Alien: Romulus (2024)

Score: 4.5 / 5

Buckle up, y'all. We're going there.

Nobody saw this coming: an auteur-helmed, adrenaline-pumping throwback to the 1979 original? It just wasn't what we expected after so many years of potential Sigourney Weaver legacy films or, more likely, the headier cosmic horror of Ridley Scott's own prequel series coming to a conclusion. Frankly, I still want that to happen. My unpopular horror opinion is that, in a franchise of now seven films, there is not a single one that has let me down. Sure, the CGI in Alien 3 doesn't hold up to the current state of the art, and parts of Resurrection just don't do it for me, especially regarding Ripley herself. But both those films -- widely regarded as the "worst" by fans who obsess over rankings and judgment -- add a lot to the mythos and world-building of this groundbreaking and deeply entertaining franchise. So for Fede Alvarez (Evil Dead, Don't Breathe, The Girl in the Spider's Web) to step in after Disney's acquisition of the studio as director of a new entry set between Alien and Aliens was not on anyone's bingo card.

And step in it, he most certainly does. This movie has Alien written all over it, from its lo-fi approach to Gothic science fiction to its full embrace of gonzo body horror and gory violence, it feels like it belongs to the series and could have been produced thirty years ago. In the best way! The cast is diverse and engaging, they quickly take us into space and into peril, and once bodies start ripping the iconic alien predators swarm en masse. And while it annoys me to no end that the original xenomorph apparently survived Ripley's victory, if that's how we're proceeding, I'll accept it for the purpose of continuity with this movie. For premise, concept, placement in the series, and sheer pulse-pounding terror, Alvarez nails it.

If that's what you're here for, it'll be a grand ol' time. Anyone who's a fan of the franchise and the material will love this. Even more than The Force Awakens, which managed to somehow cheapen itself as a remake of the original on a budget that dwarfed the entire original franchise, this film feels so deeply connected to the 1979 original that it could almost be its spiritual sister. Its emphasis on set, sensory deprivation, pure terror as a result of suspense, and gripping, haunting horror make it stand out as one of the scariest entries in the franchise. You can feel the effort at crafting what appears to be a low-budget set, and not an ounce of it feels fake or forced. And it's all just different enough from the Nostromo that it doesn't feel recycled or copied.

But conceptually, its "Don't Breathe, set in space" thing feels disappointingly trite for writer Fede Alvarez. The teens (or twentysomethings, it's unclear) are pretty stupid and don't handle themselves well before they realize they've taken themselves into the belly of the beast. Alvarez is obviously a fan of the source material -- what worthwhile filmmaker in 2024 doesn't admire and worship Ridley Scott? -- and has labored with his production designers, sound techs, and cinematographer to make this feel as close to Alien as anything we've yet seen. In fact, I wonder if Alvarez is a fan of the videogame Alien: Isolation, which seems to be a notable and distinct point of reference for this film, especially in its earlier sequences as the young people explore the spacecraft floating conveniently above their Blade Runner-esque dystopian world. (Note: I haven't played or seen anything about the game Dead Space, but rumor has it sharing notably similar DNA.) There is a lot made of the group exploring Romulus, and while there isn't as much made of its architecture as I'd have preferred, there is plenty of novelty in a flooded room, a cavernous hall, acid-melted holes, and a looming ring of ice and rock threatening to tear the station apart.

That said, we've seen how polarizing a starkly different approach to this franchise has been in Prometheus and Covenant. Some audiences love a more existential, cerebral approach to these questions of life and death and humanness, while others simply want xenomorph-driven jumpscares. So how do you further a franchise that hinges on certain key plot points, characterizations, and thematic conceits? Alvarez wants both, but he leans heavily on the latter in this film. We still do need some kind of ending to the horrifying cliffhanger we were dropped off in Covenant, but Romulus manages to continue answering questions of the series in surprisingly satisfying ways. Not every entry needs to dwell on where humans came from and why, and why they were deemed worthy of mass annihilation. Sometimes we just need the bloodbath.

And there are plenty of higher thoughts at work here to satisfy audiences in for that fare. The lead character, Rain (an impressive Cailee Spaeny, fresh off her stellar work on Priscilla) has an android brother Andy (an equally, if not more, impressive David Jonsson), and their dynamic is uncommonly beautiful. It also frames the film's concerns not about motherhood or even feminism so much as sibling love and adoptive belonging. Weyland-Yutani's depiction here is as damning as ever, perhaps even more so as we see Jackson's Star, the dystopian mining colony that serves as their home from which they are desperate to flee. Most surprisingly, Andy's android identity comes under fire when Ash -- the treacherous android from Alien -- is all but resurrected in Rook, a half-destroyed android aboard the Romulus that helps our characters... up to a point. Rook is brought to half-life by CGI modeled after the late Ian Holm, who died in 2020. Disney seems to be leading the charge in resurrecting deceased actors for featured roles in their films, and this might be the first time it's actually really bothered me. Perhaps it has to do with this film's odd and unsettling theme of deathlessness: the Romulus itself, the original xenomorph, and its garish undead android. It seems to be pushing an idea of perpetuity rather than nihilism, which is a vastly different tone from the series as a whole.

Unsettling but effective enough in the Star Wars sequel trilogy, Ash is an egregious inclusion here. Not because it's ineffective; quite the contrary. Holm's silky smooth voice and faraway stare work here as we attempt to read him as either an ally or enemy, and it's truly unclear for quite some time. This is because Rook is a substantial part of this film, an odd choice that feels hypocritical for Disney to have included right in the midst of our cultural panic and debates about artificial intelligence and its place in art as well as commerce. Is Disney itself becoming alarmingly like Weyland-Yutani? This film strongly suggests so, leaning into its own hamster wheel of entertainment, resurrecting old properties simply because they can, ignoring concerns about whether they actually should.

Moreover -- and here we're entering more significant spoiler territory -- why are we making the Newborn again? And why at this point in the franchise, chronologically? Care and love obviously went into its design, during a climax that explicitly (through dialogue and imagery) Aliens, Alien 3, and Alien: Resurrection, but I can't help but feel the inclusion of this concept and monster undermines the later significance of it in the original series finale. Did the filmmakers not know what else to do with their ending here? Or has the recent Roe v Wade overturning (and subsequent boom in unwanted/unwitting pregnancy horror films) influenced the writers to revive the idea to make a topical statement? A monstrous hybrid birth is very much part of this IP, and every entry just has to include one, but this one is the first to feel like a full repeat in the series, and its result leaves a bit too much to be desired.

And then there's the question of what will come next. I'm holding out hope for more standalones and for closure for the prequel series. Apparently we're getting a streaming series on FX, and while I'll obviously watch that, I hope that doesn't delay more feature films; I also hope it doesn't relegate future entries to the streaming world. There is a rare magic in a dark auditorium when the starscape fills the silver screen and booming, clanking, hissing sounds echo around the chamber as we all gasp and shudder together. That's what Alien is really all about, beyond discussions of identity and purpose and sacrifice and death: how we feel, all together, when the lights go out and the screams start. 

Cuckoo (2024)

Score: 4 / 5

As its title indicates, this off-the-wall horror title will be talked about for some time to come. Marketing for this -- and for Longlegs, earlier this summer -- managed to keep most of its plot and theming under pretty tight wraps, and both films are better for it. Some things just need to be walked into with minimal knowledge of the experience to come. And Cuckoo is bonkers.

17-year-old Gretchen (a physically committed Hunter Schafer, from Euphoria and The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes) gets dragged along by her father to a resort in the Bavarian Alps. That in itself wouldn't be too bad, but she's still grieving the death of her mother, so caring for her mute younger sister under the watchful eye of her new stepmother isn't helping her heal. And the somewhat haunted forest ringed by icy mountains, while beautiful, Gretchen views with a somewhat suspicious eye, as if they too are watching her, hemming her in, trapping her. She takes a risk right away to work in the resort's convenience store, and she's the first to notice that the locals are strange. Really strange. Like, young women keep vomiting and being hustled away.

But nobody seems to pay her much mind or care about her concerns. Not even when she's chased by a hooded woman keeping up with her on a nighttime bike ride in one of the film's most chilling scenes. Only Ed, an alluring young woman, sparks much interest in Gretchen, and the two discreetly plan to run away together. It's a wonderfully understated queer element in the film, and while it isn't part of the "bury your gays" trope, it does get abbreviated by another sequence of pure terror involving what seems to be a time loop and a violent car crash. Even when the detective gets called in -- he hypothesizes that the hooded woman is responsible for at least one death already, and her M.O. is something possibly supernatural or technological -- there are too many unknowns and too many weird things going on for Gretchen (or us) to have much grasp on her present danger.

Writer and director Tilman Singer has only made one feature film before Cuckoo (Lux, in 2018, which I haven't yet seen), but he's got a fascinating approach to this weird material. I'm using the word "weird" a lot, and I don't necessarily mean in an alienating, popular sense; rather, this fits into the domain of "weird fiction," a curious and inviting blend of science fiction and horror and character drama (read: insanity and the uncanny). Singer slows down our expectations -- though this isn't, strictly, slow-burn horror -- by letting us dwell with Gretchen in her strange new world and its shadowy horrors. He doesn't give us answers for a long time, letting the twisted mystery get darker and uglier to the point that I occasionally found myself distracted from watching the movie by simply trying to make sense of its bizarre edits, nerve-wracking sounds, and generally menacing aura. Eventually we do get a rather ham-fisted explanation of everything, and while I appreciated it for helping streamline things (I'm rarely invested in plot enough for that to make or break a film, to the point of sometimes seeking out spoilers in advance of a screening), I expect it will be frowned upon by most audiences. That kind of final act, "come to Jesus" revelation tying together disparate elements worked when Hitchcock made Psycho sixty years ago, but it fell out of favor shortly after.

He is, however, clearly an actor's director as much as he is a fresh storyteller. Schafer leans into the possibility that Gretchen's observations and concerns might be all in her head, a manifestation of her discomfort with her family and their new home while still dealing with her own bereavement. Opposite her is Dan Stevens as the delightful and sinister Herr Konig (with a pitch-perfect accent), doing the most with his performance in a way that wildly unbalances Schafer's performance style. The combination is intoxicating to watch. His slick, obsequious mannerisms in running the hotel quickly evolve into passive-aggressive control, micromanaging specifically female workers and guests alike. Stevens is always charming, and he uses that trait here like a honey to lure the other characters -- and us -- into a sense of unease before we realize the extent of his cruel machinations.

There is really no comparing this with Longlegs, which was also notably mysterious and strange in its marketing, but I did enjoy this one better, if only because it felt more fun. Schafer and Stevens have an almost comic dynamic, with Stevens's strangeness highlighting Schafer's deadpan straight man. Even the title and its meaning -- revealed to be, indeed, avian in theme -- suggest an unhinged wackadoodle energy Singer clearly enjoys exploiting. There's even the suggestion in the film of a sort of dark folktale about women's bodies and wills being hijacked by powerful men, but it's so satisfying understated that this doesn't feel overtly like an "issue" movie. It just wants to take you on a unique ride, have a blast, and talk about it after with your friends.

Deadpool & Wolverine (2024)

Score: 4.5 / 5

I even went into this expecting to be annoyed.

Deadpool, fun and irreverent as it is, has never been my favorite superhero series; partly due to its cheapening of the X-Men (my favorite), and partly due to its loud and crass fanbase, I've appreciated it from a safe distance. It didn't help, either, that the previous two films were nowhere near as subversive or clever as they were touted as being. For being what he is, the films never broke the mold -- or even pushed the mold -- of what superhero films can be, relying on tired tropes in each film's final act to remind us of the feel-good victories of a bad guy with a heart of gold. It's fun for some, and that's fine. It's just not for me.

So for this character and his filmmaking team to now assimilate into Disney's MCU was promising to be, pardon, a hot fucking mess. At a time when the MCU still can't figure out where it's going, how to get there, or why -- look at their recent announcement that all but rewrites what was to be Kang as the next Big Bad -- to add such a beloved character and make it fit in the chaos of multiverses had to have been a nightmare in the writers' room. Further, to add -- like Cable before him -- an iconic X-Man was easily the most dangerous thing they could have done. Even further, for it to be the one that was surely -- surely -- finally retired from the genre, and whose character is finally, certainly, dead, was almost too much to bear.

Some of my fears indeed came true. Jumping between universes and timelines happens via the Time Variance Authority, introduced in the bizarre series Loki, and the conceptual rewriting continues to teeter on the brink of pure nonsense. Characters are "brought back" and "reintroduced" ad nauseam, reinforcing the problem of the entertainment hamster wheel: when anyone and everyone can be repeatedly resurrected, there are no stakes in the story or in the real-life productions. Nothing matters anymore. Style succeeds over substance, most easily recognizable in an overwrought soundtrack that plays, obviously and often blandly, more like a three-dimensional character than any of the actual people being dramatized. Deadpool indeed starts the film without a girlfriend (Morena Baccarin), which makes no sense after the events of the previous film, and despite continual queerbaiting "humor" Ryan Reynolds never manages to actually queer the character. The villain (Casssandra, sister of Xavier, played by Emma Corrin) is rote and dull, stretching credibility even as her aims feel nonsensical; that's a lot to say in a film filled with the nonsensical, as a rule. And the endless parade of flagged references could fill a dissertation; one hopes that the film's home release will include on-screen footnotes so we know why certain characters and phrases are apparently important to the franchise as a whole.

All that is true, and I found my spirit tiring as I tried to keep up with the material while keeping my beer down.

And yet -- 

Deadpool & Wolverine is the most delightfully entertaining movie of the summer. At least it was for me. Not since The Fall Guy have I laughed so much in a packed auditorium. Even the Void and its bland villain couldn't relax my grin as Deadpool is introduced to countless variations of himself, including a female version (Blake Lively) and a cowboy version (Matthew McConaughey). More importantly, much like the most recent Spider-Man film (or The Flash, etc.), this one effectively ties together previous branches of Marvel properties and honors them. While we can certainly hope it's the last we'll see of some of them, it is really cool to see Jennifer Garner again as Elektra, Wesley Snipes as Blade (though his apparent shade at being recast is a glaring sour note here), and even Chris Evans as Human Torch. The return of Tyler Mane as Sabretooth was a fabulous touch, too, and the inclusion of Channing Tatum as Gambit had me in actual tears (of joy, of humor, of what I've always wanted from the franchise).

All that takes backseat, naturally, to the return of Hugh Jackman as a title character. When too many Marvel properties are being tied in and referenced, he manages to keep things locked down and grounded, along with his horny partner. The entourage of Marvel cast-offs get their heyday, and it makes more sense because this Wolverine is, in fact, a variation of the one we've loved for the past two decades. This one is surlier, and of course he's wearing the famous yellow costume. The film even provides more variants for him in a singular sequence that had our audience in stitches until one Henry Cavill materialized on screen and the room exploded. His character works really well in the Mad Max-inspired world that sets the bulk of this movie, and I'd have liked more pared-down material so we could really see these characterizations shine through the otherwise messy story.

It's all very amusing, and while that's not the most ringing endorsement, I appreciate the heart and joy that goes into a movie like this. The gimmicky stakes didn't work for me, and I wish the MCU would go back to smaller-scale battles for its heroes, but that's not the point of this story or production. Indeed, I'd rather have seen a super simplified and deeply silly story here: If Deadpool got this ugly/cute dog and it got abducted or sucked into a wormhole or something and he had to find it, enlisting the help of a reluctant Wolverine variant who thinks it's a cosmos-saving scheme, and it turns out to just be saving Deadpool's ugly dog. Think John Wick style, but funny, and David Leitch has been in this series, so the connection would make sense. Silly characters doing silly things require one thing these days: lowering the stakes. Stop making it about saving the multiverse! But if we're going to go there, and clearly that's what Disney is all about these days, I can't really be mad at it. It's a hell of a good time, and all the more rewarding if you've been a longtime fan of anything Marvel-related. At this point -- and I will absolutely regret saying this -- it's almost as if caring about good storytelling and the art of filmmaking is obsolete when fan service is this heartfelt and this effective.

Trap (2024)

Score: 2 / 5

Young, hot dad Cooper takes his teen daughter Riley to a concert as a reward for her good grades: Lady Raven, Riley's favorite pop singer. The rambunctious crowd and enthusiastic fans can't help but notice the tension and unusually strong police force surrounding the venue and pointedly scrutinizing adult men. Cooper seems especially wary when SWAT teams descend on the arena, and he takes it upon himself to learn more. One merch vendor spills his beans: the authorities were tipped that local serial killer "The Butcher" would be attending Lady Raven's concert today, and they are determined to catch him before he kills again. Cooper is that very wanted man, and he will stop at nothing to escape this trap.

It's a bizarre premise, but one with plenty of room for a fun, twisty thriller with bits of action and drama plopped in. In short: a seemingly typical outing for writer, producer, and director M. Night Shyamalan, who also makes his expected cameo appearance. Apart from these, though -- and the notable casting of his daughter Saleka as Lady Raven herself, performing her own music -- this film feels nothing like a Shyamalan film. His usual penchant for spiritual or existential themes is absent, replaced by a thickly plotted film that feels more mechanical than artistic. Long, slow takes that forced attention on riveting performances that marked his early films has been replaced by faster, more fluid takes dripping with gimmickry and atmosphere.

Which is not to say there aren't some really solid elements to this feature, ones that will surely endear some audiences. Josh Hartnett plays Cooper, and it's his best performance in years, craftily straddling the line between sociopath and doting father as the camera often focuses squarely on his face in severe close-up as he calculates his odds and exactly what he'll do to the meddlesome FBI agents in his way. He more than carries the film, and it's better for his involvement. Similarly, Saleka Night Shyamalan wowed me with her vocals and style before she completely floored me in the film's climax, when she steps off the concert stage and takes the reins of the movie, featured in the entire surprise final act. Her acting chops were unexpected and, while perhaps simple, effective in conveying the complexities of a pop star who is much more than the persona she has fashioned for her fans.

But Shyamalan (the director) seems to be of two very different minds when it comes to this material. Its initial setup and most of the story is set in the concert arena, and while I didn't care for the lack of artistry behind the scenes, it's a fairly enjoyable ride. His use of Hitchcockian tension and suspense is highly entertaining, as we become aware of Cooper's secret identity and follow closely in his steps as he discovers the mechanics of the titular trap about to spring on himself. His cat-and-mouse with the head FBI profiler on his trail -- Hayley Mills having a grand ol' time -- and the roller coaster of "what will they think of next" considerations is the makings of consistently fun storytelling. But then Shyamalan breaks his whole conceit in the final act, moving the action out of the arena and into Cooper's home, and things derail quickly. The tables are reversed on Cooper, and his potential unmasking to his family becomes less exciting and more dreadful, as we've come to quite like the evil man. Concurrently, his family is painted as blithely unaware and awkwardly silly, headed by an almost unwatchable Alison Pill as his wife. Her garish grimaces and wide-eyed suburban act are indeed put-on, to be fair to her, but that final reveal -- the "Shyamalan twist," if you will -- elicited a pained groan from me and others in the audience rather than any kind of shock or intrigue.

And it doesn't help that he wastes so much time on Saleka's concert performance, either. If he wanted to make a concert movie about her music, he should have simply done so. Here, instead, it's shoehorned in with so much focus that the rest of the plot wobbles dangerously for most of the mercifully brief runtime. Some potentially fascinating logistical puzzles about the concert arena, its security, and its patrons are sacrificed in favor of what we might call the glamour of the show itself, resulting in a thriller with disappointingly few thrills. Similarly, while any character development for Cooper is unnecessary (he is a serial killer, after all, and apart from wanting to keep it secret from his family, he doesn't suddenly change his motivations or goals), the screenplay is ruinous when it comes to his family, who deserve a lot more time to suspect him, perhaps, or at least to react to his unmasking in the final act. Instead, we're only allowed to listen as they scream at each other from behind a closed bathroom door, and we get no fallout from any of them except Pill, whose monologue is more annoying than enlightening. And after starring in so much of the film, Ariel Donoghue as Riley is all but ignored in the denouement, hugging her beloved father as he's incarcerated and then standing dumbly aside. We spent so much time with her, and we don't even get to see her coping with this personal apocalypse?

And, finally, the film opens up the possibility of a sequel, and while I actually don't mind that in this kind of film, it seems to undermine everything that has come before. Cooper isn't the smartest man in the room, though films like this usually make the killer multiple steps ahead of everyone else. Not the Butcher, who seems to relish the challenges placed in front of him by the FBI and SWAT teams. He has to work around them at every turn, helped by an alarming amount of luck along the way. At so many points he could -- and should -- have been discovered, and it's only the contrivances of an overworked, under-workshopped screenplay that allow him to continue advancing. So when, in the final moments, he's able to ingeniously and impossibly free himself from captivity, it reads as perhaps the most unbelievable, unearned moment in a story literally filled with unlikelihoods and impossibilities. When the only reason a plot device or advancement works is so the story itself can continue -- while not being true to theme, character, or the internal logic of the world of the film -- that should raise a big red flag for any audience that doesn't want their intelligence to be insulted.