Weapons (2025)

Score: 5 / 5

I wasn't ready for Weapons. And neither are you.

Suggesting more than it shows, letting its audience connect its dots, and enjoying its own peripatetic dynamism perhaps too much, Weapons respects itself and its audience and encourages associative cognition. Zach Cregger, perhaps the latest auteur (though we might be using that word a bit liberally these days) in our new wave of horror, has established himself as a writer/director who capitalizes on a thrilling premise and then runs hog-wild with it. With this much larger, in scope, title, Cregger establishes himself as a committed storyteller, one whose final product is considerably more than the sum of its parts.

If you're at all interested in seeing this film and haven't yet, please do yourself a favor and watch it without reading anything about it. To discuss Weapons is to reveal its manifold secrets. You've been warned.

Its central conceit, widely publicized in the film's marketing campaign to the point of being obnoxiously written out on its posters, is that, in a small Pennsylvania town one night, seventeen children from the same third-grade class vanished. The upsetting premise feels all the more poignant as school shootings continue to occur with increased frequency and deadliness; the parallels are pretty clear here, though it's only directly referenced once in a dream that hits it quite bizarrely on the nose. But there's more to this than simple allegory. The film's lackadaisical, almost whimsical tone is struck early, as we watch the children running out their front doors at 2:17am, arms spread as if they're pretending to be airplanes, seemingly blissfully in step with a '70s soft rock song (George Harrison's "Beware of Darkness," the internet tells me). Wistful, even sentimental, this opening sequence feels comfortably chilling, perhaps the very definition of uncanny.

This sweet, slow, subtly sickly aspect of the film -- which lasts for most of its runtime -- draws from a deep well of rural and suburban legends. Evoking the likes of The Virgin Suicides, Magnolia, Picnic at Hanging Rock, and even perhaps We Need to Talk About Kevin, we shift from perspective to perspective of various townsfolk in the wake of their shared tragedy as they attempt to ask (or avoid) questions, point fingers, and make sense of the unthinkable. Films made these days in such rigid episodic structures and nonlinear patterns do raise the question, for me, of whether they were written to be a miniseries, but in this case, I'm glad it was reduced to its two-hour runtime for the sake of cohesion and coherency. The chapters unfold in emotional chunks, sometimes overlapping narratively with an even we've already seen from a different angle; these particular overlaps are often of extremely frightening and violent moments, which serve as jarring ends-of-chapter jolts that, in my screening, had more people saying "wait, what?" than gasping, screaming, or laughing. And that seemed intentional.

To that point, I would like to add that each chapter is presented from the perspective of a particular character, and so Weapons works as an ensemble piece. Arguably the most important character to each part is Justine Gandy, the teacher of the missing students, who becomes a primary suspect of the inciting incident. Julia Garner plays her with profound depth, attempting to navigate her own grief through a gauntlet of weaponized hatred from her neighbors. But Gandy is a distinctly opaque character, one about as far from a Mary Sue as you can get while still being, if not wholly likable, at least sympathetic. She doesn't explain herself, and often holds others to an unspoken standard of judgment they invariably receive. She has a drinking problem, one she's clearly grown with before the inciting incident, and she has a weird vibe with her ex, local cop Paul (Alden Ehrenreich, doing his usual excellent work here with a character who could easily have been really gross). So it makes sense that she becomes the subject of a literal witch-hunt in her town: she's a single young professional who sins, makes no apologies, and doesn't bend over backwards to play nice with anyone but her students.

It's not long into the film that its tone shifts from the vibe of the films I've already mentioned; Cregger clearly knows and loves his cinema with all the references and nods he proudly waves while guiding us through his nightmares. Visually, the film looks like early Denis Villeneuve (Enemy, Prisoners) in its cold, clammy color palette and its vaguely gritty and damp set dressing; this is the decay of small town Americana, the film seems to be saying, and it's only going to get worse. The competing narratives and air of paranoia that pervade the film might be best described as a cold pressure-cooker, getting ready to freeze your marrow as people's frigid cruelties steadily mount. Secrets hidden behind white picket fence facades will out, and so will the lurking evil, older and more sinister than you would have imagined.

I had no idea where this film was going, though in retrospect, what I thought were red herrings were actually pretty solid hints as to the ultimate reveal. There is indeed a witch in town, but it's not Miss Gandy. Alex, the lone boy remaining in her class, has been helping a witch masquerading as his elderly Aunt Gladys. Gladys (played by an astonishingly delicious Amy Madigan) has tricked her way into Alex's house, bewitching and torturing his parents to convince the boy to help her abduct the town children. So the film, for all its thematic suggestiveness, is really just a sophisticated monster movie, featuring what may be the most maligned and inconsistently deployed monster in the genre, the witch. Presumably, she consumes their life force to sustain herself, much like the Sanderson sisters in Hocus Pocus, and please don't think me sacrilegious for the reference, but it is pretty squarely part of both the conversation and the convention at this point. And, while and I don't love the ageism and misogyny in his elaboration and grotesque exaggeration of this choice (especially after Barbarian featured a singularly monstrous "Mother" character, one has to wonder why Cregger is so hell-bent on vicious, violent older women as his vehicles of horror), there is something wickedly satisfying about the rhetoric of witch-hunts and public paranoia leading to increased socioreligious conservatism and inaction and violence being so literalized here. Weaponized, even.

Much as the townspeople fear, things will indeed pop out and scare them, probably even hurt them, in their vulnerable state. And so we, the audience, are similarly targeted by the film's firm grip on our anxieties. What could jump out of that shadowy door in the dark haunted house? Well, if your deepest fear said "your bloodied, wild-eyed neighbor/principal/officer/parent," you'd be right. I've always said that, in horror, what bothers me the most isn't what I can't see or touch, nor is it those supernatural things I won't encounter in this lifetime, but rather the person, known or not, lying in wait with the crazed sole intention of harming me and without regard for consequences. That's fucking terrifying. And that's what this movie delivers. By the end of its climactic sequence, I was shaking and weeping with sensations I haven't felt in a cinema in years, not the least of which was a bleak sense of relief that it was done.

That won't be everyone's level of engagement or appreciation, and it doesn't have to be. But Weapons is one I'll be eager to revisit soon. Come for the great ensemble cast -- I haven't even mentioned! Josh Brolin, Austin Abrams, and Benedict Wong all get POV chapters --  or come for the batshit crazy scary moments peppered in (there are shots that felt like Romero's The Crazies and others like Carpenter's Halloween) or come for the richly complex mystery linking it all, and stay for the sheer pleasure of original storytelling by a capable and inspired artist.

It's a Wonderful Knife (2023)

Score: 4 / 5

Despite its title, It's a Wonderful Knife successfully won its way onto my yearly holiday watchlist. Part of the new vogue that is teen slasher and poppy comedy in one, this hybrid will lure audiences who want a mindless stabfest relating in some way to the Frank Capra 1946 winter classic It's a Wonderful Life. I confess to enjoy that film less than its made-for-television remake that gender swaps its protagonist and is led by a magnificent Marlo Thomas (1977's It Happened One Christmas). I also confess that I have always considered it more of a New Year's movie than a Christmas one, for whatever that's worth. Regardless, this new twist on the formula lowers the age of every character, does away with familiar names and titles, and modernizes it to the present day. It also adds a serial killer.

Henry Waters is the premier realtor in Angel Falls, aggressively angling to acquire enough land to establish a monopoly on commercial retail. His sole obstacle, revered patriarch Roger Evans, rejects Waters shortly before a masked man in stark white materializes and slits his throat and murders his granddaughter. Winnie Carruthers, resourceful and quick-thinking teenager that she is, both flees and fights the killer before electrocuting him and unmasking Waters himself, now deceased. Note: there's a chilling moment of recognition with Waters, who indicates (as a certain recent American president has) that he could kill someone without scrutiny or penalty.

But this is where things get interesting. Because all this happens before the title card appears. 

The breathless opening sequence effectively sets up the rest of the story, which fans of the source material know all too well. Central to understanding that story is a patient approach to exposition and theme -- namely, the humdrum life of a small town and its busybody citizens -- which isn't necessary nor welcome in the updated spin. Rather, after the title card, our story leaps ahead in time one year, during which time Winnie (Jane Widdop of Yellowjackets) is spiraling in grief and guilt. Her loving family -- led by father David (Joel McHale, handsome as ever) -- is the apple in Angel Falls's eye, but they refuse to talk about the horrors of the previous year or to get Winnie the psychological and emotional help she clearly needs. Winnie gets rejected from college, cheated on by her boyfriend, and still mourns the death of her friend, and so when it all becomes too much one night, she wishes on the Northern Lights that she was never born.

Immediately, the killer reappears and starts cutting people up. Winnie slowly comes to the realization that her wish came true and has to attempt to identify and stop the killer, who we quickly learn is no longer the same man. And this is where I actually fell in love with the film. Director Tyler MacIntyre and writer Michael Kennedy (who also wrote Freaky) pay homage to Capra's classic in countless references and arcs, but they constantly subvert and reverse the things most familiar to us. And while it would have been easiest to simply make the material a bloody fun time, they bake some timely and complex themes and character development into the otherwise delightful pie. If you had told me I'd cry not once but twice in a brief movie of this tenor, I'd have choked on my eggnog.

But I did, and it's that profound sense of heart that makes the film a surprising win. It helps, too, that the gays are numerous in this movie. But the real point of this story is how to deal with grief, especially internalized grief; it's less about the ripple effect we have on others and more about how we find purpose, lose it in doubt and despair, and then reclaim it from the grasp of self-harm and suicide. It's about that internal work, something I'm not sure I've ever really seen a slasher flick explore before. And the screenplay smartly shies away from melodrama, keeping things about as un-Capra-esque as possible. Even when the filmmakers rip him off, as in the finale sequence when Winnie runs down the downtown sidewalk hollering greetings and affection at everyone nearby with her joyful George Bailey born-again-ism. 

The horror elements don't take much of a backseat to all this heavy emotional work, though, which should please genre fans. I found it less bloody than its title suggests, which is fine, though I'd have preferred a bit more on that front, if only for the aesthetic of blood on white snow (and robes). The killer's design is deeply creepy, sleek in all the wrong ways and hinting at a sort of religious piety or avenging angel (again, note the town's pointed name). Unlike many slashers, the characters do fit some expected archetypes, but most are deceptively well-rounded, making them hard to identify as "jock," "geek," etc. Even the few characters the film does label are then relabeled by the film itself, as if it anticipated our criticisms of that. The cast is uniformly delightful, even Justin Long's off-putting antics as the "Mr. Potter" of Angel Falls, and Widdop herself effortlessly combines the George Bailey stand-in with something like a Nancy Drew detective. And to have the whole thing be queer positive and pro-family and spiritually cathartic was the balm of the season for me.

Barbarian (2022)

Score: 4 / 5

For Zach Cregger's feature directorial debut, Barbarian is an absolute doozy. The most unpredictable, genre-hopping horror film I can readily think of, it is written brilliantly: completely coherent even as it aggressively tries to surprise us at every turn. It starts with one of the most effective and relatable (but no less horrifying) premises I've seen in recent years, and from there it launches into a roller coaster ride of terror. It's one of those films that makes you feel icky while and after watching, but it's so damned smart that I really want to watch it again sometime soon to appreciate its focused efforts to subvert our expectations and refract our perceptions.

Tess (Georgina Campbell) arrives at her Airbnb in the dead of night. It's pouring outside, and she can't see anything of the neighborhood in this forgotten neighborhood of Detroit in the present day. She's a documentary researcher and needs to rest and relax a bit before her big interview in the city tomorrow. But there's a light on in the Airbnb and another car there, and there's no key in the lockbox. Finally roused from slumber -- or so he suggests -- the current inhabitant opens the door. His name is Keith (a suitably creepy Bill Skarsgård) and he doesn't seem to want any guests. Who would, right? You get an Airbnb, and you expect to be left alone, like in a hotel. But between the late hour and the intense rain, he pities her and invites her inside, but only after they prove to each other that they indeed made reservations and were mysteriously, annoyingly double-booked.

Skarsgård plays against type here, leaning into the innately creepy situation and his performance history to be unnerving even as he charms the heck out of Tess and us. He's a bit verbose, but clearly means well: he knows this is awful and that the optics are not in his favor. He offers to sleep on the sofa so Tess can have the bedroom (with a door). He wants to split the wine but waits for her to open it so she knows he hasn't tampered with it. He wishes her well at her interview and sets up what is probably meant to be a celebratory date. Cregger and his cinematographer use the subtlest shifts of light and angles to make their scenes uncanny; that is, familiar but wrong somehow. It's our job (and Tess's) to find out exactly what's wrong and why and how to escape. Right?

Well, maybe not. Some secrets need to be explored first, as evidenced when Tess awakes later in the night to her door wide open and Keith having an apparent nightmare. One thing leads to another, and eventually by day, when Keith is gone, Tess wanders into the basement and gets stuck. Looking for a way out, she discovers a semi-hidden rope that pulls open a secret door in the cement. Anyone would tell you not to go in there, but naturally she does and discovers horrible things. Well, the things themselves aren't inherently horrid, but her suspicions of what they mean altogether are monstrous. And those things are paired with her already discomfited stay, her opinions of the rundown neighborhood and that aggressive, scary neighbor who chased her down, and the warnings of the area given by the woman who interviewed her.

This first act of the film -- don't worry, I will try not to give any spoilers this time -- ends shortly after this, when Tess ventures further down into the basement. It's a screaming climax that comes a bit too soon for most horror films. But then the film does an about-face (not unlike the shock twist of Psycho) and actor Justin Long shows up as "AJ". He's a fascinating and loathsome character, as we discover in an absolutely brilliant marriage of screenwriting and acting, and his tale comprises the second act of the film. I feared it would include a redemption arc for him, but, without spoiling anything, the film is too smart for that. Finally, there's the third act of the film, which is the out-and-out horror fest that left me absolutely breathless with anxiety and dread. It's the most rote of the acts, but by this point I needed something a little familiar to grasp or I was going to panic.

It's not a perfect movie. Many discussions -- all of which should be necessary and would be fascinating -- will revolve around the film's characterization of women, of men (which I think is the primary mode of horror here), of poverty, of greed and vanity. There is the cringey depiction of an impoverished Detroit, much like that used in Don't Breathe (which shares a surprising amount of DNA with this film), that we could all do without, despite its relevance and relative authenticity. There is the unbearable but constant series of idiotic actions taken by most characters; by the third act, I almost wanted more terrible things to happen to them to punish them for being so endlessly stupid. Thankfully, there is no actual depiction of sexual violence in this film, even though it's a major series of plot points and character arcs, so that's good, although we definitely still feel the impact cognitively. 

And then there's the title itself, a stroke of pure genius that creates a sort of maze for us as viewers to venture through, looking for its significance and meaning. Is it Keith? AJ? Tess? Someone else (we learn of a few other people connected to this house, none of whom are very nice)? Could it be the house itself, situated as it is on Barbary Street? I think the answer is "yes"! I'd argue it also refers to the cycle of misogyny in generations and cultures of toxic and evil men and the effect they have on the rest of us, especially on women. That entitlement led those men to build the world, and now we're all trapped in it. Can we escape?

Tusk (2014)

Score: 0 / 5

Wallace hosts a podcast that showcases and humiliates viral videos and what we might call "epic fails". He and his partner Teddy learn of one particularly famous one in Canada, and he goes to interview the guy. Upon arriving and learning of his suicide, Wallace seeks out a place to stay for the night and collect a new story. Traveling to a remote location, he finds a reclusive old seaman named Howard Howe, who promises to tell him stories. Howard, though, drugs and incapacitates Wallace and reveals his intent to dehumanize and torture him. Teddy and Wallace's girlfriend Ally (yes, she is in a relationship with both young men) go looking for him, and do indeed find him with the help of eccentric detective Guy LaPointe.

I hated this movie. Hated it. Hated the characters, hated the special effects. hated the script. Hated most of the running time, hated the flashbacks, hated the direction.  I hated the confused, ambiguous correlation between child abuse and misanthropy in Howard, whose identity as a Duplessis orphan supposedly dictates his activities as a serial killer. I hated his grotesque secondary motive for mutilating the bodies he abducts: Once, while at sea, he was rescued by a walrus that he eventually named Mr. Tusk before eating him to survive. Now he seeks to re-create Mr. Tusk so that it may have a fighting chance at life again. To that end, he tortures and dismembers his victims to physically make them into walruses. I hated the overused comparison between the verbal barbarism of the podcasts and the physical barbarism of the podcaster's body. I hated the lazy challenges to a human-animal dichotomy. I hated the humorless attempts at comedy and the insipid images of horror.

It's sick. A twisted Frankenstein of horror comedies, director Kevin Smith tries to combine the freaky weirdness of The Fly with Silence of the Lambs with a knowing sense of humor. He fails. It's never funny or scary and only occasionally disturbing. I had to get out of my chair and leave twice during the viewing because I just couldn't take it anymore. About halfway through the movie, Wallace gets his tongue cut out (or something to that effect), rendering his dialogue for the remainder to be nothing more than gargling screams. The only sense offended worse than hearing, however, is sight. Robert Kurtzman's disgusting walrus bodysuit fits perfectly into the film, that is, a disgusting centerpiece to a cinematic garbage dump.

The only thing I liked in the film was Johnny Depp in his uncredited role as Guy LaPointe. His accent, facial hair, mannerisms are worth a watch. But do yourself a favor and Youtube his scenes. It's not that the movie is just a waste of time. You'll actually wish you could un-see it.

IMDb: Tusk