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.

Directed by: Bryan M. Ferguson, Casper Kelly, Micheline Pitt-Norman, R.H. Norman, Alex Ross Perry, Paco Plaza and Anna Zlokovic
Rated: NR
Running Time: 115 minutes
Shudder

Our Score: 4 out of 5 Stars

Any time a filmmaker invokes Halloween in the title, or sets a story on All Hallows’ Eve, they invite scrutiny. It’s a built-in promise: deliver ghouls, thrills, nostalgia, and enough mayhem to satisfy the most haunted corners of our brains. The eighth entry in the “V/H/S” anthology franchise embraces that challenge head-on. It seemed inevitable since 2021, when the series began dropping a new found footage anthology every October, mixing horror veterans and newcomers into a blender of unpredictable storytelling. Now that “V/H/S” has finally pulled the trigger on Halloween, did they pull off a trick or a treat?

The wraparound story, “Diet Phantasma,” feels like Sam Raimi directing “Halloween III.” It follows scientists testing a soda infused with poltergeists, with gloriously gruesome results. If you thought earlier V/H/S films lacked in body counts, this segment makes up for any shortfall with gleeful, over-the-top carnage. The simple premise is absurd and excessive in all the right ways. It doesn’t matter that it doesn’t connect all the others, it’s simply trying to one-up everyone.

If the wraparound didn’t knock you for a loop, then “Coochie Coochie Coo” will. It’s a nightmare of gestation and grotesquery. Two teens out trick-or-treating stumble into a postpartum hellscape filled with horrifying baby-faced creatures and graphic lactation visuals. It’s weird, unsettling, and will scar parents and teens in very different ways.

The next short, “Ut Supra Sic Infra,” from “REC” co-creator Paco Plaza, is sadly the weakest short of the bunch. It doesn’t take full advantage of the found footage format or bring anything new to the party. Cops, attempting to figure out what led up to a deadly scene, find themselves becoming a part of the next deadly scene. Nothing memorable. Fortunately, it’s short and quickly gives way to “Fun Size,” a demented Adult Swim–style fever dream about greedy teens who defy the classic “please take one” candy rule. Their punishment? A Willy Wonka–esque descent into candy-coated abandoned warehouse doom. It’s goofy, gory, and rewatchable in all its sugar-fueled chaos. Never have gumballs and silly costumed characters been this deadly.

Then comes “Kidprint,” the anthology’s darkest and most grounded short. This short unearths a horrifying truth behind missing children and a local video store. It’s the only segment that fully explores Halloween’s thematic potential: loss of innocence, hidden evil, and the darkness in everyday people. It’s a bleak breather, tonally distinct and all the better for it. While it may not have the same zippy fun as the others, it reminds us that any good Halloween should have some creeps and scares.

“Home Haunt” offers us a unique bow before letting “Diet Phantasma” close things out. This Halloween crowd-pleaser might trigger a lot of happy memories for viewers: a DIY haunted house. I definitely had one in my neighborhood, but this suburban house haunt becomes too real after the homeowner plays a mysterious vinyl record. It’s clever, campy, and carries the right mix of nostalgia and nastiness.

“V/H/S Halloween” captures the essence of this time of year by being consistently violent, funny and at times unsettling. Every short, with the exception of “Ut Supra Sic Infra,” leans into Halloween aesthetics, traditions, or anxieties. While the stories don’t connect narratively, the seasonal spirit binds them with orange-and-black twine. There’s a reckless energy here that captures what Halloween feels like for people like me, costumed chaos, sugar rushes, and the lurking fear that something in the dark is more real than you think.

Starring: Dwayne Johnson, Emily Blunt and Ryan Bader
Directed by: Benny Safdie
Rated: R
Running Time: 123 minutes
A24

Our Score: 3.5 out of 5 Stars

Every now and then, a film comes along that isn’t great in the traditional sense, but it features a performance that redefines how we view an actor. “The Whale,” “The Wrestler” and “Leaving Las Vegas” are the gold standard here. These films are remembered as much for their raw performances as their narratives. Add “The Smashing Machine” to that list.

Set between 1997 and 2000, the film follows real-life MMA fighter Mark Kerr (Dwayne Johnson), a powerhouse trying to stay relevant through the early days of the UFC and the Japanese PRIDE league. While Kerr trains and fights with intensity, he also battles drug addiction, feelings of inadequacy, and a volatile relationship with his on-again, off-again girlfriend Dawn (Emily Blunt).

“The Smashing Machine” doesn’t reinvent biopics. The cinematography and storytelling are fairly standard, even pedestrian at times. What elevates the movie is Johnson and Blunt’s fully committed performances. Their love is messy, obsessive, and often toxic. Every confrontation, every long silence, feels lived in. These are career-best moments for both actors. Blunt may actually be the true powerhouse of the film with her wild emotional swings, but Johnson isn’t too far behind. Even in his quieter moments, we sense and see the tension building inside the gentle giant.

Those expecting a deep dive into Kerr’s addiction or the psychology behind his relationship may leave disappointed. For that, you’ll need to queue up the 2002 HBO documentary “The Smashing Machine.” Director Benny Safdie clearly admires Kerr, but he often chooses mood over clarity. The film hints at trauma and dependency, but rarely explores them with depth. Johnson’s moments of vacant staring and trembling silence, while sometimes excellent in their own regard, beg for more context.

Still, as far as sports biopics go, this one makes a compelling choice: it zooms in on an inherently unheroic and specific three-year window. Most sports films focus on triumph or redemption, because that’s how a good sports movie is supposed to be, right? “The Smashing Machine” is more interested in the fracture point, when greatness begins to crumble. It’s a quiet descent from invincible to vulnerable, and Johnson sells every inch of that slide. While it may not be Safdie’s strongest effort, “The Smashing Machine” could be a defining moment in Johnson’s acting career. It’s not a knockout of a film, but it lands where it counts.

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.

Chain Reaction written and directed by Alexandre O. Phillipe is a documentary about The Texas ChainSaw Massacre’s impact on 5 completely different artists Patton Oswalt, Takashi Miike, Alexandra Heller-Nicholas, Stephen King and Karyn Kusama. It’s cleverly edited with the respective interviews intertwined with clips of the film, and some outtakes that even the biggest Chain Saw fans (like myself) have never seen before. Each one of them tell their experience of seeing the film for the first time, some by choice and some by accident, and how the movie had left a lasting impression on them.

Pleasantly surprised by comedian Patton Oswalt’s fandom of the film and just like myself we both saw the film on VHS. Stephen King makes a point that on how the film is nearly a short film because of it’s run time. I personally have been flying that flag for decades. When a movie wastes no time and it gets to the point like TCM does, it’s hard not to respect a film like that. Regardless if you are fan of the horror genre.  King also says something that is very true about what you see vs what you don’t see in movies and how the power of suggestion is stronger. The unseen and the unknown can play a psychological game on your mind and leave you wondering was that there or not?!

Writer and Director Karyn Kusama says something that stuck with me and puts my feelings of the film into perspective. “It’s hard movie to watch and it’s a hard movie to rewatch yet i keep on returning. It’s as big American film as any American classic. How lucky we are as cinephiles to have Texas Chainsaw Massacre.”

4 out of 5 Revving Chainsaws

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.

• CAUGHT STEALING
• Starring:  Austin Butler, Regina King and Zoe Kravitz
• Directed by:  Darren Aronofsky
• Rated:  R
• Running time:  1 hr 47 mins
• SONY/Columbia Pictures

Our score: 2 out of 5

If there is one thing that the pandemic and the advent of streaming have not changed about the entertainment industry, it’s that any movie entering the marketplace around Labor Day is going to be lacking.

If Sony suspected that this offering from auteur director Darren Aronofsky (Requiem for a Dream, The Wrestler) with an A-list cast had awards potential, they’d probably have released it in the summer or later in the fall.

They know this won’t be much competition to a holiday cookout or the more focused movies coming down the pipeline.

The script by Charlie Huston, working from his novel, features a menagerie of colorful New York lowlifes who torment a lowly bartender named Hank Thompson (Austin Butler) simply because a Mohawk-sporting Cockney named Russ (Matt Smith) has left the Big Apple for his hometown of London without informing anyone else.

Because Russ is out of town, his business partners in illicit trades want a return on their investments. Because Hank is around but Russ isn’t, a pair of sadistic Russian leg breakers (Nikita Kukushkin, Yuri Kololnikov) pummel Hank inches from death even though he has no idea how Russ affords to feed his violent cat or get his gets his well-maintained punk hairdos.

Hank’s smarter paramedic girlfriend Yvonne (Zoë Zravitz) picks him up at the hospital and suggests that he call the cops. The detective who arrives on the scene (Regina King) loves making wisecracks but does little more than warn Hank he’s inadvertently crossed two Hassidic brothers (Liev Schriber, Vincent D’Onofrio) so devout they won’t drive on Shabbos but will deal in chemical recreation and lethal force.

While Huston compiles a formidable body count from his ensemble cast and gives them lots of excentric and sometimes off-putting things to do, Aronofsky’s tone varies from gritty to eye-rollingly silly. When the actors seem to be playing a scene for laughs, Aronofsky dishes out some gore that might make David Cronenberg blush.

In Elvis and The Bikeriders, Butler has proven himself to be a formidable leading man, but here Huston and Aronofsky haven’t given him much of a role. For much of the film, he seems like a hapless bystander who inadvertently invites the fatalities that accumulate in his path.

With the possible exception of Schriber and D’Onofrio’s sibling drug mongers, who manage to be both funny and threatening, most of the oddballs in Caught Stealing aren’t engaging enough to make viewers wonder if they’ll make it to the end. Griffin Dunne as an aging hippie poet and Carol Kane Scriber and D’Onofrio’s matriarch are sadly underutilized. Aronofsky’s frantic pacing may be a disservice to his performers because it reduces their chance to shine.

The central McGuffin isn’t that well-conceived, and Hank’s eagerness for never making it into Major League Baseball can only carry the film so far.

Because this is Labor Day, we can take comfort that all involved will be working on something better soon. It’s a shame they wasted their talents on such an unworthy grift.

On a scale of zero to five, I give “Caught Stealing” ★★   

Starring: Chloe Levine, Will Peltz and Peter Vack
Directed by: Rachael Cain
Rated: NR
Running Time: 92 minutes
Yellow Veil Pictures

Our Score: 3 out of 5 Stars

Humans spend a lot of time trying to decode our dreams. We may hesitate to admit why something as surreal as an ex’s head on a goat’s body matters, but we still wonder why our brains conjured it up. That’s why when we meet Gemma (Chloe Levine), we’re immediately drawn in. She’s a small-town girl who’s come to LA to become a star. Until that happens, she’s pulling graveyard shifts at a sleep clinic called Somnium, where her job is to monitor and record the dreams of strangers.

But Gemma starts seeing something in those dreams. At first it’s just a shadow. Then it appears more frequently. Sometimes it creeps from one patient’s nightmare to another, until it begins to seep into her waking life. Or maybe she’s still dreaming. Imagine if Adult Swim’s Dream Corp LLC turned into an evolving psychological horror and you’ve got “Somnium.”

The film would work better with fewer characters outside of Gemma. Many side characters feel introduced without clear purpose or payoff. An aging actor offers her a shortcut into the industry—whether sincerely or as part of some mass dream manipulation is never made clear. Noah (Will Peltz), Somnium’s leader, is treated like a pivotal figure, but we never get close enough to him to understand who he is or what he wants. The film keeps pulling us back to Gemma’s perspective, which is a smart anchor, but giving these supporting characters more shape might’ve enriched her internal conflict without needing so much exposition.

That’s the film’s biggest flaw and unfortunately it’s not a minor one. “Somnium” sometimes feels unsure of its own narrative focus. These detours dilute the tension and stretch a lean story longer than it needs to feel. Still, Cain delivers a solid, at times chilling thriller. Levine carries the film with quiet intensity, which feels fitting for a character unsure of her own abilities. And Cain, in her directorial debut, crafts genuine unease from familiar genre elements. The shadowy antagonist may not be wholly original, but the way it’s framed and escalated within dreams gives it a fresh edge.

“Somnium” ends on a note that’s mildly satisfying, though still loaded with unanswered questions. Whether that’s intentional ambiguity or not, it leaves the story feeling just short of fully realized. But as a debut feature, Cain’s control over tone and visuals suggests a promising future, but with a more focused script next time, something great might follow.