Starring the Voices of: Ginnifer Goodwin, Jason Bateman and Ke Huy Quan
Directed by: Jared Bush and Byron Howard
Rated: PG
Running Time: 108 minutes
Disney

Our Score: 4 out of 5 Stars

For years it seemed odd that, out of all the animated films from 2016, “Zootopia” wasn’t the one spawning a flurry of sequels. “The Secret Life of Pets” got two crappy sequels and a video game. “Moana” got a subpar sequel and an upcoming live-action remake. Even “Sausage Party” somehow got two seasons of cheap animation on Amazon Prime. So when Disney finally announced a “Zootopia” follow-up a few years ago, I wondered if they’d actually make a worthy sequel…or just churn out the same disposable, cash-grabby fluff the other 2016 movies received.

Since nearly a decade has passed, “Zootopia 2” starts by replaying the end of the first film, allowing us to pick up immediately after. Judy Hopps (Ginnifer Goodwin) and Nick Wilde (Jason Bateman) are still raising eyebrows at the ZPD. There are lingering doubts that a bunny and a fox can sustainably function as a police duo amongst their fellow officers, and even between the two of them. But after a chaotic smuggling bust, Judy thinks she’s caught the scent of their next big case: a snake in Zootopia.

Snakes, we learn, have been pariahs ever since one allegedly killed the city’s founder. As Zootopia prepares to celebrate its 100th anniversary, the founder’s descendants, a wealthy family of lynxes, that appear to have been written at the height of the popularity of “Succession,” worry snakes are plotting to ruin the festivities. Or worse, kill one of them. Of course, not everything is what it seems. Nick and Judy’s investigation takes them into new corners of the city they’ve never explored while putting a strain on their newfound partnership.

2016’s “Zootopia” was about societal discrimination; the sequel digs deeper into bias. “Zootopia 2” is a story about oppression, plain and simple. Yes, the plot mirrors the first film in several ways, if it’s not obvious by now that the snakes aren’t actually the bad guys. But the writers do an admirable job expanding the city while acknowledging that discrimination doesn’t disappear once the “bad guy” is locked up. Systems don’t magically fix themselves.

Judy and Nick’s journey through new locales, along with new characters and clever nods to old ones, keeps things fresh. We see how reptiles are treated in this mammal-dominated metropolis and how their cultural struggles mirror our own world. If reptiles represent anything, they’re Southerners: unfairly stereotyped as uneducated or backwards. The American melting-pot parallels are right there on the screen.

As with any animated sequel, the biggest worry is whether it justifies its own existence. “Zootopia 2” absolutely does. It never feels like a retread or a toy-commercial disguised as a movie. Writer and co-director Jared Bush refuses to turn characters into one-note jokes or nostalgia props. Danny Trejo, Andy Samberg, and the rest of the new voice cast add flavor without becoming animal caricatures. The old cast doesn’t appear to have missed a beat as we’re transported immediately back into this furry, adorable world. There’s clearly care and intention behind every creature, big and small.

Is it as good as the first film? Not quite. It runs a bit long and could have tightened some of its storytelling mechanics. But it’s a worthy successor because it cares about its characters’ journeys. “Zootopia 2” knows the expectations it carries, and it meets most of them quietly and confidently underneath the vibrant colors, animal jokes and bursts of adventurous joy. It feels like a natural continuation of Judy’s relentless optimism and Nick’s sly pragmatism, while showing that they, much like the world they inhabit, still have a lot of growing up to do.

Starring: Ariana Grande, Cynthia Erivo and Jonathan Bailey
Directed by: Jon M. Chu
Running Time: 137 minutes
Rated: PG
Universal Pictures

Our Score: 3 out of 5 Stars

Ever since it was announced that the “Wicked” musical would be split into two films, and especially after watching last year’s first installment, I had my reservations that anyone without delusions of grandeur, and a bottomless appetite for merchandising, could stretch a two-and-a-half-hour musical into something enjoyable. Especially one just shy of five hours when stitched together. And while I was right about the runtime bloat, I found just enough magic in “Wicked for Good” to recommend this second installment.

The film picks up shortly after the events of the first. Elphaba (Cynthia Erivo) is freeing imprisoned animals, studying the Grimmerie, and keeping tabs on her sister, who now governs Munchkinland. Meanwhile, Glinda (Ariana Grande) is doing PR-by-bubble across Oz and planning her wedding with Fiyero (Jonathan Bailey); even though it’s painfully clear he’s still in love with Elphaba. The love triangle, along with several dangling plot threads, resurfaces as Elphaba’s mission to end the Wizard’s reign grows darker and more dangerous.

But the changes and the new songs disrupt the tone of what should be the heavier back half of the story. It’s easily my biggest complaint. Not only do these additions pad the runtime, but they don’t add much to the film beyond noise. The musical works because its first half is all bombastic spectacle, while the second half slips into quieter, somber reflections. “Wicked for Good” doesn’t always understand that balance.

Part of what makes “Wicked” work for fans of “The Wizard of Oz” is the winking and retooling of the larger classic narrative. At times, “Wicked for Good” seems to forget that. Without revealing too much, the film struggles with restraint: sometimes it refuses to show without telling, and other times it overexplains itself into exhaustion. A few crucial sequences are mishandled entirely. I had to stifle a chuckle during a pivotal scene or else risk the nearby theatergoers thinking I’m a sociopath.

And yet, despite two full paragraphs of criticisms, I can’t bring myself to dislike this movie. It’s still a competent, enjoyable time. That’s doubly true for whenever Grande and Erivo share the screen. They gravitate toward each other naturally, and we believe every scrap of tension between them. When they’re apart, the film leans on the magnetism of Jeff Goldblum as the Wizard, Jonathan Bailey as Fiyero, and Michelle Yeoh as the evil Madame Morrible. Everyone picks up the slack when scenes rest solely on Grande or Erivo.

The classic songs still land with power, and when the film hits more than just the right notes, it hums and tugs at your heartstrings. There’s a newfound maturity to the characters, and you can feel the raised emotional stakes. This time around, “Wicked for Good” hopes you’ve grown up alongside these characters. I just can’t help but wonder what might have been if “Wicked” had stayed a singular, tightly packed film instead of being stretched into two.

Starring: Daniel Craig, Josh O’Connor and Josh Brolin
Directed by: Rian Johnson
Rated: PG-13
Running Time: 144 minutes
Netflix

Our Score: 4 out of 5 Stars

As someone who loved “Knives Out” but found “Glass Onion” underwhelming, I walked into “Wake Up Dead Man” with zero expectations. I’m not sure I would have sought it out on my own if not for review duties or awards consideration. Maybe that’s exactly why this latest entry blindsided me. It’s not just the best of the franchise, it’s one of the best whodunnits of the 21st century.

“Wake Up Dead Man” opens with Reverend Jud Duplenticy (Josh O’Connor) recounting the events leading up to the unexplainable murder of Monsignor Jefferson Wicks (Josh Brolin). We quickly learn Wicks is far from the holy man he pretends to be. He may believe he’s God’s messenger, but he uses his pulpit to bully, belittle, and shame the people of Chimney Rock. Those who remain in his congregation, a cast of misfits, zealots, and deeply miserable souls, adore him for his rage. So who killed Monsignor Wicks? That’s where Benoit Blanc (Daniel Craig) steps in.

In his third “Knives Out” mystery, Rian Johnson makes the smart choice to split the investigation between Blanc and Duplenticy. Blanc knows from the outset that the reverend didn’t commit the murder, which is why he needs his input into who it could be. It plays beautifully into Blanc’s know-it-all detective persona while positioning Duplenticy as a kind of spiritual Watson to his Holmes. The film wears its detective-novel influences proudly, referencing and playing with the very tropes it adores.

Brolin, for his part, storms through his scenes like a wrecking ball, so venomous you occasionally wonder if his murderer deserves a handshake more than a prison sentence. But the heart of “Wake Up Dead Man” lies with Blanc and Duplenticy. Duplenticy approaches the mystery through a religious lens, while Blanc leans on pure logic. Faith and reality clash, rebound, and circle each other. Based on how these movies go, it’s unfortunate because their chemistry becomes unexpectedly profound.

As we learn more about the ensemble, we see how faith has manipulated, entangled, and consumed them. Some believe out of genuine conviction. Others cling to it out of selfishness, fear, or a desperate need for identity. Some weaponize it. Others dissolve under its weight. The murder-mystery makes us suspect nearly everyone in the church, but the film itself nudges us toward a different question: what do we put our faith in and should we question it? That alone makes “Wake Up Dead Man” feel clever, timely, and strangely resonant. It’s a whodunnit made for a world divided by social media, disinformation, and the fragility of truth.

Starring: Glen Powell, Josh Brolin and Colman Domingo
Directed by: Edgar Wright
Rated: R
Running Time: 133 minutes
Paramount Pictures

Our Score: 3.5 out of 5 Stars

When I heard Edgar Wright was tackling the second adaptation of Stephen King’s “The Running Man,” I couldn’t help but get excited about the possibilities. For every film he’s made, Wright has brought a frenetic, hyper-stylized energy that moves to the beat of its own schizophrenia. His flashy visuals collide with wordplay, genre satire, and toe-tapping soundtracks that make his films feel like cinematic, ADHD jazz.

Despite being a favorite among cinephiles, with gems like “Shaun of the Dead,” “Scott Pilgrim vs. the World,” and “Baby Driver,” Wright has never been a box office guarantee, nor has he had an undisputed smash. Maybe that’s why he sheds his usual veneer here. In “The Running Man,” he opts for something more faithful to King’s text, but also more conventional, a gritty, almost generic action aesthetic.

Ben Richards (Glen Powell) is the definition of desperate. He’s been laid off for basically having morals, his child is dying from the flu, and his wife works a service job that might be a front for prostitution. With no money and no way out, Richards turns to state-sponsored TV game shows as his last chance. Of course, he’s not doing the most popular show, “The Running Man” competition. Because that’s where contestants must evade government-sanctioned killers and informant civilians for 30 days to win a billion dollars. That’d be crazy, right?

Since we know exactly where this is going, Wright wastes no time throwing Powell to the wolves. Richards moves from city to city, fighting his way out of brutal ambushes, finding unlikely allies, and realizing that the televised bloodsport is only one piece of a much larger, state-controlled dystopia. The movie stays remarkably close to King’s vision. It has a fresh, commercial hellscape look (think Blade Runner meets rauncy YouTube ads) and Powell shines as the scrappy, relatable underdog. Everyone he encounters, from a conspiracy theory Michael Cera to a witty game show host in Colman Domingo, shines in their scenes as well. But it doesn’t feel like a Wright film.

That’s my biggest disappointment. The Wright ingenuity, the pulse, the rhythm…everything; it’s muted. When the movie needs to dump exposition, it still finds clever ways to do it, but it feels like someone else doing a Wright impression. The kinetic charge that usually courses through his scenes, that sense of chaos barely under control, just isn’t there. In his best work, exposition isn’t a hurdle; it’s part of the jazz. Maybe the adaptation held him back, but this one feels restrained, almost cautious.

And that’s really my only complaint. I never held the first “Running Man,” the Arnold Schwarzenegger version, in high regard, so I’m not worried about missing that 80s camp. But what we get here feels like watered-down Wright. Not bad, just… safe. Which is ironic, considering “The Running Man” is still a fun, dystopian middle finger to corporate authoritarianism.

It just feels like it could have been more. Could have been better. That said, if you’re not deep in the Wright fandom and just want solid, old-school action with a touch of satire, this will absolutely do the trick.

Starring: Jennifer Lawrence, Robert Pattinson and LaKeith Stanfield
Directed by: Lynne Ramsay
Rated: R
Running Time: 118 minutes
Mubi

Our Score: 3 out of 5 Stars

How much does a performance really factor into a film? We point to Tom Hanks in The Ladykillers or Margot Robbie in Suicide Squad as examples of actors who outshine the movies around them. You could say the same for Jennifer Lawrence in mother!. And now, you can say it again in Die My Love.

When we meet Grace (Lawrence), she’s moving into her new home with Jackson (Robert Pattinson). The New York couple is looking for a quieter life in rural Montana as they prepare to start a family. We see them laugh, play, talk nonsense, screw, and then the baby arrives. Things start to unravel as Grace, a writer, hits a wall. She snaps at a cashier (and honestly, who wouldn’t?), grows increasingly hostile toward her husband, imagines an affair, tears apart the bathroom, and sometimes wields a gun. If you haven’t picked up on it yet, this film is #tradwifegonewrong. Or maybe it’s postpartum depression.

As someone who will never experience that firsthand, I can’t say for sure how authentic the depiction is. But “Die My Love” clearly has more on its mind than the psychological unraveling of motherhood. It’s also thumbing its nose at traditional family ideals. The kind where the mother is expected to handle everything while the husband works. That’s exactly what Jackson seems to want, and everyone around Grace reinforces it. As a free spirit, Grace wasn’t built for that life, and it appears it’s too late to abandon ship.

By the end, it’s difficult to tell what’s real, what’s imagined, or even when we are in Grace’s timeline. The film sprinkles in visual clues to keep us grounded, but by the third unexplained appearance from LaKeith Stanfield, I started wondering if “Die My Love” was less interested in coherence and more fascinated with seeing how far Lawrence could carry the chaos. Boy, does she ever.

She’s delivered plenty of great performances before, but this one is absolutely feral. Instead of chewing the scenery, she claws, nips, and digs her furious fingers into it with rage and childlike amusement. You can see emotions flash through her eyes like lightning. In seconds, Grace shifts from a rage-filled mother to a carefree teenager. It’s incredibly believable that Lawrence, a real-life mother, is channeling something carnal and unfiltered. It’s the kind of performance that feels ripped from a real person’s private spiral.

But the jumbled narrative never seems interested in telling or even hinting at what’s actually happening. It misuses its climax and ends with a whimper. “Die My Love” collapses under its own weight. The motherhood nightmare is too scattered to hold its own ideas. But Lawrence keeps it alive, barely, beautifully. It might not work as a story, but as a showcase for what she’s capable of, it’s magnetic. Sometimes that’s enough.

Starring: Julia Roberts, Ayo Edebiri and Andrew Garfield
Directed by: Luca Guadagnino
Rated: R
Running Time: 139 minutes
Amazon MGM Studios

Our Score: 1.5 out of 5 Stars

The last time I saw Julia Roberts on screen was “Ben is Back.” She’s still got it. The last time I saw a Luca Guadagnino film was last year’s “Challengers” and “Queer.” He’s still got it too. But despite those strengths, the two powerhouses find themselves stuck in the middle of a true mess with “After the Hunt.”

Roberts plays Alma Imhoff, an esteemed philosophy professor at Yale, whose world begins to unravel when one of her star students, Maggie (Ayo Edebiri), accuses Henrik Gibson (Andrew Garfield), a younger colleague of Alma’s, of sexual misconduct. Early on, we see that Maggie idolizes Alma; and the feeling appears mutual. That’s what makes Alma’s response so jarringly cold and standoffish. Instead of leaning in, she recoils.

The film sets itself up to tackle complex and timely themes like power, mentorship, and the #MeToo movement. But what follows is a series of disconnected moments and odd tonal choices. Character motivations feel vague or inconsistent. Dialogue is shallow. The entire production feels like no one, from director to composer, knew what kind of movie they were making.

Guadagnino’s direction is technically competent, but frequently puzzling. He lingers on characters without telling us why. He cuts to close-ups of hands fidgeting or flipping through pages as if trying to signal meaning, yet those moments never build toward any visual motif or narrative depth.

The cast is difficult to fault, given how erratically their characters are written. Take Frederick (Michael Stuhlbarg), Alma’s husband. Most of the time, he’s calm and supportive. But during a crucial dinner scene between Alma and Maggie, he suddenly transforms into an immature, attention-seeking pecker. He gets the feeling that he needs to excuse himself. Instead of confirming this suspicious, he externalizes his dissatisfaction, and blasts classical music in another room. But he’s not done. He mopes theatrically in and out of the dinner scene like a ghost. It’s not a scene that deepens the drama; it derails it.

And then there’s the score. Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross have delivered award-winning soundtracks before, but here their music feels confused and abrasive. It implies tension that never materializes or crashes into scenes with jarring intensity, like a kid slamming piano keys out of frustration. It’s the perfect metaphor for the film itself, noise without purpose.

Most frustrating is the absence of any resolution or thematic payoff. I kept waiting for the “ah-ha” moment, something that would recontextualize the chaos or clarify the muddled tone. But it never comes. Instead, the film ends with the same smug superficiality that defines its characters. “After the Hunt” wants to say something profound about power, privilege, and institutional silence, but it never earns its place in that conversation. It feels like a thesis paper written the hour before it’s due.

Starring: Idris Elba, Rebecca Ferguson and Gabriel Basso
Directed by: Kathryn Bigelow
Rated: NR
Running Time: 112 minutes
Netflix

Our Score: 4 out of 5 Stars

Anxiety is reaching a fever pitch. Economic instability, inflation, crime, war, political violence…seriously, take your pick. Meanwhile, social media fans all the flames, and in 2025, Kathryn Bigelow adds another spark to the blaze: nuclear dread. “A House of Dynamite” unfolds in near real-time over the course of about 30 minutes, as military officials, White House staff, and intelligence agencies scramble to respond to an ICBM launch from the Pacific. Who fired it? Why? Can it be stopped? Where is it headed? And, ultimately…does any of it even matter?

The genius of “A House of Dynamite” isn’t its story, which remains simple, but the slow, sinking pit it forms in your stomach. Bigelow has always enjoyed making you squirm in your seat. I watched her last film, “Detroit,” at home and it allowed me to pause the film so that I could take an emotional break. “A House of Dynamite” kept me trapped in a dark theater with its escalating discomfort as it became clear, alongside the characters, that answers may not prevent the inevitable: global nuclear war.

Told from three different perspectives, we watch key players and others react with human fragility: a trembling hand on a wedding ring, a silent phone call to a loved one, a stunned stare into nothing. Bigelow frames the film with such raw intensity that you feel trapped alongside them. And while the film runs only 112 minutes, its central premise, those first 30 minutes post-launch, does stretch thin by the final act. A tighter 90-minute runtime might have enhanced its claustrophobic urgency.

The film isn’t political; unless you’re pro-nuclear holocaust. “A House of Dynamite” offers no comfort in the face of crisis. We’re always told that adults are in charge and everything will be fine. With nukes on the line, even the adults in the room (fictional or otherwise) are powerless. They may know the protocols, have the plans, run the drills. But when it actually happens…does it make a difference? Does it even matter?

Bigelow doesn’t rely on post-apocalyptic horrors like “The Day After” or “Threads.” There’s no gallows humor à la “Dr. Strangelove,” and no morality play like “Oppenheimer.” Instead, she delivers a bleak, tension-drenched thriller that insists on one terrifying idea: tech fails, people lie, and when the moment comes, the response is tragically bureaucratic. “A House of Dynamite” doesn’t build toward a catharsis, it loops through dread.

It’s not the kind of film you’ll want to watch twice, unless you’re a glutton for punishment. There’s no reward in rewatching events you already know are futile. The outcome is clear from the first frame, and yet we, like the characters, continue trying to make sense of it. That’s Bigelow’s ultimate point. The danger isn’t just nuclear weapons, but how little time we’d have, how unprepared we’d still be, and how devastatingly human we remain when the clock starts ticking. In those 30ish minutes, “A House of Dynamite” explores military command, institutional reaction, and personal despair. Each is a different side of the same deadly die, one we may yet roll.

Starring: Panos Papadopoulos, Juli Katsis and Aris Balis
Directed by: Yannis Veslemes
Rated: NR
Running Time: 88 minutes
Dark Sky Films

Our Score: 3 out of 5 Stars

Lovecraftian. Horny. Bizarre. Carnal. Those are probably the four most prominent words that popped up in my mind during “She Loved Blossoms More,” a time-travel fever dream filled with vaginal-looking creatures, Freudian brothers, drugs, and enough “what the hell am I watching?” moments to last the rest of the year. Writer-director Yannis Veslemes takes a deceptively simple premise and goes absolutely hog wild with it for 88 minutes. Throughout its runtime, Veslemes refuses to tell you what’s going on while daring you to look away.

The plot, if you can call it that, revolves around three oddly-named brothers: Hedgehog (Panos Papadopoulos), Dummy (Juli Katsis) and Paris (Aris Balis). They’re attempting to bring their mother back-to-life with a time machine. Of course, we pick up towards the tail end of their experimentations, which involve a lot of unfortunate livestock. They live together in what feels like a gothic mausoleum of maternal obsession. The time machine? Looks like they borrowed design tips from “The Fly.” 

But what actually happens in this movie? A lot of inexplicable imagery is treated as disturbingly normal. One brother chats with a vulva snake. Another has sex while his sibling fingers a chicken (and not in the way you think). I’m not spelling cherrypicking out of context scenes either, the whole movie feels like this. If I gave any more examples, I’d be accused of watching a serial killer’s wet dream laced with mommy issues.

Is that what the film is ultimately about? Mommy issues? Maybe. “She Loved Blossoms More” doesn’t hand over answers easily. It demands your sharpest attention and maybe multiple viewings, but ironically, the shock of the visuals is also what makes it hard to revisit. Once that novelty wears off, you’re left hoping the film had given you more narrative breadcrumbs the first time around.

That’s my biggest gripe: Veslemes keeps you at arm’s length, withholding just enough to frustrate. Maybe there are culturally specific metaphors or symbols I’m missing as an American viewer. At one point, a trollish goblin pops up that looks like something out of Epcot’s Norway Pavilion. Does it mean anything? Is it just another weird detour? Who knows.

If I had to gamble (which I wouldn’t because this movie’s too chaotic to bet on), I’d say the message is that life is a deliriously silly thing to be enjoyed before it overwhelms us with grief. These brothers are trapped in memory loops, maybe even false ones fed to them by their father, who might be the brains behind the time machine. The boys aren’t remembering their mother. They’re recreating someone else’s haunted idea of her. They make off hand remarks like, “She loved horror movies.” That’s about as deep as her characterization goes, yet the boys appear to be hungry for something more tangible.

Still, for viewers looking for a cinematic challenge that aren’t afraid of grotesque sexual imagery, “She Loved Blossoms More” is a delight. It’s proudly alienating, arguably clever, and defiantly uninterested in mainstream attitudes, even the horror conventions that it’s clearly marketing to. It doesn’t care whether you like it or understand it; and that’s kind of the point. It feels like Veslemes is trying to decode his own nonsensical dream while letting you watch, gape-jawed.

Directed by: Mike Figgis
Rated: NR
Running Time: 107 minutes
Utopia

Our Score: 3 out of 5 Stars

I haven’t yet rewatched Francis Ford Coppola’s “Megalopolis,” which I really want to do—just to figure out whether it’s pure nonsense or a manic artistic vision. Right now, it’s unavailable for streaming and you can’t buy it online (at least legally). The closest I could get to watching 2024’s most ambitious disaster was “Megadoc,” a behind-the-scenes documentary about the making of Coppola’s passion project.

“Megadoc” follows the film’s multi-year production, plagued by walkouts, firings, clashing egos, and chaos at nearly every turn. For a lot of people, this will immediately call “Apocalypse Now” to mind. But while “Hearts of Darkness” deepened the mythos of that film, “Megadoc” feels more like an obituary for a movie that bombed so hard it cost Coppola over $100 million of his own money.

It starts off promising, showing Coppola rallying the cast and crew for what’s clearly going to be a strange ride. And I say strange because his directorial style seems deliberately murky. At times, it’s like he waits for someone to make a decision just so he can reject it. The most fascinating dynamic here is between Coppola and Shia LaBeouf. They come off like an old married couple who’ve given up on divorce and settled into bitter codependence.

Amid the madness, there is a real creative passion. Coppola is hell-bent on realizing a sprawling vision that might not even be fully formed in his own head. But as months turn into years, you start to wonder if the real world is evolving faster than Coppola can keep up. Watching him wrestle with something this big, something that may no longer even make sense to him, is compelling. But I couldn’t help wondering what the documentary left out.

Sometimes it feels like the camera kicks in after the storm has passed, or just before it breaks. At times, it mirrors the messiness of “Megalopollis” itself, jumping through time, glossing over tension, and ending right at the film’s premiere. It’s long, yet still feels like it had more to say.

Still, “Megadoc” is a compelling watch. Not perfect, but for people like me who are drawn to stories about cinematic trainwrecks, it hits the spot. It plays right into the narrative that “Megalopolis” is some kind of creative Frankenstein; confused, misunderstood, and borderline delusional. If you haven’t seen the film, “Megadoc” might seem like an exercise in self-inflicted wounds. If you have, it’s a chaotic but necessary companion piece.