Whalefall (2026)

Score: 4 / 5

The biblical story of Jonah meets a survival horror adventure like All is Lost in Whalefall, adapted from the excellent novel of the same name by Daniel Kraus. Kraus co-wrote this screenplay with director Brian Duffield (director of No One Will Save You and writer of Underwater), and the pair capture all the memorable beats of the story while shifting focus slightly from the psychological race against time in the dark, as depicted in the novel, to somewhat greater visual splendor than I'd have thought possible. 

After his father commits suicide by strapping weights to his body and stepping off a boat into the notoriously dangerous waters of Monastery Beach in California, his adult son Jay makes the terrible choice to dive down for his father's remains. Even a bone, he seems to think, will help give his family -- including his mother (Elisabeth Shue) and sisters (Jane Levy and Emily Rudd) -- closure, as the funeral required an empty casket. It's a ludicrous idea, because after a year, it seems unlikely anything but bones could be found anyway, but that's what Jay is after. So he takes an oxygen tank and wades into the water for an unauthorized dive. Nobody even knows he's there, and he's hiding from the authorities because the beach is off-limits today. He even forgot his gloves.

Once in the water, Jay scrounges through the kelp forest until he comes to the sheer drop-off into the submarine canyon that separates Santa Cruz from Monterey. While descending, before long, he encounters a giant squid and its natural predator, a sperm whale, which in their cat-and-mouse chase end up grabbing Jay. He's devoured by the whale along with the squid. Trapped in its gullet, Jay has to try and problem-solve his way out of the literal mouth of death before he runs out of oxygen. 

The film is a gruesome one, and anyone with a queasy stomach may want to take caution. Most of the runtime is excessively wet, with blood, stomach acid, and other assorted goo constantly shining amongst the seawater. Claustrophobic cinematography centers on Jay as he's constantly assaulted by the muscled walls of the whale's internal organs, which periodically contract around him, attempting to chew him so he can pass into its stomach proper. Out of necessity, the production design requires light in this set, so the filmmakers make the choice to keep things perhaps too-well-lit, using the idea of bioluminescent residue from the whale's food, presumably, to make the experience visually dynamic. I found it to be a bit much, but I don't know how else they could have shot most of these scenes. Similarly, when Jay makes it into the whale's stomach in one scene, the ominous glowing yellow of its acid makes for a really effective and upsetting switch. 

Similarly, the limited but increasing shots of the whale's exterior showcase some truly eye-popping visual effects that enhance the story while arguably ruining much of the film's claustrophobic effect. The one exception I'd identify is when the whale gets attacked by orcas, just before the film's climax. The exterior shots of the whale get drained of color, almost to black and white, and the whale floats alone in the deep void. When it sends out sonar signals, we see the feedback in the form of orcas swooping in and out of proximity, chasing down their prey. It's a fascinating and beautiful choice, visually, even if it doesn't quite make sense biologically. And that's why the film works so well!

Of course, in addition to the survival horror of the story, we get lengthy flashbacks in Jay's mind as he struggles to maintain hope and sanity. These take up perhaps more time than expected, but they are absolutely worth the time. Most involve Jay's relationship with his father, Mitt (Josh Brolin), who spends most of their time together being emotionally and verbally abusive to his son; one telling scene also involves physical abuse, and it's hinted that there was much more of this. Mitt's hard on Jay for multiple reasons, but expressly to prepare his only son to be a hardened man who is ready for anything. Jay recalls certain messages just as he needs to remember certain things Mitt taught him in his youth about diving and about the ocean, and at first it feels a bit trite. But the film eventually earns these moments as we dive deeper into their relationship.

And that's Jay's journey as well. The closure he needs isn't based on finding his father's bones; it's about finding his father's essence and learning to appreciate certain aspects of his father. So when, by the film's climax, he begins hearing his father's voice from the whale's bowels -- is it his memory, the whale, God, or indeed his father? -- it no longer matters if Jay has completely lost his grip on sanity or not. He's reached a place, finally, of communication with a healing power outside himself. Austin Abrams -- in his second movie this year vying against tentacled horrors and voracious consumption -- grounds the film with an amazing performance that is, frankly, mostly physical and nonverbal. He grunts and screams and cries his way through fleshy innards and various juices while being crushed and stabbed and burned and broken. 

And that's what makes this film such a satisfying watch and, I suspect, rewatch. Its high-concept premise and massive budget make it a bona fide blockbuster, but it's also fairly subversive in delivery, forcing us to chew on its grander ideas long after we've enjoyed its thrills and spectacle. Some of the viewing experience made me feel out-of-body, too, and the film seems intentionally hinting at that, like with the orca chase or squid fight: these are alien worlds and kaiju-like monsters with no concern for the lone human caught amongst them. Similarly, as our mind deteriorates with Jay's -- like something Lovecraftian -- we're meant to empathize with him, seeing the trap into which he's led himself and how all things, including his memory, have forced him into such a victimized place, both mentally and bodily. 

Whalefall has got a lot on its mind, and it will surely spark some amazing discussions in biological, theological, and therapeutic circles even above and beyond anyone appreciating it for its unique and visionary entertainment value. By the time Brolin explains, in flashback, what exactly a whalefall is -- when a whale's corpse settles and creates a whole new ecosystem for smaller deep-sea creatures -- the film's various thematic interests finally coalesce into a fabulous tapestry interested in purgatorial trauma meant to heal and provide new life.

Other Mommy (2026)

Score: 4 / 5

Rob Savage returns to the helm with a fantasy horror like we've never seen. 

The tricky thing about adaptations is that, while the film needs to be accessible to new audiences unfamiliar with its premise, it should also please fans of the source material. It may deviate wildly but still honor the main ideas and sensation of the source, in a case like The Lord of the Rings, for an example of virtually everyone being pleased. Not everyone loves horror novels, and so I can imagine that much of the profound artistry in adapting Other Mommy from its source material will escape casual audiences as a result. Yet, thankfully, Savage's film is strong enough to merit its own discussion without this being a book-vs-film comparison. 

Suffice to say that Josh Malerman's terrifying Incidents Around the House makes for great cinematic material. Told as a haunted house story that becomes a possession story from the perspective of a seven-year-old girl, it accomplishes a rare feat in (mostly) convincingly putting us in a child's shoes and mindset while the unthinkable happens around her. One might think of Paul Tremblay's A Head Full of Ghosts as a counterpoint, or last year's Good Boy. What's remarkable is how satisfying it is to study not just the supernatural but also the mundane from the child's perspective: we learn much about her parents and their troubled marriage in snippets, filtered through the mind of an innocent who doesn't understand things like infidelity and yearning and spoiled dreams and family lies. 

Savage, in adapting the material with writer Nathan Elston, works hard to keep that feeling of us being locked into young Bela's perspective. The camera -- handled masterfully by Lowell A. Meyer -- is constantly in motion, swirling and zooming around gorgeous sets with a sort of childlike wonder. Shots are often shot from waist level on an adult, roughly the height for a child's head, sometimes even tilting up at adult faces. Certain details of the haunting, including balloons and colorful plastic balls and plastic partyware, are multiplied to silly extremes to generate a sensation of fantasy unusual in the genre. The demonic entity known as Other Mommy is often rendered in grotesque CGI not unlike the visual stylizations in IT and its sequel. These choices -- even the setting of Grandma's house on a stunning Gothic cliff -- create a sort of out-of-body sensation in the attentive viewer that I found hard to shake afterward.

A potential drawback of this perspective is that we don't really get a lot of story here. At least not as much as many viewers might want. We have to piece together aspects of the parents' private life from snippets of somewhat contrived conversations and filtered through Bela's haphazard attention. A key moment takes place early on when Bela's mother is being comforted by her father's best friend; we see the intimate affection and realize they're having an affair in a silent montage as Bela spins on a tire swing several yards away. In this way, the film rewards viewers who focus, sidestepping the increasingly annoying problem of screenplays overexplaining themselves to distracted audiences. We also sometimes get bizarre time jumps via edits, which upon a repeat viewing I appreciated more: this editing style helps create the childlike fantasy logic of the film, shifting unexpectedly and without warning, cutting out the boring bits and dwelling on the indeed strange incidents around Bela. 

Much like Malerman's novel, the film's pace is reckless. One of its unique charms is that it wastes no time getting spooky. There's no buildup to the haunting; we are launched in medias res and before very long both parents are completely convinced of the supernatural entity attempting to possess their daughter. So they do the Chris MacNeil thing and try doctors and priests to fix things, right? Wrong. They go on the run to other houses while trying to figure out what to do. It's a really cool narrative choice, as it creates a mythic journey out of their plight while multiplying their problems (like sleep deprivation and endangering their other loved ones). 

But, led by a masterful performance from Jessica Chastain and some nice work from Jay Duplass, young Arabella Olivia Clark carries the film like a pro. The relationships between these characters -- and their histories -- feel organic and lived-in, comfortable and loaded with nonverbal weight in their glances as they struggle to shield Bela from the darker aspects of adult life. And, even with the sometimes jarringly surreal appearances by Other Mommy threatening to derail our suspension of disbelief, they keep the increasingly bizarre visuals grounded through their dedicated, wonderfully realistic performances. 

I'd love to wax poetic about every aspect of this film, from its satisfyingly overwrought symbolism to its incredible centerpiece of a high-tech seance a la Insidious, and of course to its ending which is different than but on par with the novel's, because it's just one of those that feel tailored to me, you know? It thrillingly honors its brilliant source material and offers surprisingly unique artistic inspiration to boot, all while making for a hell of a ride. 

Sense and Sensibility (2026)

Score: 2 / 5

Another year, another Jane Austen adaptation. Unfortunately, this year's theatrical feature is something less than memorable. Georgia Oakley's grounded and tactile vision for Sense and Sensibility offers a few notable pleasures -- it will surely do well among Austen apologists and completionists -- but even as I walked out of the theater I found my mind drifting wildly and unable to remember much of what I'd just seen. Admittedly, the material is perhaps my least favorite of Austen's novels in terms of plot, characterization, and theming, mostly because it's always felt underbaked to me, as if it was a parable Austen attempted to flesh out.

As an adaptation, this film delivers the source material into the arguably more palatable form of just over two hours' experience. Centering, of course, on the eldest Dashwood sisters, the story concerns Elinor and Marianne as they, their mother, and their younger sister are ousted from their home, penniless after the death of their patriarch. Their brother has "rightly" inherited the estate, and he and his pitiless wife waste no time in claiming what's newly theirs. Their only hope, upon moving to Barton Cottage in Devonshire, is to marry well despite their low status. We follow their encounters with various suitors; Elinor, more reserved and thoughtful, attempts to overcome social boundaries and expectations with her sister-in-law's respectable elder brother Edward, while passionate and melodramatic Marianne burns brightly with charismatic but dubious Willoughby while the awkward but earnest Colonel Brandon waits patiently for her.

Thankfully, the romantic plots are less the focus of this film than they were of the 1995 film. Rather, Oakley and her team work hard to make this film feel palpably realistic, grounded and dirty to the point of highlighting dresses stained with berry juice and hair getting tangled in the breeze. More like Hamnet in that regard, we're treated frequently to wordless moments of the sisters cuddling in bed together, wandering the woods, and practicing housework in their smaller new digs. The actors are all fine (including Daisy Edgar-Jones and George MacKay), but the interest here is really the visuals; Fiona Shaw is the notable standout as the generous busybody Mrs. Jennings, who mobilizes the sisters' social efforts in several hilarious scenes that smartly let her chew all she wants. 

It's a diverting enough viewing experience, especially if you like such things. I just found myself wondering repeatedly -- both during the screening and now -- why this piece exists at all, and I still can come up with no answer.

Crawlers (2026)

Score: 3.5 / 5

With something like three million spiders for every human on Earth, we'd all be dead in a year if they decided to eat us. That's how Crawlers starts, with onscreen text meant to put us on the edge of our seat. Our seat, it notes, probably has a spider under it. 

A throwback film that doesn't seem to know, at first, to what it's throwing back, Crawlers manages to succeed in fully realizing the shlock it loves. A B-movie of the highest caliber, this spidery horror starts with some early '00s energy -- the opening credits are fabulous with blaring rock music and vivd, saturated grading -- and quickly elevates beyond itself. Its economical first act moves us into an average apartment building and ingratiates us into the lives of various tenants; in fact, it's a very similar setup to Infested, though less concerned with poverty and immigration. Rather, this one is concerned with neighbors and how disparate people band together against unspeakable odds, emphasizing those odds more than anything else.

Almost immediately, we're shown that spiders riddle this building. In fact, one of the earliest moments is a spider the size of your hand lurking right behind an air vent; several shots spiraling through ductwork reveal comparably sized beasts weaving webs throughout the building. So despite some funny and cool character introductions -- including a leering, sexist manager, a hardworking and pragmatic maintenance woman, and your friendly neighborhood dominatrix down the hall -- we're immediately aware of the looming, insidious monsters preparing to take over. As the characters interact and potential disasters prepare themselves a la Final Destination, the film reaches a screaming point of tension that launches us into act two: the end of rising action and the unleashing of arachnid hell.

Once the spiders attack several victims simultaneously, the main characters recognize the threat and try to leave the building, skirting the Rube Goldbergian dangers as best they can. Yet, at the front door, they encounter folks in hazmat suits, apparently from Infectious Disease Control, who quarantine the building and then padlock the doors. Of course it's all absurd, but like in REC, it effectively makes us claustrophobic in an instant, and I heard audible groans from folks in our screening as the lock clicked into place. Later, there are even a few (unfortunately claustrophobia-relieving) shots of the building's exterior, where we see that massive tarps have literally been wrapped around the building. The supposed Paradiso Palms complex ain't so idyllic after all. It turns into a veritable haunted house in Grand Guignol style soon enough.

Director Angel Gomez Hernandez and writer Jayson Rothwell know full well what kind of movie they're making and they lean into its insane visuals. If you can imagine a horrible encounter with a monstrous spider, they've put it into this film. Not as realistic as Arachnophobia and much more intentionally fun than Infested, Crawlers chooses the route of spiders en masse being scarier than enormous ones (like in Tarantula or Itsy Bitsy), though several do grow to an impossible size on par with the ones in Jumanji. They pile up wretched moments, often crosscutting to other horrors around the building until the viewing experience is almost too much. Nonstop scares lead to frequent bouts -- and gouts -- of gory excess, punctuating the film with excuses to writhe, shriek, and laugh in rapid succession. The only sequence I didn't care for, in a shower, relies too heavily on CGI, but even that scene made me squirm in my seat.

They focus, rightly, on the human characters, who are unusually interesting in a film like this, and yet provide their target audience with material out of our wildest nightmares. Sometimes directly referencing others of its ilk and sometimes carving out a new niche, the film becomes a singular experience from these filmmakers who work seamlessly in tandem, from the music to the effects and from cinematography to the ensemble cast, led by a heroic and compelling Matilda Lutz. The only people who really value her, at first, are the cute man with a baby and the aptly named Lady Lash; it doesn't take long, though, for her maintenance woman character to become the MVP of the building. 

Sure, the dialogue leaves something to be desired, and perhaps some workshopping of the tone would have helped my sense of whiplash, but I cannot deny that Crawlers is a wonderfully entertaining entry into the sub-subgenre. The spiders screech and roar, if that tells you what you need to know. It's also a thoroughly disgusting, visceral knockout of a memorable, singular horror flick in a year overflowing with excellent scares and a lot of heart, even to the point of valorizing the dominatrix in a climactic sequence somewhere between the climaxes of Alien and The People Under the Stairs. 

Backrooms (2026)

Score: 4 / 5

Even if you aren't online enough to know about creepypasta and our growing cultural consternation over liminal spaces, you've probably seen the iconic image. Dingy, yellowed wallpaper wraps around walls in a dull, asymmetrical series of office-like rooms, lit from above by a row of fluorescent lights, padded underfoot by ghastly carpet of the same jaundiced hue. It feels like something you've seen, back in the '90s, and chose not to remember because it was so mundane yet eerie. Launched in 2014 or so, the "Backrooms" online myth grew quickly, first visualizing and then imagining a space that expands endlessly in increasingly nonsensical ways. Internet writers have added to the myth -- the portmanteau of creepypasta indicating a series of creepy copypasta, or stories that get circulated on the internet with varying levels of evolution, much like the "telephone" kid game -- but the Backrooms has had a stronger life than many of its ilk. 

Whereas well-known characters like the Slender Man seem to have finite interest for the public who care about such things, the Backrooms manages to tap into greater anxieties about human suffering in late-stage capitalism, empty office buildings due to increased remote work, and the uncanny horrors of younger generations forced to live their lives online. When everything is virtual, what could be worse than being trapped in a rat's maze of unmappable rooms all alone? Worse -- what if something else is in there with you?

Kane Parsons' directorial debut builds on his extraordinary work on the Backrooms web series on YouTube. Consisting of 25 episodes, the series takes the form of pseudo-scientific mockumentaries attempting to make sense of the bizarre liminal space the characters (working from a research agency of dubious ethos) have stumbled upon. The film, however, is more concerned with its human characters who discover a breach in a furniture store and enter the Backrooms on their own terms. In some ways, this feels more relatable if less unnerving; this is no Blair Witch-inspired documentary, but rather a character study of how ordinary people can be driven to madness and horror when trapped in a life they can't reconcile with their best intentions.

Aesthetically fitting somewhere between Severance and Twin Peaks with a dash of Kubrick's The Shining thrown in, this film manages to follow similar tonal moves as these films. After a chilling opening that feels ripped from one of Parsons' web videos, the story proper opens in the 1990s with furniture store manager Clark (a brilliantly world-weary Chiwetel Ejiofor) in a terrible rut. His store never seems to have customers despite his efforts in marketing -- their mascot, which Clark embodies in ads, is a larger-than-life peg-legged pirate -- and so Clark lives in the store by night, drinking heavily. In his rare outings, he complains to his therapist (Renate Reinsve, who matches Ejiofor frame for frame in her brilliant co-leading performance) about how everyone else is to blame for his doldrums. His favorite subject: his ex-wife. Dr. Kline role-plays with him, but Clark stubbornly refuses to take responsibility for his situation. 

Some malfunctioning lights creep Clark out one night, and as he messes with a messed-up fuse box -- the first indication that the Backrooms are bleeding out of their dimension into our own -- he discovers a portal in the store basement to a vast network of impossible rooms. Not only do they expand far beyond the store's foundations, but even architecturally they simply don't work. Doors halfway up walls, stairs to nowhere, even a pool filled with inexplicable water. He brings his marketing team (if we can call the teens with a camcorder that) into the Backrooms to document it, but soon enough horror strikes. Then after Clark sends a cryptic message to Dr. Kline, she, too, comes to experience the Backrooms.

To say more will spoil the plot, which there isn't much of. Thankfully, Parsons and writer Will Soodik (Westworld, Homeland) don't bog us down with unnecessary plot contrivances. A lesser film would have involved extended chase scenes, escape puzzles, or a creature feature survival sequence. It would have been easy, too, for this to have relied on jump-scares around every corner. With cinematographer Jeremy Cox, the team provides scares, to be sure, but they're calculated and always a little off-kilter. One of the first is of a dark silhouette, stationary, halfway down a dimly lit hallway; the immediate shock is nowhere near as creepy for us (or for Clark) as we slowly move toward it. Later, there's a classic bird scare with a nasty twist. One of the most upsetting scenes -- the dinner scene, for you who already know -- feels ripped straight from Texas Chain Saw Massacre -- and just like in that film, it's not the (lack of) gore that's upsetting. The score, co-written by Parsons, and sound design, too, lure us in with aural foreboding, and more than once I even thought of Skinamarink in their chilling use of silence while characters explore the space.

It seems impossible, given the film's success this year, that Backrooms will be back. Parsons arguably played it safe with his first theatrical feature, but there are clearly more stories to tell in this world, even apart from his web series. I doubt they'll all be psychological thrillers; some may be more horrific, some more adventurous, some hopefully more surreal. Most should be faster paced, because now that the world has been established, languid reintroductions will sap any sequel's energy. But its commentary on our identities in these in-between places can only improve, and I'm eager to hear more philosophical discussions on par with what Soodik wrote here. 

The Social Reckoning (2026)

Score: 3 / 5

Rewatching The Social Network (2010, if you can believe that) is a bizarre experience in light of how much Facebook -- and social media, and our culture -- has changed in the past sixteen years. At the time, I remember thinking that director David Fincher's typically dark aesthetic felt a bit overwrought with writer Aaron Sorkin's material; it makes the creator, the creation, and their consequences menacing in ways that most of us didn't feel at the time. Yet now the film feels prescient in upsetting ways, even visionary, in its foreshadowing of things like the Cambridge Analytica scandal and, yes, #MeToo. At the time, Mark Zuckerberg was dramatized as a socially awkward, perhaps sociopathic computery savant. 

Sorkin's return to the material in The Social Reckoning, a sort of spiritual follow-up more than a sequel, tries to follow similar tonal movements but without Fincher's meticulously sophisticated style. Focusing this time on other characters, Sorkin allows Zuckerberg (played by a chillingly robotic Jeremy Strong) to be a tech boogeyman. The man doesn't even appear on screen that much, though his main scene is intercut throughout: he's training to and actively defending himself against multiple lawsuits. In these moments, I was reminded of Brene Brown's revelation that most oligarchs in our world don't have their children on tech all day, but rather diving into complex philosophy and art; Strong's Zuckerberg appears inhuman, yet his dialogue is rooted in hard-to-counter logic and profound insight. I have similar expectations for the upcoming documentary You Can See Everything, about Elizabeth Holmes.

But the media mogul and fascism enabler (if not outright supporter) Zuckerberg is countered in these scenes by his PR team, led by Wunmi Mosaku, whose presence offers a necessary and welcome relief from the discomfort of watching angry men yelling at each other. So while Sorkin doesn't share Fincher's penchant for visuals, he shines in his interpersonal dynamics (dialogue and performances), and he seems fully aware of this, to his credit. Even as themes this time are far bleaker -- we're treated to real images of the January 6 insurrection, among other horrors of the past decade -- Sorkin allows the characters to interact in surprisingly funny moments that feel uncharacteristically accessible for his work.

The story proper, however, is that of Pulitzer Prize-winning Wall Street Journal investigative journalist Jeff Horwitz (Jeremy Allen White) and his Deep Throat -- data engineer Frances Haugen (Mikey Madison, doing much better work here than in that travesty Anora) -- as they blow the whistle on Facebook's algorithm. Essentially, because the company prioritizes engagement on their site (and thus also profits), the algorithm amplifies hate speech and misinformation and divisive content, leading to increased radicalization via the echo chamber effect and unchecked negative pathos appeals. And while some specifics -- or, as I'd have perhaps preferred, a dramatized case study -- are elided in favor of low-hanging fruit we all remember too well, I must confess the film had me firmly in its grip. More than once during the screening, I was tempted to delete social media apps from my phone entirely, and I've limited my access to them severely in the days since.

While parts of this film are alternately devastating in their revelations and contrived in their drama, the effect of the whole is underwhelming. It feels too little and far too late to be impactful. In that regard, I'd compare it to Succession, which felt more timely between 2018-2023 than this does in 2026. And though I'm glad Sorkin didn't copy his Steve Jobs format here, it does feel like the Zuck half of the story might have been better as a chamber piece of Socratic dialogue and that the investigative journalism half might have been better as a documentary or even a miniseries. Sorkin moves us back and forth along his timeline (helpfully included onscreen) so frequently I found myself wishing for more stability.

Yet I will not deny the pleasure of experiencing Sorkin's writerly skills, and we could do a lot worse with this material. He has Horwitz compare Haugen to Cassandra in one of the film's more literary moments. Their meetings are almost a subversion of meet-cutes in romantic comedies as they meet secretly in various places and in various guises; as they build trust in each other, they also seem to sharpen each other's iron, so to speak, as they push each other to work harder and do better. Evidenced when Haugen expresses how genuinely lovely social media can be, the characters never feel flat or wholly predictable. The film never really interrogates the insidious nature of social media, but it does sort of indirectly push against our personal investment in social media: Haugen's burgeoning disillusionment with her own company feels like Anna Kendrick in Alice, Darling, as we see Zuck's behavior almost like an abusive ex that she's finally attempting to escape.

I was disappointed in this film, because Sorkin can and does do better, and this all felt conspicuously delayed in coming. But I cannot deny that it's a solid time at the movies and has me deeply rethinking my use of social media in general. If only more films had such lasting impact.

The Sheep Detectives (2026)

Score: 5 / 5

One of the most charming films in recent memory, The Sheep Detectives manages to also successfully entertain on all levels while doling out healthy doses of philosophy with its comedy, wit, and of course the gnarly whodunnit of it all. It's a perfect blend of innocent childhood fantasy in the vein of Charlotte's Web or Paddington, effortlessly charming cozy British murder mystery, and a shockingly funny ensemble piece with likable talent clearly having fun with the brilliant screenplay. The mystery itself cleverly weaves its way through the wide cast, allowing every character their moment to shine while keeping us guessing at every turn. 

We first meet George (Hugh Jackman), a shepherd who lives in his mobile home parked in the middle of an idyllic English countryside, surrounded by his flock. He's the kind of guy who seems to live simply but builds incredible depth in each moment, carefully naming his sheep and caring for them in an edenic routine that had me thinking fondly of James Rebanks's memoir The Shepherd's Life. After his work of feeding, shearing, and healing his sheep ends for the day, he reads aloud to them from mystery books, his favorite. One morning, however, George is revealed to be dead, and the evidence points to murder.

And it's the sheep that drive the investigation.

Little did George know that his sheep actually were paying attention to his stories, and spend much of each evening debating, well, whodunnit in the "nighttime stories," as they call them. Their understanding of fiction is a bit confused, but so is their understanding of pretty much anything. Their herd mentality -- often frustrating for the slightly more intelligent among them -- often leads them to collectively forget recent memory, including sad or scary incidents. Thankfully, the wisest of them (herd leader Sebastian, voiced by Bryan Cranston, and smartest sheep Lily, voiced by Julia Louis-Dreyfus) convince them all not to forget, aided by Mopple (Chris O'Dowd), a ram who cannot forget anything. Thus, the sheep band together (including the voice talents of Patrick Stewart, Regina Hall, Bella Ramsey, Rhys Darby, and Brett Goldstein) to solve the murder of their shepherd, learning some important lessons along the way.

And that's perhaps the most unexpected joy of this film. Movies centered on talking animals don't always work for me, but this one does. In part, its success stems from some truly eye-popping CGI, which feels weighted and heavy and tactile; this is magnificent animation, full stop. But it also stems from the film's intangibles. Themes of belonging, belief, bravery, perseverance, critical thinking, grief, community, and acceptance all hit home by film's end, and I wept openly in the cinema several times. Heck, I've wept the two times I've seen it at home, too. But this is no sob story; indeed, the heartwarming tearjerker moments (not unlike The Wild Robot, tonally) and more thrilling sequences (a nighttime scare in a neighboring field might prove too intense for the youngest viewers) work best because of the film's sophisticated and often witty humor, including moments as diverse as the sheep commenting on God and religion and the sheep wandering into a rival shepherd's slaughterhouse as they consider their own mortality. It turns out that sheep don't turn into clouds as they believe.

The film also features human characters, of course, and while few are as well-rounded as I'd have preferred, the actors add layers to their performances that make them work really well. Nicholas Braun as the sole local police officer brings a gangly awkward earnestness while functionally leading the human cast of the film; he's aided by a deliciously arch Emma Thompson as George's lawyer, Hong Chau as the innkeeper and George's sometime lover, Tosin Cole as a neighbor shepherd seeking to profit off George's assets, Kobna Holdbrook-Smith as the town priest, Nicholas Galitzine as a disgruntled journalist eager for a good story, and Molly Gordon as George's estranged daughter, brought to town for his will reading. 

Apart from a few perhaps understandable curiosities that gave me pause (like references to lawyers instead of solicitors, dollars instead of pounds, miles instead of... well, you get the idea) the film is nearly perfect and is easily already a favorite of mine for this year. It trusts its audience to keep up -- even younger audiences -- and rewards attention to detail, both for those interested in its solvable but twisty mystery and for those interested in its endlessly cute interplay between species and personalities in a small town. The film offers the unusual moral of learning to accept and handle painful memories and heavy feelings in order to be fully alive and in community with others, a touching lesson packaged in nuanced beauty and joy that feels keenly targeted at 2026 Americans and our obsession with dissociating online (rather like sheep, in a way) rather than with minding our flocks and touching grass, ironically enough.

Apex (2026)

Score: 4 / 5

One of the more efficient thrillers in recent memory, Apex, released on Netflix this spring, should have been released in cinemas. Its survival thriller story shifts from something like Fall to The River Wild, doing it with the state-of-the-art filmmaking of Baltasar Kormákur (Everest, Beast), who opens the film with a hell of a nasty shock, even on a living room screen. We're introduced to a couple of climbers asleep in their tent; obviously partners in both outdoor exploring and love, I felt my stomach turn as they poke their heads out of their tent to open void. They've inexplicably mounted their tent at a hard right angle to the sheer cliff and there is nothing beneath them but wind. 

It helps, in a film like this, to offer vistas that make the audience feel involved in the scene. Cinematographer Lawrence Sher (of many comedies, but also Godzilla: King of the Monsters, Joker, Joker: Folie a Deux, Black Adam, and The Bride!) lenses the adventure here with a constantly moving camera, sweeping around the action with vertigo-inducing fluidity. While the boundaries of practical sets, locations, and digitally stitched-together backgrounds are sometimes a bit obvious, for the most part the film centers not on landscape vistas but on the characters laboring their way through them.

Or, rather, character. After tragedy befalls the couple -- Eric Bana, bless him, is barely in the film -- in a distinctly upsetting inciting incident, Charlize Theron is left to grieve and to stop mountain-climbing. Five months later, apparently healing enough to want to be out in nature again, she takes a trip through an Australian national park to travel down a river in peace and put her hubby's ashes to rest. In true Deliverance fashion, she runs afoul of some local jerks, slimy men who leer at her and follow and terrorize her as she sleeps in her vehicle one night. But one guy (Taron Egerton) is nice and suggests the area's "best-kept secret" location so she might avoid unwanted attention.

Spoilers incoming, because to even summarize this film is to spoil its plot, any element of which will come as a surprise only if you've never seen a survival thriller. Just when you think she's safe, things go awry, and of course Egerton's character is the most dangerous predator in the Outback. Anyone who likes killer animal movies won't get our kicks in a flick like this (we get one moment with a snake, but that's about it for wildlife), but Egerton and Theron are so physical in this film -- along with a nasty little surprise feature to Egerton's character that had me writhing in my seat -- that it forces us to consider the boundaries between human and animal in nature. Egerton (forgive me for not remembering or caring about their character names; they don't matter) in particular is terrifying as his cat-and-mouse game begins in earnest, and his refreshingly straightforward launch of the hunt for his most dangerous game transitions us with compelling economy into the main thrust of the film.

Their performances are exhausting to experience; Egerton for his chillingly unhinged brutality and Theron for appearing so natural while clinging to rock faces and plummeting over waterfalls. The landscape frequently mirrors the characters' internal journeys, with thanks to writer Jeremy Robbins's efficient and smart screenplay, who by film's end sets up some brilliant reversals of fortune that keep us comfortably on edge. I say comfort, but it doesn't take long for these characters to get seriously injured, and my stomach didn't always care for the broken skin and bones bloodily highlighted on screen. I didn't even care for much of the rock climbing, because it seems impossible for that activity to work well for anyone, at least as dramatized here. But even for a film whose characters are thin and flat at best -- the better to focus on the chase, my dear -- these actors bring nuance and surprising emotion to their roles, elevating the already solid material to a level that really should be seen by more people and on much larger screens.

Hungry (2026)

Score: 2.5 / 5

Anyone interested in movies where man-eating animals stalk, terrorize, and eliminate a group of isolated humans will enjoy Hungry. It's basically Rogue (2007), but with a different monster. No matter your preference in terms of storytelling, screenplay, acting, effects, or any other element of film studies, this one has the distinction of being the first film to tackle hippopotamuses as man's better in nature. Of course the beasties are deadly in real life, and we often have to be reminded of that fact when we see the plump cuties with flapping ears and round cheeks bobbing along a muddy river. A character even says that in this film! But this is a far cry from the "Hungry Hungry Hippos" suggested by the title, and the film's potentially dark sense of humor stops at the title. Yes, even in the bleakly funny moments like when a character intones, "The only cute hippo is a dead hippo."

I expected something along the lines of the Anaconda reboot in tone, with knowing humor poking fun at exactly how dangerous hippos are and even with America's unique relationship with them. The killer (actually, it seems, killers, as it's never clear in this film exactly how many hippos are on their homicidal rampage) is tied, through dialogue later in the film, to a 1910 real-life historical project to import hippos into rural America, combating both inflated beef prices and slowing the problematic encroachment of an invasive choking weed in southern rivers. It never happened, but this film suggests that it did, in part, even if only as a test run. It's exactly -- and I mean exactly -- the kind of brilliant exposition that films like this need. Pull something weird from history and run with it. Look at Cocaine Bear as a prime example, which wildly fictionalized the real story but taught us all about the bizarre incident as a result! 

The film perhaps suffers in making the hippos -- or, again, at least the one with a vendetta against our boatload of tourists -- appear carnivorous. Though the humans fighting to survive against it mention repeatedly that hippos are herbivorous, the beasts more often than not bite and chew on their human victims rather than, I don't know, trampling and drowning and rolling over onto them. The point is made abundantly clear that hippos are territorial and especially violently protective of their young, but I found myself wondering (yet again, as I watch so many killer animal movies) the extent to which an animal, like a human, might be irrationally and uniquely insane, psychopathic, or otherwise exceptional in its murderous bloodthirst. Especially when their chomps are so spectacular and, well, gory. 

Unfortunately, the hippos are barely in this film. Of course Spielberg said, blah blah blah, keep the monster more secret to be more scary, blah blah blah. But when we don't even see a hippo for almost an hour of a 90-minute movie, it strains patience and interest alike. Too much of the film concerns its eight main human characters: a collection of idiosyncratic "every men," caricatures of people meant to let an audience partially relate (and mostly judge) before tossing them into a vicious little trap. This works if there is also genuine drama between the characters, or if it sets them up for profound growth. But here, they're just fodder for the monsters, and that is pretty obvious from their respective introductions. 

Thankfully, the filmmakers seem aware of this, because the characters also (SPOILER ALERT) nearly all die. Say what you want, but once bodies start dropping, they keep going. Fast. And bloody. I was shocked more than once at how quickly and unpredictably the characters were snatched off. It feels more random and more realistic than most films in any horror film, and I actually found myself respecting the film a lot more as a result of how it handled the senselessness of death. You're a jerk walking around in a full suit and heels? You're fine. You risk your life to help strangers have a slightly better chance? You're gonna get ripped to pieces before your own daughter's eyes. And when shit gets gnarly, more than often more than one character dies; I loved that, because that's far more realistic than usual films in this vein. When someone coming to save you dies, you'll probably also die. Obviously. 

The disaster's setup is also less contrived than in others of its ilk. This boat merely goes farther than usual to be sure and see a notably large gator with a GPS tracker; the rich lady paid extra for this excursion to cater to her son's request (or, perhaps, to impress her stepson, as we later learn in a rare moment of useful and dramatically crucial character confession). While none of the characters are solely good or bad, their dialogue does them no favors. Despite a few groan-inducing shifts in character alignment, for the most part, this film respects us enough to not hit us over the head with soapy nonsense; the drama here is largely intentionally relatable to a wide audience and the acting is mostly naturalistic enough to sell it. In fact, I'd say the acting generally elevates the mediocre written material to the point that I was genuinely touched several times during the screening only because of the acting; when the first victim is claimed by the hippo, our eventual final girl gapes on in a soundless scream that gradually rises in volume, which I found gutturally moving. Even when, later, the woman who has (by that point) lost both her father and son swims out into the swamp alone, seemingly pulling a Kate Chopin's Awakening moment while inexplicably mumbling the melody of the "Hush, Little Baby" lullaby, it's her performance far more than the shitty screenplay that make the moment memorable.

More importantly, the cinematography of this film is much better than I'd have expected, including some amazing shots of the Louisiana bayou and some clever perspectives on and around the boat. Just the opening scene features a glorious nighttime overhead of the bayou as we get closer to a gator closing in on its prey, snaking eerily through the water as its collar beeps with a blinking red light. I also really liked several small flourishes, in blink-and-you'll-miss-them moments, even when the tourists get to the dock near the beginning: the camera is (for no reason) mounted to the jeep window and as the guide opens it to get out, the camera swiftly detaches and tracks out. There's no reason for it, but I can't easily explain how the shot was even physically possible, yet here it is in an otherwise blasé scene for no reason. It's true there's a much funnier version of this film; there's also a much scarier version of this film. But for being a fun, violent, and disarmingly clever film in its own right, Hungry burned itself into my mind with some brilliant set pieces, economic filmmaking choices, and the sheer novelty of its delightful premise.

Sure, there's an annoying twist near the end that makes the monster sympathetic (?), not unlike the Cocaine Bear's den being the setting of the climax of that film. And not all the plot beats work; at one point, the final girl is tasked with going under the overturned boat to locate its GPS device and this involves a lengthy setup including getting a gasoline can and lighting a small perimeter of the water on fire to ensure (more or less) her safety, because as one character boldly claims, "everything is afraid of fire." Then, just as she succeeds, another character goes down to meet her, defeating the purpose of the entire setup. Yet despite such illogical missteps in the screenplay, director James Nunn and his team handle the material surprisingly well, finding thrills and unearthly beauty in the visuals of a swamp-fire and the warm glow in an otherwise dark and wet atmosphere. I should note that the film is never particularly dark, even when a character uses night-vision to help navigate; I'd have loved a darker production that leans into limited sensory detail. 

Case in point: check out the monologue delivered by the tour company's owner as some tourists wander through his museum and are flummoxed by his prized hippo skull: "That's the most dangerous animal they've got. Territorial, supremely aggressive, responsible for over 500 human deaths a year. Vegetarian, which means he ain't killing you to eat you. He's killing you for fun. [...] Young man, you think there's something funny about staring down the barrel of a three-and-a-half-ton beast with no natural predators? I've seen them taking down lions, crocs, cars -- ain't nothing they're scared of. And nothing they've got a conscience about, besides protecting the young. The mothers will die for their babies." Like Alan Grant scaring the kid by describing a velociraptor attack, this moment perfectly encapsulates the ridiculousness and abject horror of the story in a heavy-handed moment that makes the film as fabulous as its Grand Guignol roots. I guess part of what works so well about this film is its sheer novelty: we don't know the rules about killer hippos in movies yet. Er... we didn't. Now we do.

Disclosure Day (2026)

Score: 4 / 5

My favorite moments to experience Spielberg's genius are not necessarily his inventive, culture-shifting ones, but rather those quiet ones when he gently reminds us that he's one of the best filmmakers out there for a reason. The final scenes of this film did that for me.

Helped, I might add, by an amazing actor who commands our attention (and the world's) in the film's climax. I don't know who she is, but she crushes this moment to shine.

In a somewhat climactic opening moment, we're dropped in medias res as Daniel Kellner (Josh O'Connor) attempts to hand over a bogus bag to agents of Wardex, a secretive corporation operating as a US government contractor. Its head, Noah (Colin Firth), will stop at nothing to reclaim, it seems, something Daniel stole from them during his employment. Their efforts now include kidnapping, evidenced by the presence of a cuffed Jane, Daniel's girlfriend (Eve Hewson), and masquerading as FBI agents. It's the sort of opening that thrills even as we're not quite sure what's happening. While we get some cues in their interactions, it takes a few scenes afterward to fully grasp the plot, which feels a risk in something marketed as a blockbuster, but a welcome one. Any film that resists constant rehashing of the plot like too much media these days is already a leg up in my book.

It's not until over half an hour in that the veil starts to lift and we learn -- along with Jane -- that the government has covered up Wardex's experimentations on aliens and their technology. It feels like a spiritual successor to The X-Files, and often visually recalls that sort of grimy bluish-green hue millennials might recall from '90s television viewings. Daniel is carrying, functionally, the truth that is out there: he's working with a team of Wardex defectors to whistleblow and leak videos of alien experimentations to the world. This plan, what they are calling an impending "Disclosure Day," will be the coordinated result of their team, led by Hugo (Colman Domingo), and they're just waiting for a sign. 

Speaking of which: Daniel and Jane's journey -- fleeing Wardex thugs and following unclear instincts and insights to random places -- is told parallel to Margaret Fairchild's journey. Margaret (Emily Blunt), a Kansas City meteorologist sees a cardinal one day that seems to speak to her, unlocking a psychic ability for her to speak other languages like Russian and Korean without noticing it and understanding people's thoughts by looking them in the eyes. On air that day, she starts clicking and making meaningless sounds before fainting. Apparently only Daniel was able to understand her. Together, they must continue to evade Wardex and Noah -- the latter of whom uses an alien device to attempt mind control on others, specifically Jane -- as they make their way to find Hugo.

I'm still not sure I followed all the plot (it's not my strong suit), and another watch would behoove me. But this is the kind of film that rewards repeat viewings. Veteran writer David Koepp is firing on all cylinders here, piling on ideas and characters and references until it all feels perhaps too much; talk of religion, philosophy, civilization, individualism, and more make for a cerebral chase of it all. Because, narratively, it's just an extended series of chases between people running after their own MacGuffins. Yet even that isn't usual action or crime thriller fare: lensed by master of the craft Janusz Kaminski (and regular Spielberg collaborator), the story moves along as slickly as its camera, which is almost always in fluid motion, keeping us locked in even when things occasionally slow down.

This won't have the staying power of some of Spielberg's other alien- or monster-related films because its main characters are not "everymen," or at least not experts who rise to the occasion to help in a larger-than-life situation. The ultimate reveal of this plot is that Daniel and Margaret were quite literally chosen for this moment of cosmic revelation to humanity. We learn later in the film that they had both been abducted by aliens as children and apparently given their newfound psychic powers as almost biblical witnesses to the truth. Even when they seem a bit too unrealistic, O'Connor and Blunt clearly have fun enlivening their characters with quirks and a certain energy of constantly thinking, "what the heck is happening to me?" Blunt, especially, has to do a lot by merely gazing into someone else's eyes, and she does so with shades of empathy we rarely see on screen, all in lightning-fast shifts in microexpressions that left me often distracted, but blissfully so. She's a powerhouse.

I was also distracted, less blissfully, by the occasionally forced bits of action and spectacle in this film. As the aliens can apparently control and/or masquerade as animals, there are several animals that interact with the characters. All rendered in CGI, it just feels like a disappointingly cheap choice from a team of such craftsmen. The focus on cars feels catering at best, and not just in terms of product placement; though there is a particularly tense moment with some train tracks, it quickly devolves into a ridiculous drag-and-climb stunt piece that completely took me out of the movie. 

Other moments, however, brought me right back in. Revelations that Jane was a novitiate lead to conversations with her Mother Superior (Elizabeth Marvel) that give us really nice insight into the metaphysics of this world. What would we do, after all, with our churches, if we did discover another race of "supreme beings"? More importantly, the film's emotional climax comes when the two leads find Hugo, which basically uses immersive psychology and architecture to provoke Margaret to psychically respond. That feels especially authentic to Spielberg, especially considering that his last film, The Fabelmans, is all about film as a vehicle for nostalgia and, thus, healing. And the lead-up to this film's climax, which is its final scenes, had me squirming on the edge of my seat. I wept, and can't quite explain why. I gasped, but more out of my spirit than out of my nerves. I cheered (quietly) as our heroes race to make their announcement. And then the film ends with a single word that rings like a clarion call.

Some people will be annoyed at the lack of resolution in Disclosure Day, but those are plot people. I'm annoyed by the overabundance of unnecessary actions and spectacle in this film, and would have preferred less chasing and more talking and strategizing. It's a bleak film until the end, and then its hope is almost intoxicating.