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.

Starring: Marlon Wayans, Tyriq Withers and Julia Fox
Directed by: Justin Tipping
Rated: R
Running Time: 96 minutes
Universal Pictures

Our Score: 3.5 out of 5 Stars

Before walking into “HIM,” I had a simple question: has there ever been a football horror film? I couldn’t find one. Even the broader category of “sports horror” is practically empty. So right out of the gate, “HIM” earns points for originality.

Football, as the film’s opening reminds us, is already horrifying. The violence, the obsession, the broken bodies; it’s all there. The movie starts with a gruesome on-field injury, echoing Joe Theismann’s infamous leg break. The victim? Football legend Isaiah White (Marlon Wayans), who somehow recovers to lead the San Antonio Saviors to eight championships. Witnessing that trauma is a young Cam Cade (Tyriq Withers), who goes on to become a rising star and, eventually, White’s successor. But first Cam has to prove his worth as he’s invited to train at White’s mysterious desert compound. That’s when the real nightmare begins.

“HIM” takes big swings at the intersection of religion, fame, and athleticism. Sometimes the metaphors overlap. Sometimes you wonder if the movie is talking about sports, God, trauma, or all of the above. The confusion is intentional. Football’s fanatical culture and Sunday rituals mirror organized religion. When Cam arrives at White’s compound, he finds unhinged White fans tailgating outside the gates. They also don’t appear to ever leave, as if these paint covered loons are living in a kind of sports-themed purgatory.

The film chooses absurdism over realism, and that choice mostly works. The criticism isn’t directed squarely at football. European soccer fans can be just as rabid. The criticism seems to be more directed at our broader cultural obsession with sports and spectacle. And visually, “HIM” gets a lot right: the soundtrack hits, the aesthetics pop, and the editing leans into the madness. It sometimes leans heavy into the style over substance, much like “American Horror Story” has.

At the heart of it all is Cam, caught between the powers of the football machine and the pleas of his family to simply be careful. Withers is a decent lead, but Wayans is absolutely electric as Isaiah White, delivering unhinged lines with just enough restraint to make you lean in. There’s a mania behind his eyes that sells the idea of a man completely consumed by sports, by fans, by power.

“HIM” doesn’t always know how to weave its themes cleanly, but it’s still a hell of a ride. It’s smart, surreal, and timely. With football season in full swing and America’s appetite for violence still unshaken, this is a horror story tailor-made for our times. It could’ve dug deeper, sure. But what’s here is bold and unforgettable. It’s a first-of-its-kind football hellscape that makes the gridiron seem toothless.

Starring: Jennifer Seward, Nicole Hall and Matt Leisy
Directed by: Patrick Rea
Rated: No Rating
Running Time: 87 minutes

Our Score: 3.5 out of 5 Stars

In a world where Art the Clown is known for brutality, Pennywise for childhood trauma, and Frendo for generational dread, what exactly do we get from Jenn-O? In “Super Happy Fun Clown,” director Patrick Rea and writer Eric Winkler introduce us to a very different kind of killer clown. Jenn-O (played with unnerving charm by Jennifer Seward) isn’t supernatural or fueled by rage; she’s a wide-eyed dreamer whose love for clowning masks a much darker undercurrent.

From the jump, we see that Jen’s childhood was marked by trauma and abuse. Clowning starts as innocent escapism, but that coping mechanism calcifies over time. As an adult, she uses that same cheery persona to endure a deadbeat husband, a judgmental mother, and a bleak reality. But behind the smiles, pantomiming and pastel makeup is darkness. Her room is a shrine to serial killers like Ted Bundy and Aileen Wuornos. And soon, her fascination with them turns into something much more hands-on.

Jen is oddly relatable, but there’s a lingering sense of evil that slowly builds throughout the film. As “Super Happy Fun Clown” shifts from psychological character study to full-blown slasher, the tonal change feels slightly off. It’s not clear whether it would’ve worked better as a straight-up descent into madness or a traditional bloodbath. But the unease in Seward’s eyes and Rea’s direction helps build a tension that is undeniable.

Seward is the glue holding this bloody mess together. She embodies both Jen and Jenn-O with a startling range. In one moment, she’s childlike and hopeful, and in the next, she’s disturbingly gleeful in her kills. Her performance makes you question whether you’re supposed to root for her, even as the body count rises. That ambiguity is what elevates “Super Happy Fun Clown” above most B-movie slashers.