effort by Josh Safdie. Taking as its focus a distinctly abhorrent character, these films cycle through a miniscule odyssey of sorts, showing how desperation for personal aggrandizement leads these toxic, wicked men into terrible circumstance after miserable choice. We're watching them digging their own graves in propulsive, vicious thrillers so rooted in what appears to be reality that we barely have time to appreciate the consequences of their actions before they're spinning it into a story of perseverance, even redemption. They're snake oil salesmen, attempting to fool the characters around them and even us; the problem is that many audiences -- hell, even the Safdies themselves -- seem to cash in on their depravity.

To position myself clearly: I don't. I find these films repugnant, unentertaining, disturbingly stupid, and frustratingly inert. Worse, the experience of watching them is akin, to me, to watching "reality" television or hot topic talk radio: the sheer cacophony of noise blasting from the speakers, paired with grimy, bleak, dark visuals that are usually unfocused and shaky, is like the sensation of my nails scraping a blackboard. The shiver going up my spine and causing my teeth to grate isn't that of frisson, but rather that of chomping down on a piece of foil right on a filling. It's painful. Those of you who have been with me a while will recognize my hatred for this style of filmmaking as similar to what Sean Baker does (Anora, for example), but at least Baker can stage a scene with a bit more theatricality and dramaturgical intent.

Without flogging the dead horse that is this movie (and my opinion of it), I'll prolong my torment in discussing it to say the few notes I jotted after screening it. Feeling like his attempt at a seedy '70s criminal antihero, Timothee Chalamet stars as the title character in what I can only describe as his attempt at de Niro's Taxi Driver, Eastwood's Dirty Harry, or Pacino in Dog Day Afternoon. A sleazy, sweaty, angry white man who lies and cheats his way into his own version of success: money, sex, and the keen ability to avoid the worst consequences of his actions. Indeed, he seems determined to convince himself that he's invincible and, moreover, a gift to the world around him. Deluded and grotesque, Chalamet delivers a compelling and admittedly excellent performance, even though I will never understand the sexual nature of his stardom among certain viewers. I find him [insert antonym for attractive] at best, yet here he is repeatedly boinking Gwyneth fucking Paltrow for no clear dramatic reason as if he's the stud of the century. Much like the main plot, this highlights that Marty is so convinced he himself is a god that he can't see himself in reality.

Apparently set in the '50s, the film is already displaced temporally in my mind, yet the overbearing soundtrack includes several '80s songs that, while sometimes vaguely funny, serve more to confuse me than inform the mood. Perhaps this is intentional, showing that Marty is, too, out of time and dreaming of other temporal successes that he dreams of. But there are far more literate ways of doing this; look at Edgar Wright's films or, hell, Baz Luhrmann's. And, keep in mind, all this is a backdrop to what the film quickly establishes as its focus: ping pong. Yep, you got it. This crime saga writ laughably small is, in effect, a sports drama about table tennis. Sure, Marty has a few scenes in the store where he sells shoes absentmindedly, eager for the next opportunity to impregnate Rachel (Odessa A'zion), an old friend married to a brute (Emory Cohen) who is a cheap ripoff of Stanley Kowalski.

Marty sweet talks everyone and everything to the point that you can't trust even his breathing; he blames any slight or inconvenience on everyone and everything around him, all while swindling his way into better lodgings at the Ritz or out of paying for destroying a bathtub, a floor, and the man below whose arm is nearly ripped in half as a result of his own negligence and dangerous disregard for ample warnings. Thus begins a further complication of his criminality, one that takes over the second half of the film in increasingly stupid ways, not least featuring a climactic shootout at a farmhouse over a dog.

A bizarre cast rounds out the whole experience, including Sandra Bernhard, Fran Drescher, and even Tyler the Creator (who we know is horny for twinkish Chalamet in their uncomfortable scenes together), but collectively they have very little to do. Even Paltrow, who performs with her usual excellence, can't win us over to her character, who has transcendent moments she immediately undermines with gobsmackingly stupid choices, usually resulting in her going back to Marty for sex. That's because Safdie is too interested in the toxic braggadocio of their protagonist and how it relates to a different kind of snake oil salesman currently running the American government (and, apparently the Venezuelan government now). It's a dismal depiction of American identity and masculinity, and thankfully Safdie does include some lighthearted commentary on this from an international perspective when Marty travels with the Harlem Globetrotters and eventually competes in Tokyo. It's just not enough. It's not even enough, in one scene, when the businessman Marty wants to bankroll him subjects him to public humiliation via paddling, which is probably supposed to be funny but sat in our auditorium with a ringing silence of deep discomfort. Perhaps it's because we know Marty deserves it and much worse. But he doesn't get worse. The film ends with him proving himself and finally seeming to choose family life, easily the most unforgivable part of the whole nonsensical escapade. 

Anaconda (2025)

Score: 3.5 / 5

Have you seen Anaconda? The 1997 cult film is a disaster of a movie. As an unapologetic fan of even trashy creature features, I have long loathed that mishmash of horror and adventure that fails at everything except its own nonsensical joie de vivre. From Jon Voight's offensive accent to its garishly stupid effects, there is nothing of value in the product, though arguably the experience may prove diverting for those interested in watching Hollywood go so horribly awry. I'll never watch (nor understand, but that's another tirade) the four sequels -- yep, you read correctly, four sequels -- that have strung out its legacy, even inexplicably crossing over with our beloved Lake Placid.

Enter Tom Gormican, who must have been touched by God one night, inspired to create something fresh out of this stagnant puddle. Toying with a concept in flux between a remake, sequel, and reboot, Gormican turns the material of the '97 Anaconda into an homage not unlike what James Franco did for The Room in The Disaster Artist (2017). To be fair, this isn't quite as conceptually highbrow as that lauded feature, but it's damn close. Essentially, the new Anaconda exists in a metafictional world where the main characters' love of the original Anaconda leads them to launch production on a remake of it as a legit, must-be-taken-seriously film. It should be scary, and romantic, and exciting. So a group of lifelong fans are going to do the material justice.

Problem: they have no funding. On a minimalist budget (in fact, they seem to owe more than they are able to secure from a loan), the team travels via boat through the Amazon, making things up as they go, attempting to film the comeback story of their dreams. 

Gormican's work with Nic Cage in The Unbearable Weight of Massive Talent seems to have prepared him for this film, tonally, as it grapples with really dense concepts through low-brow entertainment. Playful and charming, Gormican's screenplay is matched in wit and earnestness by his assembled cast, who have all done this kind of work very well before. The team of wannabe filmmakers includes Jack Black, Paul Rudd, Steve Zahn, and Thandiwe Newton, who before long discover that an actual monstrous anaconda lurks in the jungle around them. These actors, wacky and silly in their own right, mesh into a formidable ensemble whose sense of humor exceeds the grasp of the screenplay. One hopes that bloopers and behind-the-scenes footage will be provided to us with a home viewing release, because you can almost feel the riotous joy happening offscreen every time a scene ends. I wanted to see more shenanigans!

Their chemistry, as an added bonus, helps the film earn its own seriousness when it does, in fact, get a bit more emotional. There's a stirring sentiment that arises as we, too, hope these hooligans will make the film of their dreams; it won't be the film of our dreams, of course, but who among us hasn't fantasized about being behind a camera for our ideal movies? It's a simple tactic, but one that implicates our own hopes and desires in effortless fashion. To be fair, this film perhaps leans a bit too far into itself as an action film by its final act, and in that it's a bit disappointing; things explode and guns keep firing, and the film's parodic bent starts to get a bit too reflexive. Probably due to Black's screentime, I repeatedly had to remind myself that this is not, in fact, the long-awaited finale for the Jumanji series.

It doesn't all work, especially a bizarre subplot about criminals poaching (?) gold illegally in the Amazon basin and their connections with the team's hired boat captain (Daniela Melchior). And while there's some hilarious back-and-forth between Rudd and Black about the theme of their movie that gets repeated, they unfortunately never articulate anything about that. Similarly, I earnestly hoped that during the film's denouement -- or at least during its credits -- we'd see some of the film they shot, but we don't, which left me feeling quite sad. Putting these characters through such an ordeal without providing closure to their raison d'etre fails them as much as it does us.

I had a hell of a good time in this film, and I look forward to a rewatch. It's also, for whatever it's worth to you, easily one of my favorite killer snake films, making up a lot of lost points in my book simply for having some legitimately frightening moments with its laughably enormous serpent. So come for the adventure and comedy, enjoy the ride, and say hello to a cameo appearance or two. It's easy to take in, even if you're not used to swallowing your fare whole.

The Running Man (2025)

Score: 3.5 / 5

Richard Bachman is having a hell of a year. Stephen King's pseudonym, mostly used in his earlier years as a publishing strategy to avoid saturating the market -- hilarious, in retrospect of the prolific author's career -- published a handful of edgy horror-thrillers in the '80s. Bachman's first four titles have been collected into a single work, The Bachman Books, including Rage, The Long Walk, Roadwork, and The Running Man. The linked title was adapted as a wonderful film earlier in 2025, and now we get the second cinematic adaptation of The Running Man, after the 1987 film. I've admittedly not read the source material nor seen the previous film of this title, so my thoughts here are only of Edgar Wright's new film.

Edgar Wright (Shaun of the Dead, Baby Driver, Last Night in Soho), known for fast pacing, action, and metafictional and/or satirical genre films -- in addition to his easily recognizable musical and editing styles -- is a pretty solid fit for this material, in terms of big-budget filmmaking. And, oddly enough, this title fits well with The Long Walk in thematic conceit: in each, a dystopian governmental regime rules the United States, offering the possibility of success and wealth to individuals who compete in a dangerous, violent activity meant to be broadcast to an oppressed nation. The Running Man is the name of a televised show, not unlike The Hunger Games, in which the authoritarian Network attempts to placate suffering viewers with how much worse life could be. Offering its entrants $1 billion if they survive one month, the Network sends its private assassins out to kill the competitors; by televising the chase, the Network also encourages casual citizens to attempt murder.

Its bizarre mashup of competition and reality television notwithstanding, it would seem the show is a certain lose-lose situation. But Ben Richards (Glen Powell), a blue collar worker living in abject poverty with his wife (Jayme Lawson, of The Batman and Sinners) and infant daughter, needs money. Their daughter is sick, and even with Sheila working, they can't afford her necessary medicine. Ben auditions for the Network, hoping to earn money on one of its other shows, only to find himself forced into competition for the most brutal of all. He's promised his family will be moved to a safe house and given an advance on winnings to help his daughter. What else can he do?

There might be a time and place to pick apart the internal logic of this story, but this isn't it. Mostly because Wright won't let us think too critically about anything. Relentlessly paced, the film feels like a race even as we're watching it, jolting us from chase to fight sequences with only action in-between. What differentiates this from, say, a John Wick film is Wright's signature style: brightly lit scenes, charming wit from our lead actor, and a certain musical flair that keeps things bouncy and moving. That's not to say this isn't bleak, so don't get your hopes up. It's about as nasty and gritty as you could imagine in visual presentation, to say nothing of its disturbingly timely messaging about the cruelty of modern American life under oligarchic systems. And it doesn't help that, in the world of the story, no one has ever won "The Running Man."

Powell himself delivers an admirable performance, injecting a viciousness to his character that I can't recall seeing in him before. Ben isn't just angry, he's determined to live out a life that says little more than "fuck you" to the regime he toils under. And we're meant to fully agree with him. It's not for nothing that we don't know exactly what line of work his wife does, though it's strongly hinted that she's a sex worker and neither of them really want her to be. I can easily imagine this as a highly successful early 2000s film, with its grimy punk style, but I'm glad this film pushes things into a recognizable future. It's telling, I might add, that the public face of the Network (the role played deliciously by Stanley Tucci in the Hunger Games series) is Colman Domingo acting his chops off as a diabolically insane game show host in glorious costume. 

There is a lot to unpack in this film. Josh Brolin plays an executive producer of the Network, who eyeballs Ben and railroads him into the game; the Network's use of manipulative deepfakes to control televised output is as upsetting (and, curiously, unremarkable in the film itself) as the means by which producers get their desired outcome. On his run from potential killers, Ben meets William H. Macy, Daniel Ezra, and Michael Cera, who help him in various ways and pay the price for their aid. We don't get to know these characters, and while it might be disheartening to see such prominent character actors chewing on so little, the film isn't about building community in the face of authoritarian regimes; it's more or less a direct critique of the ways neoliberal methods are employed by empire to entertain and provide false hope to the populace. So it's really just about the main guy trying to overcome the odds stacked against him.

And what odds. I mean, Lee Pace plays his primary hunter, wearing a mask and a lot of leather, and his abilities with physical performance are excellently featured here.

As Powell's vehicle, I can't speak highly enough of this film's efforts to showcase him. His physique is highlighted as much as his caustic wit; he's not totally likable, but he fully owns our attention and sympathies. Despite occasionally making foolish decisions, he's understandable and we desperately want him to succeed. Perhaps this is because we, too, in 2025 (okay, 2026 now; I'm trying to catch up, so sue me) are constantly concerned about making a living wage that allows us healthcare and housing, accountability in government, transparency and ethics in business. My lasting impression of the film is one of annoyance -- how can all these characters, who are universally aware of the falseness of what they're being fed on the tube, keep going along with the bullshit? -- but it's an annoyance I'm increasingly feeling towards our reality.

Annoyance, though, isn't always a bad thing when it's intentional. And this film succeeds in its intent. Like an adrenaline shot of moral outrage, this is a profoundly angry film that is thoroughly entertaining while stoking the same ire we should all be feeling.

Zootopia 2 (2025)

Score: 4 / 5

After almost a decade (wow, that hurt to say), Disney takes us back to the wonderful world of Zootopia with a rambunctious and highly entertaining follow-up to their 2016 hit. There's not much for me to say here, so this will be brief.

Arguably funnier than the first film, Zootopia 2 launches at breakneck speed and barely lets up. For those of you who have some trouble with the speed of animated films these days, be warned, because this one is a doozy. It's hard to understand the story when you're trying to understand the dialogue while processing visual gags and appreciating voice acting, an evocative score, and everything else the filmmakers are throwing at us. And you can tell the material is there for fans who will rewatch at home, with subtitles and the ability to pause, because some of the jokes are brilliant. Disney has its usual cleverness on full display here in turning familiar IPs, places, services, and archetypes into animal versions, often merely providing set dressing and background curiosities to the scenes. A compiled list of all the punny advertisements and products and channels included in this film would probably be longer than the screenplay itself.

And this is what makes Zootopia one of Disney's best stories from the last decade: its determination to speak to our contemporary world through the eyes of anthropomorphized animals. Like its predecessor, this film functions as a sort of primer for civics, a lesson about community-building and the pursuit of justice in an overwhelming and chaotic world often hostile to those goals. Kids will appreciate the unlikely friendship of its protagonists and the example they provide regarding how trust and forgiveness can be practiced and built. Adults may find meatier morals in its dissection of the interplay between vast wealth and city planning, with all the political and commercial consequences that implies. It's all here, in a palatable, fast-paced adventurous romp through various urban biomes in a fantasy world.

More importantly, the story's theming (like Frozen 2, among others) stems from its interest in roots. What happened, in the past, to make things the way they are now? The first film dealt with this too, though to a slightly lesser degree. In this sequel, Judy and Nick again must uncover a conspiracy and plot; the first time, it was about prejudice and injustice being weaponized by political leaders and law enforcement, but this time, it's about founding fathers and oligarchs hiding the truth of their ill-gotten wealth and status. Hinging on concerns about the "haves" and "have-nots," the story showcases how propaganda becomes less visible when it's enshrined as history by those it benefits. Silenced voices, in these situations, are the crucial ones needed to effect justice.

I eagerly await a rewatch of this film. First, I was awed by its visual imagination and creative riffs on everything from YouTube (EweTube, if I recall correctly) to a massive water Tube that functions like the nominally linked London Underground yet could prove dangerous to mammals trying to drift to other parts of the metropolis. But as the film continued, I admit to having found myself lost among its rather complicated plot. It helps you understand the most important bits -- and rehashes some of its finer points as you continue, keeping you up to speed on anything of comprehensive necessity -- but as a sort of mystery, it bears further consideration. Thankfully, with its post-credits scene, the film itself suggests that another installment is coming; I certainly hope that is the case, though I hope they go in a slightly different direction with it (though each film so far has dealt with what we might call racism and ethnic prejudice regarding predators/prey and reptiles, and the next may as well with birds) to avoid a rinse-and-repeat scaffolded approach.

A House of Dynamite (2025)

Score: 4.5 / 5

Every once in a while, a movie slides in without much pomp or circumstance and subtly shifts your entire opinion on the year of film. Kathryn Bigelow's previous three films have done that for me, and it holds true now, eight long years after Detroit blew me away. Along with Bigelow's other historically-minded action dramas Zero Dark Thirty and The Hurt Locker, both among my favorite of all films, these titles have collectively made Bigelow one of my favorite directors, despite her rare output (Tom Ford is another, obviously). A House of Dynamite, however, is more speculative in nature, suggestively showing us a cynical and realistic possibility of our current world in horrific, thrilling real time. 

Taking place over about nineteen minutes of time, the film is told in cyclical and nonlinear fashion. Essentially, the story is this: an unknown foreign entity has launched a ballistic missile at the continental United States. That's it. In twenty minutes, it will likely hit Chicago and, as it presumably carries nuclear weaponry, the result will be devastating. Worse, in our moment of vulnerability, it's possible that other foreign enemies could continue the assault on the US. But twenty minutes isn't enough time to do much: a lone military post attempts to shoot down the missile, but as the film says, it's an attempt to hit a bullet with a bullet. Twenty minutes won't save Chicagoans, or any of its surrounding area (not to mention the environmental disaster to the Great Lakes region). Twenty minutes isn't enough time for the Pentagon to learn who sent this missile from the north Pacific; the obvious guess is North Korea, but should the US retaliate before it knows for sure? Would that spark global holocaust?

I had a full-on panic attack while watching this film. It reminded me in no small way of reading Bob Woodward's Fear, in which he details precisely how close we came to nuclear war during Trump's first presidency. We knew bad things could happen, but their fingers were practically on the firing mechanisms multiple times. Even the tagline for Bigelow's film reads "Not if. When." This thrill ride she's created here -- with writer Noah Oppenheim -- may be fictional, but it's horrifyingly close to reality. And the key to it is not identifying the source of the missile, which is almost certainly how things would go down in real life, like if it happened today. 

The most surprising and enduringly interesting aspect of this film, for me, is its structure. Broken into three main parts, the film repeats the events of those twenty minutes, effectively rewinding twice to showcase various aspects of how US intelligence and defense agents handle the impending disaster. Yet even these three sections are about forty minutes in length because they split those twenty minutes between two characters and/or offices. So, really, we're getting six twenty-minute short films intercut with each other to make sense and build a world of meaning. It's not unlike holiday-centered romcoms (Love Actually, etc.) or even Crash (2004). 

Most of the characters -- the vehicles of drama here -- are experts in their fields and working on behalf of the US government. We get access to the White House situation room, a Defense Secretary's office, a military missile specialist in a remote base, and even the president with the final word on the national response. And they're all -- each character -- riddled with profound humanity. The president is making a public appearance for school kids while calling his wife on an international trip; other agents are having fights with their girlfriends, caring for sick children, trying to get in touch with spouses and estranged daughters, attempting to navigate rush hour traffic. The point is that this could be any day, when we're all busy with Other Things, and that those things will affect our performance when it's crunch time. The point is also, seemingly, to remind us (the audience) that the people in charge of such existential defense are also just like us, and that maybe we can't resort to easy judgment when it comes to reacting to such inconceivable horrors.

The ensemble cast is uniformly solid, effectively conveying a grounded approach to the situation while providing moments of emotional insight. Not relief, mind, but a few breakthroughs; this isn't a film meant to make full narrative sense or reach for dramatic catharsis. We're meant to sit with discomfort, just like these people would. There's a moment when, in the situation room, two supervisors help each other get their cell phones and try to warn their loved ones before simply succumbing to the impending tragedy: with tears in their eyes, they simply reach out and silently hold each other's hand while watching the missile on each of the dozen screens before them. What else can they do at that point? Part of the joy of the film is watching familiar A-list actors doing what they do best but in a starkly understated way; they get to the truth of their characters without showcasing their craft. Idris Elba, Rebecca Ferguson, Tracy Letts, Jared Harris -- they're just given the most material, but the full cast works in perfect harmony to create the muted vibes of this vicious experience.

Clearly impeccably researched and written, the material bravely resists easy answers by refusing to give us any. Bigelow has carved out quite a niche for herself that almost no other filmmakers are doing, at least with her budget or skills: she takes some hypotheticals, dunks them into a thickly realistic setting, and makes the case for horror in what could so easily be jingoistic action. People interested in such military and government insider jargon will surely appreciate the film's educational value in chain of command, agencies and their acronyms, and the real-time pressures involved in this narrative. Storytellers will find its structure and theming fascinating, as it functions more as a series of intercut chamber dramas; I'd be interested in seeing a live theatrical version of this screenplay as a sort of staged radio play or series of one-acts. And anyone eager for a timely thriller that will give you full-body chills and dread -- when you're not panicking -- should check out A House of Dynamite. It's one of the year's best.

Wicked: Part Two (2025)

Score: 4 / 5

The grandeur of Jon M. Chu's vision of Oz has only improved with the finale of his cinematic adaptation of Wicked, that much is true. His singular auteur streak made quite a claim for itself with In the Heights and Crazy Rich Asians, and frankly I hope he makes big, bold musicals for the rest of his career, much like how I hope Mike Flanagan handles whatever horror he wants. Chu shares a unique awareness of genre and adaptation, making his works honor not only the letter of the source but its metafictional spirit. You can almost sense his desperation in this film, though, or at least the pressure from studio execs. As things get more frenzied and unbalanced on screen, I frequently found my mind drifting into curiosity about the writing process, rather than the effect of those choices on what I was experiencing. 

This is the potential danger of fandom: the more you know about and love and invest in something, the more ownership you feel you have over it. Your own imagination takes a place of privilege in your mind, and incoming information is filtered through that bias and preference. Earning this bias through years of exposure and study of the material can also feed one's ego, of course, but the expertise in the matter is not undermined. You musical theatre millennials out there know where I'm going with this.

Going to see Wicked: Part Two (and no, I will not be calling it that ridiculous title only used for marketing purposes, bite me) was exactly the closure we all needed after the miserable interim year. And we'll get to the film itself presently. But many of us went (and went again) with people cut of a different cloth than ourselves. We came of age with this show. We had the soundtrack memorized and sang snippets to each other in high school hallways. We were rabid for tickets to the national tour. We had merch from a show we'd only seen shitty bootlegs of on YouTube computer screens (with dial-up internet, y'all). And we knew splitting this show into two parts was never going to work.

So when going with fans who hadn't been in a chokehold from this show since 2003, many of us had trouble holding our tongues at inevitable accusations at the film's tone, music, story, etc. No matter how many times you said "It's not meant to be a separate film," the average viewer only sees this as a sequel. And who can really blame them? You wouldn't go see one act of a play or musical in a theatre, then wait a year, and go see the second act. You'd have forgotten much of the material, atmosphere, and sensations, for starters. Stories told onstage with all the restrictions that entails (time, space, resources, imagination, community) are simply structured differently as narratives and as experiences. To split it so egregiously means utter disaster, especially for the second act, which is almost universally drier, heavier, darker, and quieter than the first. It's just the nature of the craft.

All that to say: the only reasonable way to watch this film is as a direct continuation of the first, so I'll be writing about it as such. It is not, and should never have been, considered on its own terms.

Tone is where we'll start, I think, because whereas the first act of Wicked is essentially a coming of age comedy (in the classical sense; a narrative climbing upward to liberation, self-actualization, love, health, etc.) the second act is functionally an antihero's tragedy (a narrative climbing downward to ruination, damnation, loss, grief, etc.). Overlapping with the events of The Wizard of Oz as it does, from the perspectives of characters not seen in the 1939 classic, how can it be anything else for the titular wicked witch of the west? Her demise by Dorothy proves to be no less than a state-sanctioned execution carried out by an "innocent," a perspective emphasized in this production, which heavily ramps up the political themes in this material. It's both timely and appropriate, and one of the writerly choices I love best in this film: whereas onstage, the second act almost entirely forgets the animals and their plight, this film adds multiple scenes of the horrors enacted on them that appropriately and necessarily intensify the proceedings. Think about how the US felt after 9/11 and you'll begin to appreciate why us finally being able to see what we've only imagined is so satisfying to fans.

So it makes sense, in terms of tone, that Stephen Schwartz's inevitable new music for part two wasn't upbeat, rambunctious silliness like in part one. These aren't sapphic schoolgirls growing into their shoes (er...hats?) and learning that the world isn't quite what it seems. These are adult women with influence and powers they're still learning to handle: magic, yes, but more importantly public image and voice and impact. They're mere years out of college, with seemingly minimal professional training, yet already spokespeople for entire political movements! And, at least in Elphaba's case, coordinating and enacting (often solo) guerrilla-style attacks on the soldiers of Oz, which significantly endangers her life. These new songs -- one for each of our lead women -- are melancholic and slow, with Erivo's being a sort of bland, repetitive march (that feels almost like a dirge; think "Anatevka") and Grande's a lilting, frothy aria. Neither feel organically like part of the film's soundscape, nor do they show off the considerable talents of these singers, though Schwartz clearly wrote for their particular voices. They're nice enough tunes, but feel like scrapped material from his less-accomplished works. Actually, that's a curious thought: to know what melodies Schwartz scrapped before or during workshops for the show back in those early aughts.

*Also in terms of music, while we're on the topic: the opening sequence of this film. Of course I hated it; what's to like? It's a medley of truncated tunes from the first act with reworked lyrics meant to put us back in the aural headspace of Schwartz's Oz. It feels like, "And that's what you missed on Glee." And it adds some really heavyhanded visuals, like Elphaba's conspiracy murderboard reminding herself that the Wizard is bad and that she needs to overthrow him. Because, you know, it might be something she'd forget. It also gives Glinda a moment of enjoying her newfound cult of personality (gifted to her by associating with the Wizard) while the Oz guards dance and salute her.

A changed narrative genre notwithstanding, the tone of act two becomes by necessity more political and more angry. To better serve this, the writers here do some really admirable work in trying to flesh out thematic points of interest, namely in clearly delineating the rise of fascism. And it's not just a Madame Morrible-and-the-Wizard thing. I was always annoyed and sad that the original cast recording does not include "The Wicked Witch of the East," a curious little number that dramatizes Nessarose's fall from grace as she expresses her increasing desperation through agency and ownership over Munchkinland and especially Boq (Ethan Slater, really pushing for serious appreciation here), her unrequited love. That scene is really compellingly rendered here, with an interesting alteration to the glittery shoes' effect of making Nessa fly rather than walk, seemingly an attempt to sidestep the troubling ableism of that moment. The writers also add new dialogue and context, showing Nessa legally restricting animal movement in Munchkinland in accordance with propaganda from the Emerald City; then, due to her fears of abandonment, she restricts all Munchkins from moving as well. We're treated to an upsetting scene at a train station that, in case you had spaced out, reminds us that the rise of fascism is not unfamiliar to us. And, even on a simple narrative level, showing how deep personal pain can spur someone on to evils like fascism (um, Darth Vader, anyone?) is one of the main takeaways from this film that we simply don't get onstage: all this context is delivered in a single line by Boq, something to the effect of "she's stripping the rights of Munchkins" and she says "to keep you here." It's really nice to have more material around this so we can savor it.

That said, I would add that, even with its cleverly rewritten intro music, I think it's performed in a lower key in the film than onstage, which may not be a dealbreaker for most people, but definitely decreased its sheer emotional intensity. At least to my ears.

I also don't mean to give the impression that there is no humor or joy in this film. Of course we still get cutesy little Oz-isms in speech, though the "clock-tick" gag is laughably overused; to that point, I will never understand why there is no Time Dragon in either film, and it infuriates me, and I will be making no further comment about that. Several of Glinda's quips are rearranged and moved earlier in the film; presumably, this allows her arc to take more of a center focus than Elphaba's, which was featured in the first act. Glinda's sobriety here doesn't mean she's not a little silly at times, but Grande is working overtime to complicate even plaintive stares, shading each gaze with emotional fragility barely masking near-constant heartache. It helps that we get added scenes of her own childhood, revealing that she's always been a bit of a fraud with lots of gumption, all welcome additions. Her performance here devastated me in ways I was actively resisting, and while she could have given even more to it, she makes it almost look easy and understated in a way that emphasizes Glinda's balletic fantasy vibes. Actually, to that point, the way the plot was reworked to include her wedding to Fiyero (Jonathan Bailey, we'll get to him) and to have its ruins be her setting for the "I'm Not That Girl" reprise hurt my soul in ways I've still not healed.

Joy comes in this film, too, from a deeper, more abiding satisfaction in the character of Elphaba, who does indeed have an arc here as well. Hers is of becoming villainous, and while she can't really achieve the same levels as Margaret Hamilton by restrictions in the role itself, Elphaba does indeed go from hiding her "weird quirk"-iness to asserting herself in all ways. Indeed, she opens the film freeing some animals from their enslavement. This also includes the way of love, which brings to fruition her moments of connection with Fiyero (Jonathan Bailey, but let's not get distracted just now) from the first act. A personal favorite song of the show, "As Long as You're Mine" brings them together before disaster strikes, and she follows it up with the powerhouse "No Good Deed" in a sequence of scenes that Erivo chews up nicely. While her dynamism is necessarily featured in the first act, here Erivo wields a quiet power, a performance of gravitas that feels earned and burdensome. Heavy lies the witch's cap and all that. 

An added note for Elphaba's character: the original production had Elphaba almost betraying her convictions in "Wonderful" with the Wizard, singing "It does sound wonderful" in a strange moment that's long irked some fans. It never bothered me too much, because she's clearly not infallible and the Wizard is meant to be oozing with charm. If we saw right through his sham all the time, he wouldn't have ever been enthroned as the Wizard in the first place. So I rather liked the inclusion of Glinda in the number -- with its bizarrely reworked intro music -- as it allowed the characters to connect again and to reinforce the subtle familial relationships between them. Additionally, I think this theming could and should have been added to Elphaba's original song. Think of it: what if, even with the same thematic ideas of the new "No Place Like Home," the song was written as a harmonic duet between Elphaba and Dulcibear, to mirror her song with Dr. Dillamond from the first act? Ooh, I have goosebumps just thinking of its counterpoint to the "Something Bad" happening at home messaging. And then maybe it would sound more like Wicked and less like Aida. If you know, you know.

Okay, let's talk Fiyero. Bailey is still doing his excellent work, and it's nice to see his darker side in this outing. He's captain of the Gale Force, a cleverly named cadre of soldiers that tips its hat to Morrible's magical predilections as well as to L. Frank Baum's surname for his young protagonist. It should also be said that this is used in Maguire's novel, which I will otherwise not be mentioning here. Bailey gets some nice moments here, especially in his romantic duet, which is staged in a really nice way that is unfortunately more family-friendly than some of us might have preferred. But when he appears for the last time, his nightmarish makeup triggered my trypophobia. To be fair, Boq's makeup makes Slater almost unrecognizable, but in a way that feels intentionally similar to Jack Haley's appearance as the character. So why the designers chose to make Bailey's Scarecrow look like Ryan Reynolds's Deadpool doing the Scarecrow as a Halloween costume is a mystery that took me completely out of the film's denouement. Is it too much to ask for a bit more of Ray Bolger's look? It's less gag-inducing. And then for Elphaba to have dialogue about him being "beautiful anyway" or whatever, literally highlighting the misstep, was too much for me. 

The plot holes of the original are generally still problems in the film, and ones that I'm a little curious about. Surely, for all the additions of action and animals, the creative team could have provided some answer for odd discrepancies between Wicked and The Wizard of Oz. It's not all wholly necessary onstage, because the production has thus far been visualized in a steampunk Gothic style; the film, however, is meant to look like the Oz we've always seen on screen, so the relationship between the two plots is ripe for scrutiny. So how and why certain characters, like the Scarecrow and the Tin Man, don't seem to have shared history anymore still doesn't make sense; nor does Morrible's inexplicable ignorance of all their identities -- including the Cowardly Lion, voiced by Colman Domingo for all of a handful of lines in, what, two scenes? Lines that, it should be said, do little more than make him a race traitor, functionally -- despite them all having been at Shiz together at the same time.

And, because I do this sometimes, here are a smattering of my incidental concluding thoughts that aren't as well categorizable as my dubiously well-organized previous paragraphs. Regarding the Wizard (Jeff Goldblum, still his delicious self), his lack of reprising "A Sentimental Man" is disappointing. Don't get me wrong: it's a weak song in the material, and only really exists to let the Wizard character sing, to justify Elphaba's "as someone told me lately" lyric in "Defying Gravity," and for its reprise, when he is given an emotional sendoff with his acknowledgment -- again, in the tradition of tragic antiquity -- that his longing "to be a father" has in fact been a reality all along. But for all else these writers added to and changed in the second act, I cannot comprehend why this was axed entirely. On the other hand, I liked how this film doubles down on his visual comparisons to Walt Disney; Goldblum is lost in a world of toys and ideas, with a miniature train and zoetrope symbolizing his clinging to fantasies. Additionally, Michelle Yeoh's Morrible was never the powder keg I wanted, but her performance -- singing voice and all -- was suitably sinister.

The setting change of "Thank Goodness" to be the construction of the yellow brick road was a brilliant choice, as was the visualization of Morrible's twister tearing up said road: authoritarian dictators don't just disregard their own citizens and/or resources, they actively destroy aspects of civilization that they themselves need in pursuit of their goals (namely power, often through removal of perceived enemies). Much like these tensions, cinematographer Alice Brooks literalizes the broken relationships between characters and characters, characters and society, and characters and self by using a lot of mirrors and glass, often passing through them to distort our perception of reality. It underscores how easy it is for us to lose ourselves to our manufactured image, to deceive ourselves of intentions and motives; this comes to a climax during "The Girl in the Bubble," where the camera constantly moves through windows and mirrors while framing Glinda in architectural bubbles, much as her character is coming to terms with this pseudo-self-imposed prison. Brooks's choices make less sense in the black and white snippets of Fiyero's torture, which I'm guessing was to maintain a PG rating (?) even though it's quite minimalist, and in the generally desaturated color palette, compared to the first film. I suppose it could be an indicator of how Elphaba sees her visions, but that's not at all consistent through this production.

And don't get me started with that final shot. What a lovely way to end the film.

We could go on for much longer, and frankly this is the kind of film I like getting really nitty-gritty with. As long as all discussion participants are willing to not judge this film as its own thing, we can have really cool conversations about narrative adaptations, about performance subtleties, about production design, about thematic conceits. And this seems a useful time to reiterate my mantra: when you resort to evaluating films as "good" or "bad," you lose not only intellectual opportunities but the possibility for discussion itself. How much more rewarding (and, ultimately, fruitful) to actually discuss the art, rather than our reactions to it! It's this approach -- simply looking closer and talking about movies and their complexities and tensions, a simple practice that provides greater meaning -- that has always motivated me to avoid evaluating a film in conversation.

The Woman in Cabin 10 (2025)

Score: 2 / 5

The Woman in Cabin 10 is a go-to title for anyone curious about author Ruth Ware. I confess I haven't read it, but the buzz was somewhat inescapable, at least in certain circles. I have, however, read another title from Ware, and while Spiece's Pieces isn't and won't be a reading blog, my experience with her prose bears some relevance here. A few years back, I read Ware's In a Dark, Dark Wood, eager for a new voice in mystery/thrillers and seeing her name on a lot of store shelves. My impression was one of dismal mediocrity: following a path worn down by Gillian Flynn and Paula Hawkins while blatantly ripping off Christie and Hitchcock, Ware's narrative was simplistic and obvious, culminating in a final reveal so insipid and stupid that it soured me to her permanently. Even her somewhat intriguing ideas -- namely, her setting, in that novel -- are swept away by obnoxiously moralistic and unrealistic motivations for the main characters, which seem to be the point of the novel, rather than the climax, which is at best an afterthought.

So when I learned that Ware's perhaps most well-known title was getting Netflix treatment, I was not particularly excited. Yet the trailer intrigued me; I'm a sucker for anything that even loosely resembles The Lady Vanishes or a Poirot mystery, and this looked like a modern version of Death on the Nile. In the hands of Simon Stone (The Dig), and starring Keira Knightley among a cast of fabulous actors, a single watch of this on Netflix renders it a fun and simple distraction this winter. As meatier fare, however, this dish leaves a lot to be desired. 

Investigative journalist Lo (Knightley), rattled by witnessing the murder of a source, opts to take on a breezy, luxurious project to reset her professional regulation. Invited by dying billionaire Anne on a superyacht cruise to Norway, Lo is tasked with hobnobbing with wealthy guests and writing them up in a puff piece exalting their philanthropic activities. Anne, terminally ill with cancer, is opening a new charity as her final legacy, supported by her husband Richard (Guy Pearce); what Richard and everybody else doesn't know, however, is that Anne is going to donate her entire fortune. Anne tells Lo this privately, which gives Lo some pause. Why doesn't Richard know? Or the other guests, who seem to be longtime friends? Perhaps, we can almost hear her thinking as she gazes at the opulence around her, these people are all snivelling sycophants hoping for a slice of Anne's pie.

At least, that's the direction this could have taken. Instead, almost immediately, Lo encounters an unidentified, bedraggled woman onboard who suddenly disappears in what Lo believes to be a crime. Loose cigarette butts, a bloody handprint, and a body thrown overboard en route are more than enough to spark her hysterics. Crew and passengers alike dismiss her, yet her growing indignation make them all quite hostile. She's upsetting the applecart, yes, but also sucking up energy that should be spent glorying in Anne's fading glow. And when they all learn of her recent trauma, they chalk it all up to Lo simply losing the plot. It doesn't help that her flirtatious ex, Ben (David Ajala), has been assigned to this cruise as her photographer. 

Apart from the obvious ties to other projects already mentioned, this film never really feels like its own thing. As with any murder mystery, the primary joys are to be found with its cast; unfortunately, this cast isn't given much to do, as their screenplay spends almost all its time with Lo. Though Knightley is eminently watchable doing the same kind of acting she always does, Lo always feels beholden to her caricature writ broadly; intensity is great, but she never feels like a real person thrust into a bizarre and sinister situation. This means that, apart from Ajala, no other actor gets a chance to do much more than play their thinly written, archetypal role. Pearce is greasy and smug as an overprotective and likely gold-digging hubby; Gugu Mbatha-Raw pops in a few times for good measure; Kaya Scodelario, Hannah Waddingham, and David Morrissey float around like vaguely suspicious red herrings in couture. There's a rockstar and a doctor, a crew uniformly in line behind a forced facade, and some consternation over the fate of Anne's fortune.

But all amounts to much less than the sum of its parts, narratively, in a story that consistently underwhelms with its predictability and rote beats. What works much better is the visuals, if only because the yacht and ocean are so beautiful to behold. Stylishly sapped of most of its color, an icy bluish-gray palette pervades each frame, so that the beautiful actors in their leisurely boating outfits become the only real reason to watch this movie. And I do mean that, because by the final act, so absurd in its machinations, I wanted to just turn the wretched thing off and keep the memory of furtive glances and trysts in the glassy hallways below deck as murderous designs lurk around each corner. Better to go watch Flightplan instead.

Predator: Killer Among Killers (2025)

Score: 4.5 / 5

As an only partial-fan of the Predator franchise, I initially had no intention of seeing a direct-to-streaming animated film under the title. The Hulu feature -- with Disney expanding its entertainment monopoly to include Alien as well, though I haven't yet seen Alien: Earth -- piqued my interest when, upon closer inspection, I learned that Dan Trachtenberg was at the helm. To paraphrase myself vis a vis his other franchise entry this year, Predator: Badlands, Trachtenberg is the only reason this franchise works in my mind, and I'll watch anything the man creates. Since 10 Cloverfield Lane, he's more than earned his place in my esteem. 

Building on the franchise in increasingly fascinating ways, Trachtenberg here seems to take his brilliant impetus in Prey to a more extreme degree. Killer Among Killers is an anthology film, episodically exploring Yautja hunters as they visit various populations on Earth, stalking and slaying human warriors for sport in times of terrestrial trial and violence. It's a wonderful fleshing-out of the premise of the franchise that it's never quite embraced; moreover, it combines several different time periods and locations into one film, so that by its end you feel a certain epic scope to the whole thing.

Which says a lot about an animated film. The Third Floor, the animation company behind this artistry, has a long history of fantasy, sci-fi, and action films, especially for superheroes and monsters (like the MCU and Godzilla, respectively). Here, they accomplish the unlikely in winning over my attention and my heart with gorgeous animation that rivals most other 2D material out there. More importantly, and likely due in no small part to Trachtenberg's style, the film justifies itself as animation through its determination to "film" its action in ways that wouldn't be normal in a live-action feature. It would be possible, of course, especially in these days of CGI, but even the cinematography of this -- the framing, I suppose, fluid and shot-specific as if filmed practically -- draws attention to its own impossibility. In this way, the film seems to be reaching out to us skeptical viewers, encouraging us that this medium was the only feasible way to do this project.

And it works! After Prey was released three years ago, I hoped more would be made in the vein of Assassin's Creed, meaning applying the same concept to other human cultures across time and space. And what a concept: seemingly drawn to people in the midst of tension and violence, a monstrous Yautja hunter materializes, studying its prey while invisible, and gradually working up to claim their heads. Or, rather, their skulls and spines, which they tend to rip from corpses of lesser predators before spraying with some kind of acid to "clean" their trophies. Flesh isn't the goal here so much as pride.

In "The Shield," first of the three episodes, Viking warlord Ursa leads a campaign against a rival who killed her father. Not unlike in The Northman, she has sworn to avenge her father, just as she forces her son to do for her. At her moment of reckoning -- with no small amount of disdain from her nemesis about her gender -- an enormous, hulking Yautja appears, and a riveting, bloody battle ensues across a frozen lake. Second, "The Sword" is a mostly nonverbal story of ninja brothers, battling each other for succession under the watchful, abusive eye of their samurai father. The underdog, Kenji, returns years later for revenge on his brother, when a lithe Yautja begins grappling with them both. Third, "The Bullet" follows Latino fighter pilot Torres for the US Navy in World War II who discovers and battles an airborne Yautja destroying planes over North Africa. All three episodes are rigorously paced and immaculately conceived, less about worldbuilding than about building character and theme through action. Each episode features a main character whose search for validation, acknowledgement, and/or vengeance leads them to victory, yet they also undergo grievous loss before defeating their hunters by their resourcefulness, quick-thinking, and sheer guts. It's all very classical, actually.

And that's not all! There's a final, fourth episode of the film that ties all three together: some time after each encounter, the heroes are abducted by the Yautja in ships that leave crop circles. It's this kind of cutesy nod that really elevates the material to a certain metafictional sensibility. Ursa, Kenji, and Torres find themselves brought to a Yautja arena and forced to fight each other to the death. Hence the title, this will show the Yautja what kind of human is most dangerous and therefore worthy prey. Or, perhaps, the Yautja simply like gladiatorial entertainment so much that this arena is more of a victory lap. Lorded over by what Ursa calls their "Grendel King," the Yautja want to see blood. Much like us, in fact, which Trachtenberg knows full well. I cannot underscore enough how bloody this film is; not wholly unlike Zemeckis's Beowulf, this film surprises with its sheer brutality. And not just when the aliens appear! The human-against-human fight scenes are inventive and gritty, hypnotic in their flair while upsetting in their aggressive ferocity. I said 2D earlier, but there is a distinct 3D approach to the visuals here, and the filmmakers utilize that best when letting blood splatter across the boundaries between prey and predator: on the sheet of ice, on a papery screen, on a plane window.

Each episode is beautifully realized, especially in their attention to accents and/or language. Each story is perfectly self-contained narratively and thematically, and would work just as well without the alien presence. Yet when the beastie boys inevitably reveal themselves, they function as a necessary extension -- a logical intensifier, if you will -- of the primary thematic concern for their chosen hero to continue to battle. And then, when they're all thrown together in the finale, the language barrier between them becomes a much-needed source of light comedy before the gauntlets come off. There are plenty of nods, especially in this last bit, to the rest of the franchise (I think I counted at least one significant reference to each of the previous films in the franchise, including a certain French pistol), and its final shots of other Yautja-killers including Naru, Mike, and Dutch suggest that our heroes may yet return again. If the ominous and bleak ending of this film is any indication, the survivors will need all the help they can get!