The Ugly Stepsister (2025)

Score: 3 / 5

Elvira and her sister Alma arrive with their widowed mother, Rebekka, at their new home. Apparently lower class and approaching destitution, they are humbled and grateful to be accepted into the wealthier Otto's home, their new stepfather. Otto's daughter, Agnes, is beautiful whereas they are, well, comparatively ugly. Clearly, this story, written and directed by the Norwegian Emilie Blichfeldt in her feature debut, is a reimagining of the Cinderella tale from the perspective of Elvira. What becomes apparent, even early, is that this is also a bona fide horror film. The fantasy elements of the Disneyfied story are stripped here, to the point that this film feels more like a Grand Guignol production of the original Grimm material. 

Early on, Elvira pops a zit on her nose and we get to study the pus in extreme closeup. Eventually we'll see maggots and tapeworms and breaking teeth and needles near eyes and all sorts of violent, vicious horrors. Some of the tortures in the Saw franchise aren't as graphic as what we see here, and I had to excuse myself at one point to suppress a retch. I don't know quite how to express the visceral discomfort I had while watching this, except to say it was more harrowing an experience than Guadagnino's Suspiria or Roth's Hostel. That said, it's nice to see someone reimagine the source material in this way, really taking things to their creepy roots: grim if not wholly Grimm.

Unfortunately, that visual extremism isn't really my cuppa, so my favors will not go with this movie. Its points of interest were less than engrossing to me, though I admit some fascination on my part with the in-world obsession with physical beauty. It's more than a fad or a desperation to please the Prince and rise from squalor. There's a general hysteria around outer beauty, so much so that the extent to which Elvira will go to become beautiful is as laughable as it is horrifying. And it's all supported -- indeed, mobilized -- by her mother, who takes filial villainy to a whole new level. 

You can't help but get swept up in the wicked sense of glee evinced by director and actors alike. Lea Myren plays Elvira with so much gusto and verve that you can't help but be impressed. From under increasing layers of makeup and prosthetics, Myren maintains a dreamy, wide-eyed hope that her idolized Prince might actually love her when she's pretty enough. We might as well call this film The Passion of the Stepsister. After a brutal nose job and its Hannibal Lecter-esque mask she must wear after, her braces are brutally chipped off; she swallows a tapeworm to make her skinny, and now her tummy burbles ominously in an aural version of Chekhov's gun; false eyelashes are sewn onto her eyelids. Eventually her hair falls out and she's put in a garish wig. 

Yet for all its potential, the film never really manages to say anything about, well, anything. Except perhaps our ability to laugh at grotesque violence done to young women in the name of beauty. There's no real messaging about inner beauty, or found family, or sisterhood, or self-empowerment, or the ultimate cost of capitalistic beauty standards. Blichfeldt is either too angry for that or too enraptured with spectacle; her embracing of extreme awfulness here undermines and collapses the Grimm pretense of a cautionary tale. We don't even get much from Alma's perspective; why isn't she subject to these barbaric procedures? Is she immune from needing to marry well to support herself and their mother? What does she think, privately, of what's being done to Elvira? Alas, we get no such perspective. Blichfeldt instead keeps us on a loop, making a statement about desperation for beauty while butchering a young woman and then forcing us to relive this pattern several times without progression.

Strange Harvest (2025)

Score: 4.5 / 5

Stuart Ortiz makes his solo directorial debut with Strange Harvest, a mockumentary with some nasty fun surprises up its sleeves. Its sort of anti-X-files approach to crime features two detectives in the area around San Bernardino chasing down a serial killer known as Mr. Shiny. Well, chasing him down is a stretch; they're really cleaning up after him. For over a dozen years, Mr. Shiny has gotten away with horrific, vicious murders that haven't been linked despite somewhat ritualistic evidence at the crime scenes. Specifically, dismemberment and missing organs.

Taking as its hook our cultural obsession with macabre murder sprees in true crime procedural fashion, this low-budget affair smacks at times of authenticity. Not because it's so polished but precisely the opposite. Frankly, at times it feels like an amateur's work, or a film student's. Witnesses sometimes look like they've prepared their lines. The camera is propped at too conversational a level, with curious voids in the background instead of a wall or curtain. And this is all to the film's credit; much like in The Blair Witch Project, you can't help but get sucked in by the unpretentiousness of it all. This is going to be a gruesome little murdery story, so tuck yourself in and get cozy, yanno?

Which is when the film smartly takes a couple left turns. I was not prepared for the postmortem scenes, but they are shown in all their gory glory. This is clearly where the film's budget went: reminiscent of Saw or Se7en or the Hannibal series, we're forced into grisly scenes of torture and death with only the bloody residue to indicate how this atrocity happened. Oddly, there is one indication of a dead dog, which is censored, but the multiple murdered children are laid bare and plain for us to see. There's more than a whiff of Sinister here, and I had to avert my eyes at times. I was a little glad for this, because the film's general air often had me forgetting this was fictional, and not some true crime doc on a streaming service. In fact, I was most reminded of the nature of Strange Harvest -- it's a horror film, through and through -- in those nightmarish scenes when, via security cam footage or the like, we see Mr. Shiny in action. 

There's also more than a whiff of Lovecraft about the proceedings, and without spoiling too much, it's fair to say this is basically a Lovecraftian story. Mr. Shiny's suggested liaison with an eldritch evil gives the film its title, meant to account for a profane ritual involving human sacrifices. Whether or not you believe is up to you, in true fashion of the writer, but the film works regardless in its perverse sense of pop culture intertextuality. It belongs among the ranks of those I've already mentioned, of course, but also Lake Mungo, Resolution and The Endless, and Zodiac. There's a suggestion of The Exorcist, specifically when the suspect tours through Europe and the middle east. Ideas of the Manson killings and the Night Stalker swirled through my mind too. By the film's end, we still don't have all the answers we might want, but this film works by not giving us any more answers. 

Oh, and pay attention to the title song as the credits roll. It's a damn fine vibe.

Avatar: Fire and Ash (2025)

Score: 3 / 5

Another venture to Pandora leaves us elated at Cameron's mastery over visual splendor. While those hankering for more narrative meat to chew in this franchise will be left wanting, Fire and Ash, the third entry in this laughably expensive series mostly recycles the elements established in its watery predecessor. Between an ironically chilling new villain and a story slightly less plagiarized than the two first ones, this film hits similar beats while allowing Cameron's imagined world to breathe and maintain its pace. Some new elements are inspired, so it's not a totally dull retread, but one wishes for imagination to match spectacle here.

Shortly after the events of The Way of Water, Ishmael -- ope, pardon -- Jake Sully and his family are settling in to their new home among the Metkayina, Na'vi who live on oceanic reefs and have adapted to a mostly aquatic life. Jake (Sam Worthington) and Neytiri (Zoe Saldana) are at odds, as the latter has developed an intense, murderous hatred of humans. As the threat of violent encroachment will likely never end, the family must decide what to do with Spider, a rather feral (and obnoxious) human boy who has been semi-adopted by the Na'vi family. Sending him away to live with other humans at the scientist encampment only works until their convoy is attacked by other Na'vi: a rival clan of violent heretics called the Mangkwan. 

Apparently having renounced the nature-god of Pandora, Eywa, the Mangkwan live a somewhat tortured life in no-man's land near an active volcano. Ash and charcoal are their color palettes, and they raid other Na'vi tribes aggressively. They are led by Varang (a hauntingly effective Oona Chaplin), a sort of loose cannon whose mystique is laced with sociopathy. Scattered by the attack, the Sully family struggles to handle a compounded threat when Varang begins to work with the humans in an effort to wipe out Pandora's resistance to colonization and industrialization. Conveniently, this leads almost immediately to Spider being "accepted" by Eywa, and infected with mycelium, so that he can now breathe freely on Pandora. 

Ugh, I know.

From this point, the film loops back into annoyingly familiar terrain -- narratively -- and squanders some promising opportunities hinted at then fully ignored. I like Fern Gully and Pocahontas as much as the next guy, and Moby-Dick as much as the next gay, but we don't need yet another grossly lengthy film dramatizing the same basic story with the same basic moves. Matt Reeves's Planet of the Apes series should have been cited as an inspiration for Cameron in this regard. Especially seeing that the screenplay was basically written by committee (five credited writers, no less), and produced and distributed by the entertainment-industrial complex that is Disney, it's shocking that there is so little attention paid to decent dialogue, pacing, and thematic conceit. The scenes with Spider and the other kids are the worst, still repeating bizarre colloquialisms ad nauseam in every single scene they tumble through. Yeah, bro, you know it, bro!

It doesn't help, I should note, that this film doesn't entirely feel like its own film. Rumor has it that this was intended to be a continuous story from the previous film, so I'd recommend a rewatch of that before this. Most of the characters aren't (re)introduced, so if you don't remember what Edie Falco and her team of weird humans (including Giovanni Ribisi and Jermaine Clement) are up to, you're shit out of luck this time. Additionally, there's the added complications of who is actually an avatar these days; Jake Sully is fully embodied, of course, and Kiri contains the spirit of Dr. Grace Augustine (Sigourney Weaver, who I love, but we can all agree that her voicing a child is weird, especially when she develops affections for her adoptive brother), and Quaritch (Stephen Lang) is still alive but also locked in an avatar body. I don't know, but I do think we've lost the plot a bit when it comes to the damn title.

Scenes with the whales (and their unbearable subtitles) are much worse in this film than the last, perhaps because the awe is gone. There's a montage late in this film of the whales in meetings that is so outrageously silly and dramatically inert that I almost completely checked out of the film. For something so profoundly cool to see on screen, the atrocious dialogue and frankly cartoonish sign language these CGI critters are forced to enact ruin the magic. I also think the editing is significantly poorer in this film than even in the last, though that's also partly due to the screenplay; we often go for extended stretches of time, even in battle sequences, only following a character or two. Granted, there are a lot of characters to keep track of here, but the editing (also apparently accomplished by committee: six credited editors!) seems hellbent on deliberately obfuscating. 

The elements with Varang and her tribe, however, are what I've wanted from this series since the first film. The Na'vi have such an interesting relationship with their god, their environment, and each other, and even back in 2009 we were given a glimpse of the shamanistic theocracy of their culture. The Mangkwan take this to its inverse extreme: they're presented as a Mansonesque cult of unhinged, gleeful violence. While I remain annoyed that Quaritch takes the spotlight in this film, making Varang a sort of minion not long after she's introduced, even her presence helps the film feel more interesting than it should. And it's a shame, because Cameron has introduced us to very strong female characters -- heroes and villains -- before in his career, and nobody can say Saldana's performance in the previous two films isn't one of the best parts of this franchise. 

Just like nobody can fault these films for sheer awesome spectacle. Frankly, I'd love to watch these films just as they are but without dialogue. Sure, we'd still see the repeated climactic battle and the follies of the invading humans, who never fail to underestimate the whales' destructive capabilities. We'd still see repeated raids and captures of children and those pinkish tentacles in their hair having sex with other creatures. We'd still get the rousing music and immersive sound effects, but at least we could come up with our own damn dialogue. 

I don't like just shitting on a movie -- and truth be told, this was a very fun time at the cinema -- so I'll add my own spin here. This movie could have been so much better had we focused wholly on Varang. Perhaps including a story about Jake or even Neytiri trying to find their way forward and getting seduced into this cult, even as the supposedly salvific Spider continues on his way to the humans (which could then lead into the inevitable fourth film). We could have even started with the humans, including the terrifying scene where she decides her people need guns for maximal killing prowess. 

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.