Over the past year there has been a tendency to rush to define films made with high competence as masterpieces. Sinners (2025) and One Battle After Another (2025) both had interesting concepts and demonstrated filmmaking that was impressive from a technical standpoint, but each lacked a powerful story strong enough to elevate it to masterpiece status. In an era whose focus has often drifted toward social engineering, audiences have been starved of films that pay deep attention to the craft of filmmaking. So when these films arrive, people mistake that starvation for greatness in a wave of over-excitement.

There is also an element of social contagion behind these reactions. On release, Marty Supreme (2025) was declared the best film of the year and widely predicted to have success at the Oscar’s. However, after some in the arts crowd developed distaste for comments made by Timothée Chalamet suggesting opera and ballet were dying art forms that few people care about anymore, that hype seemed to vanish overnight. Suddenly people didn’t appear quite as convinced that Marty Supreme was as fantastic as they remembered. A film’s success often depends on its relationship with the crowd, and that relationship can be crushed by a comment or controversy completely unrelated to the merit of the work. It illustrates a weakness in the relationship between art and its audience. Admiration for beauty is often conditional, tied to the shifting mood of tribes and cultural groups.

One film I doubt will stir up such controversy, and therefore may enjoy a longer wave of success, is Project Hail Mary. Early reviews are already declaring it a masterpiece, but this feels like another case of over-excitement. The film certainly has all the ingredients for broad audience appeal. You have the charming Ryan Gosling as the lead, an actor with a well-established positive reputation. You also have a WALL-E-style companion character accompanying him on an epic sci-fi journey in which humanity’s survival depends on the actions of one man in space. Add grand visuals and an emotive score, and the result is something that resembles a heartwarming, Interstellar-style epic. So what’s the issue?

My main problem with the film is its tone. We’re presented with a serious existential threat to humanity, yet most of the characters approach the possibility of extinction with surprising lightness. Their attitude seems designed primarily to entertain a family-friendly audience, turbo-charged by Gosling’s character, who is portrayed as a somewhat goofy, immature, happy-go-lucky figure tasked with saving the human race. None of it feels particularly authentic to how people might behave in the real world. Yet this tonal choice exists in many successful family-friendly films that deal with life-threatening situations, such as Jurassic Park (1993). Audiences are often willing to forgive a lack of realism when humour and optimism are injected into the equation.

To be fair to the filmmakers of Project Hail Mary, this tone may have been necessary to prevent audiences from becoming bored watching a single man alone in space for long stretches—at least until he encounters the cute, rock-textured alien creature with whom he eventually forms a friendship. And if a human is to bond with such a creature, perhaps a slightly immature chemistry between the two is needed to make the relationship work.

The relationship between Gosling’s character and the creature he calls Rocky ultimately becomes the central focus of the film, even more so than the mission itself. It provides a welcome distraction from trying to dissect the technical mechanics of the plot. I would be lying if I said I didn’t feel some warmth toward Gosling’s character and the emotions building from his friendship with Rocky. The film is clearly designed to pull at your heartstrings. However, because the characters never quite feel authentically grounded in the world they inhabit, the emotional pull never fully lands. Gosling’s character doesn’t feel entirely real, which makes it difficult to fully surrender to the emotions being engineered.

Despite that resistance, emotion is the dominant element throughout the film, largely driven by its score, which is undoubtedly its strongest asset. Composer Daniel Pemberton delivers remarkable work here—so remarkable that the emotion embedded in the music often feels stronger than the emotion generated by the story itself. At times it even evokes the grandeur of the score from The Lord of the Rings film trilogy, though without the same perfect harmony between music and narrative.

What constitutes a masterpiece ultimately depends on individual perception and the standards one applies. For me, a masterpiece requires every element—story, performances, direction, technical craft, and everything beyond—to operate at a high level while working together in harmony. That harmony must feel authentic and logical to the world being presented, producing genuine awe and admiration within the spectator. While certain elements of Project Hail Mary reach that level, not all of them align in a satisfying way, preventing the film from achieving that sense of unity.

If you’re suffering from a famine of truly great cinema and haven’t yet consumed enough examples from film history to develop higher standards, it’s understandable that you might rush to declare Project Hail Mary, Sinners, or One Battle After Another masterpieces. If a film feels like a masterpiece to you, then naturally you’ll describe it that way. The danger lies in applying that label to any film that simply demonstrates competence in the craft of filmmaking. When that happens, the term itself begins to lose its meaning—and we may eventually find ourselves inventing new categories just to preserve the value the word once carried.

Out in UK cinemas from 20th March

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For those of you who, like me, thought Scream 6 (2023) was the worst film in the franchise, the last thing you wanted was a follow-up. While Scream 5 (2022) was a welcome return after a decade-long break, the sixth film drained the fun from it all and delivered a third act that was nauseatingly over-the-top and far too theatrical. It also managed to highlight Jenna Ortega’s limited acting ability. In almost every scene, she seemed tasked with standing there wearing the same suspicious facial expression at whoever surrounded her. It became so irritating, along with her baffling inability to convincingly express pain after being stabbed multiple times, that I frankly didn’t want to see another film with her in it. And due to political fallout behind the scenes, my wish was granted.

Ortega exited Scream 7 following the firing of Melissa Barrera for expressing a political opinion on social media that the production company disagreed with. Christopher Landon, who had been attached to direct, quit a week later, claiming there was no movie anymore as the script revolved around her character. If we’re speaking purely in the interest of the art, that implosion may have been the best thing to happen to the franchise’s future. It resulted in a reported $500,000 rewrite, with Kevin Williamson, the original writer of Scream (1996), Scream 2 (1997) and Scream 4 (2011) (arguably the strongest entries), stepping in not only to rewrite but also to direct. Better yet, Neve Campbell returned as Sidney Prescott after sitting out the sixth instalment due to a pay dispute. The brutal reality behind the scenes gave birth to one of the most enjoyable films in the franchise.

Scream 7’s opening scene alone surpasses the entirety of Scream 6. Rather than delivering another mindless stab-athon, Williamson’s direction leans into tension and suspense — and it works a treat. There are moments that are genuinely unnerving, sending a mild shiver through you. It may well be the franchise’s scariest entry. Though primarily known as a screenwriter, Williamson shows real promise behind the camera, delivering a confident and competent contribution from the outset.

Despite turbocharging the horror elements, there’s a lightness running throughout the film, largely fuelled by the nostalgic pleasure of seeing Sidney again. Watching how she’s getting on in life feels comforting, as though catching up with an old friend. There’s tension with her young daughter, who views her mother as overprotective, but otherwise, Sidney appears to live a relatively content life with her husband in a pleasant home, working at a local café. Of course, whatever peace she manages to hold onto doesn’t last; otherwise, we wouldn’t have a Scream film on our hands.

A new Ghostface is in town — perhaps one, perhaps two, maybe even three. As always, bodies pile up in pursuit of the ultimate target: Sidney and her daughter. Some of the kills are arguably among the most violent and brutal in the franchise. There’s a satisfying creativity to the gore that will likely make you laugh if, like me, you possess a slightly sick sense of humour.

The plot isn’t overly complex; however, you may question the logic of certain developments, but it’s forgivable because what you’re watching is undeniably entertaining. The film doesn’t take itself too seriously; it knows it exists to entertain. It pokes fun at itself deliberately, even offering a nod to the behind-the-scenes drama. Yet there are more serious threads woven in, particularly an exploration of the damage a parent can inflict by shielding a child too heavily from the real world. There is emotional depth here, though admittedly in measured doses.

While you remain engaged and entertained for most of the runtime, the reveal of the killers lands with a slight wave of disappointment. Don’t expect anything groundbreaking. It may surprise you, but perhaps only because of how creatively underwhelming it feels. There’s an odd sensation near the end that something else must be coming — surely that can’t be it? But then the credits roll, and you accept what you’re given. Fortunately, the journey itself is enjoyable enough that the underwhelming reveal doesn’t derail the experience.

For those who argue the franchise should finally die, I once agreed, at least before attending this new entry on opening night. But sitting in an auditorium where the audience erupted into applause as our protagonists defeated Ghostface, cheering at the entrance of one beloved character, it became clear that this long-running franchise still provokes something increasingly rare. In an era where cinema attendance has dramatically declined, that kind of audience reaction matters. Should the franchise run itself completely dry? No. But perhaps we shouldn’t be too hasty in calling for its death just yet.

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Saltburn director Emerald Fennell is back with a new film, this time delivering yet another adaptation of Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë, as if we haven’t already had enough of them. But that news wasn’t met with immediate distaste. Fennell proved herself to be an interesting artist in this day and age when she gave us Saltburn, a provocative and outrageous tale about an outsider who infiltrates and shatters an aristocratic family through grotesque acts. The film’s spectacle, fun, and daring energy felt like a much-needed breath of fresh air in an age of mundane art constrained by the shackles of wokeism.

Her new adaptation of Wuthering Heights was teased as following a similar style. Marketing materials gave the impression that this would be highly erotic, an unusual approach to a story we’re not exactly familiar with in that way. Predictably, a barrage of early criticism followed, with audiences instantly disliking the project due to doubts about its faithfulness to Brontë’s source material. Early critic reactions suggested the adaptation would be like Marmite — you’ll either love it or hate it. But the truth is, it falls somewhere in between. Its delivery isn’t polarising enough to truly anger one side or leave the other proclaiming it the best film in a generation. It’s not as provocative or outrageous as you might expect (to my disappointment), nor does it go out of its way to antagonise the “must be an exact replica of the book” purists.

The film begins with a public hanging scene. Initially, this was reported to be far more explicit than what we ultimately see. World of Reel reported that test screening audiences described the scene as “descends into grotesque absurdity, as the condemned man ejaculates mid-execution, sending the onlooking crowd into a kind of orgiastic frenzy. A nun even fondles the corpse’s visible erection.”

I can confirm it’s not quite that explicit, even though part of me wishes it had been. If those early reports were accurate, it suggests the delivery was toned down slightly. Still, it’s a stark opening, something unfamiliar when engaging with this story.

From there, the pacing slows as we watch Heathcliff and Catherine as children. It feels like an introduction that must be endured, a necessary foundation to get out of the way. Thankfully, things pick up once we jump forward in time and the characters reach adulthood. There’s been minor controversy surrounding Jacob Elordi’s casting, with some condemning Fennell for choosing a white actor to play Heathcliff. Fennell explained, not that she should have to, that when she saw Elordi with sideburns on the set of Saltburn, he looked exactly like the illustration of Heathcliff in the first edition she read as a teenager, and that image captivated her. It’s a good thing she followed her instincts and cast Elordi alongside Margot Robbie. The two share genuine chemistry and, of course, are very attractive to watch. They form one of the most captivating cinematic couples to grace modern screens, a pairing many viewers will be grateful for after seeing this piece.

Once the eroticism begins, the film reaches its strongest point. You genuinely feel the sexual tension between them, and that authenticity works because you’ve already been seduced into caring about these characters on a deeply emotional level, again, thanks largely to the casting. Some may have expected soft-core porn, but it’s far from that. Instead, it’s an honest depiction of the sexual relationship the two might plausibly have had, and the lustful cues leading up to it. This isn’t sexual perversion; it’s romance uncensored.

There is one particularly powerful moment during their sexual awakening that makes you sit upright and truly pay attention to the chemistry and lust unfolding to the point where you feel it yourself, as though you’re stepping into someone else’s wet dream. The moment is intensified by an impressive score from Charli XCX that feels surprisingly natural in context. You begin to believe the film will continue deepening its intensity, but I regret to say this scene marks its peak.

When cruelty enters, and the relationship turns twisted, it remains engaging, but not with the same force as what preceded it. You’re left disappointed that the film can move you so effectively through eroticism yet fails to sustain that same emotional charge in its darker passages. When tragedy strikes, you want it to hit with devastating force, but there simply isn’t enough momentum behind it. That’s not to say you feel nothing for the characters; it’s just not quite painful enough. I wanted to leave the cinema broken, emotionally wounded, something previous adaptations have failed to achieve, and something I hoped this one might finally deliver. Some might call that sick or twisted. I’d argue it’s reasonable to want art to devastate you, to shake you from the mundanity of everyday life and make you feel something rare.

Wuthering Heights had the potential to create a lasting impact, and at moments it does — it just doesn’t sustain that power all the way through. The film isn’t perfect, but of all the adaptations I’ve seen, this is by far the most interesting and engaging, even if it didn’t become the provocative, erotic masterpiece I had envisioned.

If Wuthering Heights didn’t already exist as a beloved novel and this were presented as an original story, I doubt it would face the same level of backlash. There seems to be a default obsession among certain audiences to judge an adaptation purely on its faithfulness to the source material. I’d argue films aren’t obligated to replicate a novel with precision. An adaptation should bring something new; otherwise, you might as well direct audiences back to the book. These projects shouldn’t be translation exercises — though, for some, that framework offers an easy target for critique.

Fennell’s conceptual approach is, in itself, deeply interesting. She explained that she set out to create the version of the story she imagined when she first read the novel at fourteen, one that emphasised its sadomasochistic undertones. It was a remembered version that isn’t entirely real, shaped by adolescent imagination, including moments she wished had happened but never did. In that sense, she placed Wuthering Heights in quotation marks. I much prefer this imaginative approach over a strict translation. If there’s something cinema desperately needs, it’s bold, interesting storytelling. It’s just a shame this film doesn’t fully commit to the individuality it so confidently teased before release.

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Sam Raimi has a new film. This is the filmmaker who gave us The Evil Dead series, the original Spider-Man trilogy starring Tobey Maguire, and the 2009 horror film Drag Me to Hell, which had some genuinely strong elements. Since then, though, Raimi hasn’t done much directing. He’s produced a huge number of films, far more than he’s directed, but in terms of directing, his output has been fairly limited.

He returned in 2013 with Oz the Great and Powerful, and in 2022 he gave us Doctor Strange in the Multiverse of Madness. This new film, Send Help, doesn’t deal with existing IP. Instead, this marks Raimi’s return to the big screen with an original story that appears, at least on paper, to move him back toward his horror roots. That alone sounds like a big deal. Sadly, it doesn’t quite play out that way when you actually watch the film.

Unfortunately, Send Help feels more like a job done for cash than a film Raimi was passionate about or desperate to bring to audiences. It’s very reminiscent of Mel Gibson’s Flight Risk (2025). Once again, there was excitement around a respected director returning to the director’s chair after a long absence. But Flight Risk turned out to be a very poor film, one that felt like minimal effort had gone into it. The only conclusion you can really draw from films like this is that they exist primarily as paychecks. Flight Risk was so bad it almost tipped into being comical, though I’m not convinced that was ever the intention. Thankfully, Send Help isn’t quite that bad.

The story centres on a character played by Rachel McAdams, an annoying, socially awkward assistant who works under a boss played by Dylan O’Brien. The two don’t get along at all; he sees her as a bit of a freak. They’re on a business flight that crashes, leaving them as the only two survivors. Stranded on a remote island, they’re forced to survive together, and it’s here that the power dynamics between them shift significantly.

Does this sound familiar? Kind of. It’s essentially a poor man’s version of Triangle of Sadness (2022). That film followed a group of wealthy people on a luxury yacht that sinks, leaving guests and crew stranded on a remote island where the class hierarchy is flipped. Triangle of Sadness focuses on class, while Send Help focuses more on power and workplace hierarchy, but the similarities are hard to ignore.

That said, Send Help strips away the intellectual edge of Triangle of Sadness and presents itself as something easy to digest. The main issue isn’t so much how much it borrows from that film, but whether it offers a satisfying return to Raimi’s signature horror style. Sadly, it doesn’t. The gore has an overwhelming CGI aesthetic, and if any practical effects were used, it certainly doesn’t feel like it. Again, the comparison to Flight Risk feels appropriate. This comes across as something handled with minimal effort. While the gore can be fun at times, it’s not enough to overcome the overwhelming sense of mediocrity.

The story does pick up slightly in the third act, with a few minor surprises that make it more engaging, and there are a handful of laughs. Still, none of this is enough to salvage the film as a whole. The ending has a tone that feels like it’s giving the audience a wink, which personally I don’t like. It feels cheap, much like everything that came before it.

It’s easy to get excited when a respected filmmaker returns to the director’s chair after a long absence. I’m guilty of this myself. I was very excited when I heard Kathryn Bigelow was returning with a new film, A House of Dynamite (2025). But when you watch it, you realise it’s nothing like her previous work. It doesn’t feel like it came from the same filmmaker who gave us Zero Dark Thirty (2012) or The Hurt Locker (2008). Instead, it feels like a disposable Saturday-night Netflix film, something the whole family might throw on after picking up the cheapest brand of popcorn at the local supermarket.

The reminder here is not to get too hasty in building high expectations around the return of these filmmakers. There’s probably a reason they’ve been away so long, and when they do come back, don’t expect them to be operating at the same level they were at their peak.

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Richard Linklater’s Nouvelle Vague is a film about the making of Breathless (1960), and it left me more engaged than Breathless itself. By focusing not on the finished work but on the ideas and philosophy behind its creation, the film tells a story that feels richer than Jean-Luc Godard’s debut.

The film tells the story of Godard as he begins shooting his first feature at the dawn of the French New Wave. Breathless is commonly hailed as one of the most influential films ever made, thanks to its radical attitude in 1960 towards tearing apart conventional filmmaking. Godard ripped up the rulebook by introducing jump cuts, handheld camera work, and the use of natural light, a stark contrast to the polished, studio-bound French productions of the time.

For me, this philosophy and spirit behind Godard’s approach to Breathless is more compelling than the film itself. While I find Breathless satisfying to watch, it isn’t a film I adore, nor would I consider it one of my favourites or among my personal “best of” lists. I admittedly don’t have a great interest in the film, and I wouldn’t describe myself as a fan of Godard’s work overall. I found Alphaville (1965) to be one of the most tedious films I’ve ever watched, and while I admire certain elements of Weekend (1967), I struggle to appreciate any of his works as a complete whole. That being said, I haven’t seen every Godard film, so I may find myself backtracking in the future if I come across one that I genuinely think is brilliant.

Some of you who share similar feelings towards Godard or Breathless or who haven’t engaged with his work at all may understandably feel little appetite to give Nouvelle Vague a chance. However, I would argue that if you’re a cinephile with a deep interest in filmmaking and cinema, this is a film you should absolutely watch, regardless of your feelings towards Breathless itself. Why? Because Nouvelle Vague feels like a love letter to a pivotal moment in film history, when the French New Wave emerged onto the scene. That alone should be of interest to anyone with a passion for cinema.

The dramatisation of this period offers numerous moments that will bring a smile to your face if you’re familiar with the movement. The film features many key figures from the French New Wave, including François Truffaut, Claude Chabrol, Jean-Pierre Melville, and Agnès Varda. One particularly charming sequence occurs when Godard and his crew stumble across Robert Bresson in the middle of shooting Pickpocket (1959).

Beyond the charm of seeing these iconic filmmakers portrayed on screen, the film is most engaging in its conversations about art and the creative process. Godard’s discussions with his friends and colleagues are especially interesting when he reflects on the role fear and terror play in the relationship between an artist and the work they wish to create. If you consider yourself an artist, you’ll likely find these exchanges intellectually stimulating, even without a deep interest in the French New Wave or Godard himself.

Linklater and the wider creative team have executed a work that assures you that this dramatisation was handled with an extremely competent pair of hands. Shot in black and white with a 4:3 aspect ratio, the film’s visual style is deeply woven into the period it explores, reinforcing its sense of time and place. The casting across the board is extremely strong, with each actor convincingly inhabiting the historical figures they portray.

If there’s one criticism to be made, it’s that Nouvelle Vague doesn’t always command your full attention. You’re not completely immersed in every moment, but this is partly due to getting lost in the film’s nostalgia. The themes and ideas encourage reflection, provoking your mind to wander, particularly if you already hold a deep interest in cinema.

Who would have thought that a dramatisation about the making of Breathless could end up being more compelling than the film itself? It’s a reminder that sometimes the story behind the creation of a work can be more fascinating than the artwork the filmmaker ultimately presents.

It’s intriguing to consider how many stories exist behind the camera that we’ve never had the chance to witness. While films like Nouvelle Vague do exist, it wouldn’t be a bad thing if cinema rewarded us with more of these stories, if not purely to entertain, then certainly to inspire.

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No Other Choice didn’t receive any Oscar nominations this year, and I’m not that surprised. I wasn’t particularly eager to see the film. Over time, I’ve grown tired of East Asian genre cinema, especially horror and thrillers, which often include over-eccentric, over-the-top performance styles that feel unnatural to me. That said, this wasn’t always the case. There was a time when I had a genuine interest in these films. Directors like Takashi Miike and Sion Sono were once regular viewing; however, I’ve developed a clear distaste for something I was once fond of.

The last Park Chan-wook film I saw was Decision to Leave (2022). I don’t remember much from it beyond the fact that it involved a detective and a possible romantic connection with a suspect. What I do remember clearly are the impressive visuals, but that isn’t necessarily a positive when the imagery lingers more than the story itself. Because of that experience, I went into No Other Choice with fairly low expectations.

My interest was briefly renewed when I learned the film is based on the novel The Ax by Donald E. Westlake. Westlake also wrote the novel that inspired Point Blank (1967), starring Lee Marvin, which suggested that this adaptation might have more weight behind it than I initially expected.

The film follows a family man who has worked in paper manufacturing for decades. His job defines him. When he is laid off, he attempts to find work elsewhere in the same field but is rejected. Eventually, he decides that the only way to reclaim the career he loves is to eliminate the competition, killing other candidates who stand in his way. On paper, it’s a strong and intriguing premise: a man so devoted to his profession that he’s willing to go to extreme lengths to return to it.

Despite the strength of the premise, I suspect that in a few years I’ll forget most of what happens in No Other Choice, much like Decision to Leave. The issue lies in what feels like missing pieces within the narrative. While we’re repeatedly told that this character is deeply passionate about his craft, we’re never shown convincing evidence of that passion. We’re not given a clear sense of why this particular job means so much to him beyond his desire to get it back. As a result, the film lacks the emotional grounding needed to make his transformation compelling or memorable.

I watched the 2005 French adaptation of The Ax, directed by Costa-Gavras, and found that it suffers from similar issues. In that version, the protagonist turns into a murderer almost instantaneously, which feels abrupt and unconvincing. Although it does try and get around this problem by presenting him as a killer from the start of the film, then working its way back to the start of the narrative. No Other Choice attempts to improve on this by gradually building toward the character’s capacity for violence, showing hesitation early on. While this is an improvement, it still doesn’t fully resolve the core problem of motivation and emotional depth.

No Other Choice also contains the exaggerated performance style I mentioned earlier, particularly the shouting and heightened emotional delivery typical of this genre. The French version avoids this, though its minimal depth arguably creates an even bigger problem. In both cases, the lack of character development ultimately undermines the story.

Unlike Oldboy (2003) or The Handmaiden (2016), this film lacks truly disturbing or unforgettable moments. There is one haunting image involving the disposal of a body, but it isn’t enough to leave a lasting mark. Those earlier films embedded their shock and discomfort directly into the narrative, ensuring they stayed with the viewer long after the credits rolled.

Where No Other Choice undeniably excels is in its visuals. This may well be the best-looking Park Chan-wook film to date. His control over cinematography, editing, and visual composition remains exceptional, and I struggle to think of another director who presents images quite like this. On a technical level, the film is remarkable. However, this strength is also its biggest weakness. Style feels prioritised over story, and while the plot is engaging on paper, the characters leave little emotional impact.

My reaction may be influenced by my fatigue with the performance style common in East Asian genre cinema. However, since the French adaptation shares many of the same structural problems, I can’t help but wonder if the source material itself is partly to blame. While filmmakers aren’t obligated to remain entirely faithful to a novel, audience expectations often push adaptations in that direction.

There’s no denying Park Chan-wook’s technical mastery. Decision to Leave and No Other Choice both demonstrate immense confidence and craft. Yet they’ve left me with surprisingly little interest in where his work is heading. Films like Oldboy and The Handmaiden left a lasting mark because their disturbing, idiosyncratic elements were deeply woven into both their stories and visuals. By contrast, his recent films feel safer and more restrained, as though those riskier qualities have been deliberately softened.

Some people have expressed frustration that No Other Choice wasn’t included in the Oscars conversation this year. Personally, I don’t think the Oscars should be taken too seriously as a reliable marker of artistic prestige; that reputation faded long ago. Still, if a film wants to be part of that conversation, it needs to leave a mark. An element of the film must burn itself into the viewer’s memory. Technical proficiency alone no longer cuts it. The films that endure are the ones remembered for their storytelling, and that’s what I find myself craving most.

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28 Years Later: The Bone Temple is the sequel to 28 Years Later, a film that, while not flawless, stood out as an impressive contribution to British cinema. What made that film memorable was its boldness, particularly its visual style and experimental techniques rarely seen in large-scale British releases.

28 Years Later ended on a provocative note with the introduction of a gang dressed as Jimmy Savile, taking in the young boy, Spike. It was a striking and controversial image, and one I welcomed, even if it felt frustrating that audiences who often criticise artists for exploring difficult terrain seemed comfortable with this particular provocation. As ever, acceptable controversy appears to be selectively applied.

The Bone Temple picks up with Spike’s return and immediately makes its intentions clear. This is not a film primarily about the infected, but about the nature of evil, specifically, humanity’s capacity for it. The infected take a back seat here, and I wouldn’t be surprised if The Last of Us Part II influenced screenwriter Alex Garland with its similar focus on human behaviour rather than monsters.

During an interview, Alex Garland said this film explores the idea of a misremembered past, where society cherry-picks comforting nostalgia while ignoring its darker realities. Jimmy Savile becomes a powerful symbol of this, a figure whose crimes were unknown to the public before the Rage outbreak in 2002, allowing him to retain the image of a national treasure while concealing a horrific reality. Garland contrasts the sense of progress he remembers growing up with what he sees as a cultural regression today, where demagogues and cult leaders employ nostalgia to seduce and manipulate followers.

This is embodied in Jimmy Crystal (Jack O’Connell), the leader of the Savile-inspired gang. The film opens with a brutal scene in which Spike is forced to fight another gang member with a knife. It’s an early sequence I won’t spoil, but it efficiently establishes the group’s cruelty, and the violence only escalates as the film progresses.

The film’s brutality is reminiscent of the New French Extremity movement, unafraid to linger in deeply uncomfortable territory. The group’s indifference to their victims and the lack of empathy shown during their most harrowing acts is genuinely disturbing. Yet this is not violence for its own sake; it serves the film’s intelligent and focused examination of evil.

Running parallel to this storyline is the return of the lone doctor from the first film, played by Ralph Fiennes. He develops a fascination with an Alpha infected named Samson, supplying him with morphine as part of an experiment that evolves into a strangely humorous relationship. Though this subplot initially feels disconnected, it eventually intersects with the Jimmy’s narrative, reinforcing the film’s central concern with the nature of evil.

The Bone Temple establishes itself as an intellectual and philosophical film through its main subject matter, far more so than any previous entry in the series. It’s arguably the most interesting installment yet.

Despite its heavy themes, the film is also surprisingly fun. There’s humour woven throughout, and the overall tone feels closer to a spin-off than a direct sequel. It doesn’t feel like a plot that naturally follows the events of the first film, but rather a separate story that exists within the same world, despite the return of familiar characters. Where the first film felt bold because of its filmmaking, The Bone Temple feels bold because of its narrative direction.

British cinema feels exciting again here. And despite Garland’s critiques of nostalgia, there’s a satisfying throwback to the brutal horror of the 2000s, films like Hostel (2005) and Wolf Creek (2005), where violence was visceral and uncompromising.

Is the film political? To a degree, yes, particularly in its surprising ending, which is more on the nose. But for those wary of politics being shoehorned into modern cinema, this is not an extreme case, and it never distracts from the film’s considerable strengths.

Ultimately, 28 Years Later: Bone Temple is a challenging, provocative, and confident piece of filmmaking, and a great way to kick off 2026.

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Before I reveal my top 10 films of 2025, I should begin by stating that this year has been, without question, the worst I’ve ever experienced for cinema. Normally, when compiling a top 10 list, one selects films that are not just good but that make a meaningful contribution to the art form. This year, I have been forced into a rather sad position: I am picking films that are merely good, but by no means significant. Only one film genuinely blew me away. Only one. But before I get to that, an honourable mention is necessary for the most interesting film of the year.

Honourable mention: Eddington

Last year, I awarded my honourable mention to Joker: Folie à Deux (2024), but this year it goes to Ari Aster’s Eddington. This is the same director who gave us Hereditary (2018) and Midsommar (2019). But this is no horror film. It is a dark satire that revisits 2020: the year of COVID & Black Lives Matter. It received a fair amount of criticism upon release, likely because some expected it to “take sides.” But if you pull yourself out from the culture war battlefield, you’ll find that it isn’t a film about picking sides or delivering a lecture, but rather it is a portrait of a country hurtling towards a dark future.

I suspect that in years to come, Eddington will be revisited as a historical snapshot, a warning about where we are heading. The film presents a bleak outlook on the future, but does so with intelligence. I wouldn’t underestimate the importance of this cinematic entry in history.

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10: Companion

Kicking off the top 10, we have Companion. This film was a pleasant surprise. Initially, one might dismiss it as a standard mainstream release, lacking franchise potential or blockbuster ambitions. Yet it deploys what I call “the plot switch”, a narrative technique seen in films like Barbarian (2022) or Strange Darling (2023). The first 15–20 minutes are unremarkable, but then the story pivots in a direction entirely unexpected, and in doing so, becomes far more compelling than the opening promised.

Unlike films that shift genre midway, such as From Dusk Til Dawn (1996), Companion maintains its original identity but just changes its trajectory. The less you know going in, the more effective this is; anything revealed in advance risks spoiling the surprise.

9: Dreams

Number nine is Dreams, written and directed by Michael Franco, and starring Jessica Chastain. She portrays a woman from a wealthy American family embroiled in a twisted relationship with a Mexican immigrant at a ballet academy funded by her family. I will avoid detailing the story’s darker developments, as they are best experienced unspoiled. What is deeply interesting is the film’s approach to storytelling. It refuses to allow ideology to dictate the narrative. Instead, the characters themselves drive the story.

Lionel Shriver, author of We Need to Talk About Kevin, said in a podcast a couple of years ago that stories are always rigged to prefer the immigrant as the “winning character”. Dreams resist this tendency. It does not present simplistic “good” and “bad” figures, nor does it chase politically correct conclusions, but instead allows characters to respond authentically to their individual situations. It shows every human’s capacity to become a monster. The most interesting films are those where the characters are in the driver’s seat of the story, rather than an activist writing the screenplay or standing behind the camera.

8: Weapons

Number eight is Weapons, the latest from Zach Cregger, director of Barbarian (2022). I approached this film with high expectations. It begins with a compelling mystery: children go missing at 2 a.m., and no one knows where they have gone. The premise sparks the imagination, and there are genuinely frightening moments; however, the revelation was disappointing.

In a podcast called Script Apart, Cregger discussed the influence of David Lynch’s approach to storytelling: allowing the subconscious to lead, embracing mystery, and trusting intuition rather than over-planning. This philosophy shapes Weapons, which takes us to interesting but sometimes bizarre places. That’s not necessarily a bad thing, but some events didn’t feel logically justified. A story that leaves space for the audience's imagination best thrives when there is sufficient internal logic to the world presented to us, but that standard is only partially met here.

7: The Naked Gun

Number seven is The Naked Gun. When this was announced, I was excited because I love Liam Neeson. I foresaw his ability to thrive in a comedic role such as this in the Taken films. These films have the intention of being serious; however, there is some slight amusement in Neeson’s performance playing this badass old guy seeking revenge and succeeding against the odds. The Taken films were so successful, he ended up playing pretty much the same character in other films, such as Non-Stop (2014), The Commuter (2018), The Ice Road (2021), and Cold Pursuit (2019). It ended up being its own genre, what I call the “Liam Neeson action film”. And now here comes along a film he stars in, which is meant to be funny, where he really embraces the role.

I haven’t laughed like that at a film in a long time. However, some of the praise was exaggerated. If released a decade ago, it wouldn’t have caused much of a stir. But in today’s cultural climate, where comedy is often censored or restrained, it felt refreshing, like receiving a small joy after deprivation.

6: Lurker

Number six is Lurker, a film about a lonely guy who manages to insert himself into the circle of a popular singer. His desperation to get closer to the star results in him being pushed away, resorting to twisted measures to ensure he doesn’t return to his mundane life before entering the world of fame. This was a difficult film to watch because it exposes uncomfortable truths about fame, ambition, and desire. The process of witnessing this journey is one of great discomfort; however, its pacing hooks you in for the entire duration.

The soundtrack is highly competent, and the original songs for the character’s pop career are convincingly executed. It’s directed and written by Alex Russell, who was behind the TV series The Bear. I haven’t seen the series, but I’m curious to check it out and eager to see what this filmmaker delivers in the future.

5: 28 Years Later

Number five is 28 Years Later, a long-awaited sequel to 28 Days Later (2002). Danny Boyle returns as director, with Alex Garland writing the screenplay. I don’t think many people were asking for this sequel, but it successfully re-emerges the franchise. It provides nostalgia for the 2000s (the last decade when cinema was thriving) and showcases the potential of British cinema with examples of bold and experimental filmmaking.

The film embraces a strong sense of identity, another aspect that British cinema often lacks against the French and the Americans, as it deeply connects to the region in which the story takes place, that being the north east of England. We’re provided with a competent story; however, it doesn’t reward us with deep meaning or emotion. The conclusion sets up a sequel that appears to explore provocative territory, which we can only hope is as interesting as what’s been teased.

You can watch or read my review of 28 Years Later: The Bone Temple this coming Friday!

4: Sirat

Number four is Sirat, the most disturbing film of the year. Watching it feels like being trapped in hell, but that’s not a bad thing in this case. Some of the best cinematic experiences can be those that display the power to provoke huge discomfort through images and sound alone.

The film is about a father and his son who travel into the Moroccan desert and join a group of hippies searching for his missing daughter. Very bad events follow, which I won’t go into to preserve the element of surprise and the ability to be disturbed. Sirat is truly impressive filmmaking and a great example of uncomfortable cinema.

3: Bugonia

Number three is Bugonia, the new film from Yorgos Lanthimos, who seems to have reached the sweet spot of incorporating his signature arthouse style while satisfying mainstream audiences. It focuses on two men who kidnap a woman who is a well-known CEO because they are convinced she’s an alien. This film highlights the comedic talent of Emma Stone, who is hilarious in this role. I came away more convinced that comedy performance is truly embodied in her DNA.

It’s worth stressing that although this ranks so highly in the top 10, it’s by no means Lanthimos’ best film, nor is it an outstanding contribution to cinema despite being an enjoyable ride. During a year that hasn’t been this poor, I’d normally place a film of this quality between 8-10 in ranking; however, the releases in 2025 didn’t give us much to work with. Just don’t go away expecting an experience of high calibre with this one.

2: Black Bag

Number two is Black Bag, the latest from Steven Soderbergh, teaming up with screenwriter David Koepp, who worked with the director on the horror film Presence (2024). But this time, we’re presented with a smart British spy thriller with Michael Fassbender starring as a spy, seeking a traitor who is suspected to be his wife (Cate Blanchett). The film is intelligent, meticulous, and elegant in its execution. Every scene is purposeful; even mundane actions, like cooking a meal, are directed with precision. There is a moment where the plot gets a bit complex; however, this resolves naturally as the drama between the characters returns to the forefront.

While Black Bag is perfectly satisfying, it's by far a work that stands out as something to get excited about. Even if it is the second-best film of 2025, British cinema still has a long way to go to persuade audiences that it matches the same calibre as America and France, but Soderbergh and Koepp at least contribute a work that demonstrates a fine use of the resources available within the nation.

1: After The Hunt

At number one, and the best film of the year, is After the Hunt. Some may be surprised by its placement given the slaughter of criticism it received, but much of that backlash had little to do with the film’s artistic merit. Instead, it was aimed at the themes and conversations the film dares to explore subjects that have largely been avoided in cinema for the past decade. We’ve been living in a period where filmmaking has played it safe, shaped by a culture unwilling to engage with controversy. That’s why it was refreshing to see screenwriter Nora Garrett and director Luca Guadagnino take such a clear risk with this story.

The film follows a philosophy professor at Yale, played by Julia Roberts, who is confronted by a female student reporting that she has been sexually assaulted by another teacher, played by Andrew Garfield. Roberts’ character, however, is burdened by a dark secret that is gradually revealed. She must navigate the tension between being a supportive lecturer and remaining loyal to a colleague accused of a serious crime. The university setting is crucial, using debate and conversation to interrogate subjects that are often treated as morally settled within academic spaces. As the story unfolds, the tension between the characters builds toward an explosive and deeply interesting revelation about Roberts’ character.

After the Hunt excited me because it feels like a genuine step forward, away from a culture that drains the enjoyment from exploring difficult or controversial terrain. Too often, cinema has been bullied by activists into serving as a vehicle for “positive social values,” reducing art to a form of social engineering and political messaging. This politics-dominated approach has discouraged risk-taking and left much of the past decade creatively flaccid. While the film isn’t perfect, there are minor missteps, such as an odd decision involving a photograph hidden under a bathroom sink; these flaws don’t undermine its power. Guadagnino remains one of the best filmmakers currently working, and if this film is any indication, his future work, including his adaptation of American Psycho, will have the courage to embrace cinema that dares again.

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But where are Sinners, Marty Supreme, and One Battle After Another?

Now, some of you may be wondering why this list is missing the films that have been called the “best of a generation” this year. I didn’t like Sinners very much at all. While a cool concept was presented, the film struggled to create an engaging story around it. One Battle Another Another may have displayed the technical mastery of director Paul Thomas Anderson, but it failed to provide characters you could emotionally engage with, doing a disservice to an interesting plot. While Marty Supreme provided much more more interesting characters with good performances, the themes and subject matters presented weren’t of great interest to me.

I believe these films have been called generational masterpieces by many because we’ve been deprived of the heights of great cinema for the last ten years (at least). And when some works that are filmed with high technical competence come along, such as these titles, people get swept up in a social contagion where they convince themselves these are the films that will go down in history as “the greats” from this time in history. The truth is, none of these films will be spoken about past 2026. They aren’t bad films, just not generational masterpieces.

There’s nothing wrong with acknowledging that the art form has suffered a blow and that we’re unfortunately living in a time where cinema isn’t as exciting as it used to be. Weak culture produces weak art. But we will move past this, and I believe we are currently witnessing the last years of it. As Oskar Schindler said in Schindler’s List (1993), “Some day, this is all going to end, you know”.

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Now, as we’re halfway through the 2020s, we’re still enduring the leakage of woke horror. Franchises from the decade of glory, such as Saw, have reemerged with new entries in the last few years to capitalise on the cry out for nostalgia from audiences familiar with the 2000s. However, while Saw X (2023) rewarded us with glimpses of this nostalgia, it wasn’t a strong enough dose to persuade us that horror would become ‘fun’ again. Final Destination Bloodlines leads to the same conclusion. However, its spectacular opening scene delivers as close as we can get to experiencing that feeling we got from the 2000s. And just solely because of that, it is worth a cinema trip.

A young couple take a trip to the brand new opening of a space needle-style restaurant in the sky, where the man gets down on one knee and proposes, and the woman announces she’s pregnant. The future looks so hopeful and bright for this couple, until it's not. The signature red flags from the franchise appear when the young woman, Iris, realises something is not quite right as she becomes hyper alert of the danger that might follow from being over 600 feet in the sky. It turns out the construction of the building was completed earlier than expected, and it doesn’t take much damage for the whole thing to fall apart, leading to the death of everyone involved. The catastrophe in the sky is possibly Final Destination's best extravaganza of death yet. Characters' deaths are highly sensational, the violence escalating into even more ridiculous territory than what came before it. The laughter you endure from this high-quality entertainment fills you with joy, as it feels you’ve been permitted to have fun again with the genre.

Despite the rewarding opening, it kicks us off on a journey in which the deaths that occur later down the line struggle to top or even match the spectacle we begin with. While we are presented with impressive creativity involving an MRI scanning machine and a garbage truck, it doesn’t quite match the shocking hilarity of the gymnast in Final Destination 5 (2011), who swung to her death, breaking her body in half. Such a strong opener sets up Bloodlines on a downward trajectory, failing to live up to the high standard it set at the start. Story and character fail to compensate, but you may be a fool to have high expectations in this area with a franchise that's built its reputation entertaining its audience with a parade of death.

To give us confidence, or at least comfort us with the expectation that this current wave of diluted horror is on its way out, Bloodlines would have needed to deliver an experience where the adrenaline was consistent throughout to make a big enough impact to influence a change in direction for the genre. While that change will inevitably come, Final Destination is not the saving grace of the times we find ourselves in. Rather than reverting to successful franchises to spawn new creations, what is needed is brand-new IP (intellectual property) that dares to return to the extremes of the genre, watering down on societal critique, and showing the ability to have fun again. These requirements, along with compelling storytelling, may kickstart a brighter future for horror.

Out in UK cinemas now

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Although presenting a different story, familiarity with the original is maintained as we follow another group of young adults who travel to a remote valley to search for a friend who went missing in the area a year ago. Introducing this new set of youngsters is delivered through shockingly bad writing, as the interactions feel cliche and the dialogue feels unnatural and forced. It’s almost as if the bad delivery is purposeful, with the expectation that we’ll find ourselves thrust into a reincarnation of the Scary Movie series as Until Dawn changes its tack to parody. Thankfully, the strange tone doesn’t lead to the route we expect, but what is certain is that something strange is brewing.

Our youngsters find themselves outside in the open air, looking metres ahead at an area where heavy rain falls from the sky, yet they don’t question why they don’t get wet or how such a perplexing scene can exist without shelter. It's clear that the world in which these characters exist is artificial, provoking further speculation about what kind of destination we’re being led into. The bewilderment you experience transforms into stimulation when Until Dawn reveals the reason for the strange occurrence of events thus far.

After being brutally murdered by a lone killer reminiscent of the one in the 2015 tale, our characters find themselves magically resurrected as they start the night all over again. They’re given another chance to try and survive the night, exactly as if they were playable characters in the game, except there is no one behind a controller using skill to ensure their fate. Using the mechanics of the game as the film's premise makes Until Dawn a truly unique film adaptation, as it tries something different compared to the ill-thought-out creativity we’re used to in video game movies.

The film makes the effort to differentiate itself from being a straight-up adaptation even further, as, rather than having the characters avoid missteps, each night they’re resurrected becomes all the more challenging as the environment gets progressively more dangerous. They’re not just dealing with a killer hunting them, but also paranormal forces, memory loss, and even water that makes your insides explode if you drink it. These challenges make Until Dawn a great deal of fun in most parts, enhanced by its sick sense of humour. However, the fun stops when we reach the final act, as we’re forced to conclude the journey by returning to the emotion the plot sets up at the start, the missing friend, the element that was of little to no interest to begin with. It’s at this stage where we’re reminded that no matter the fun they may provide, film adaptations of video games often fail to deliver a story worth our time.

Despite having intriguing stories to work with, such as the Resident Evil franchise, the film adaptations never succeeded in translating the rich source material to cinema. The creative team behind these adaptations seem to follow a pattern of taking a different direction that leads them down the path of decline. Until Dawn surprises us as that new direction leads to an upward trajectory, its unique creativity distracts us from its weaker story elements of character, narrative, and theme for most of the journey. However, to create a truly harmonious work, all of these elements must sync up to match the same level of competency of the plot. While Until Dawn displays some rare strength in the genre, it fails to convince us that video game movies have a hopeful future.

Out in UK cinemas now

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Warfare delivers a bold opening, with our Navy SEALS platoon bonding over the music video for Eric Prydz' Call On Me (2004) in the midst of a war zone. Its energy effectively portrays the contrast of the familiar humanity of these men to the brutality of war that they will inevitably face and be responsible for engaging in. This portrayal of showing something unpleasant about reality through the bonding of erotic music videos from the 2000s is as deep as the thought provocation gets. It's also as energetic as the film gets, despite the explosions and firing of bullets still to come.

Following the opening scene, our journey begins with a slow pace, as the platoon takes control of a multi-story house in Iraq, monitoring the neighbourhood. There’s no central character that we’re introduced to, nor any drama. We’re just sitting there, like the men, waiting for something to happen. Action eventually arrives when a grenade is launched inside the house, provoking the men to attempt to escape the hostile area. However, after an IED explosion results in fatalities and some of the men with life-threatening injuries, the platoon is trapped until further help arrives to assist their exit.

On paper, this may sound like an intense journey to experience, however, no intensity exists on screen. You’re observing the action and violence unfold rather than feeling involved in it. If you were to pinpoint where this lack of immersion may stem from, it would likely be down to having no hero’s journey to embark on. There are no characters that demand our attention, nor do any of them have an arc to follow. The lack of emotional involvement presents a journey to us that feels as though we haven’t been welcomed on.

Warfare’s lacking features are somewhat explained by its unique creation of being a depiction of real-life events, co-directed by war veteran Ray Mendoza, who was directly involved in the conflict. The film insists that its depiction of events is based solely on memory, which would explain a lack of narrative design that we’re used to consuming from cinema, especially when Mendoza refrains from positioning his character as the central focus of the journey. The ambition behind this approach to storytelling is admirable to say the least, along with the graphic detail of death and injury, it’s certainly not a work that’s censorious with its depiction of war. While its dedication to portraying reality in its truest form may satisfy those involved, the same can’t be said for the audience.

We usually associate cinema with immersion, as we escape reality and experience the fascination of getting inside the heads and lives of others. However, this kind of experience can only be achieved through the perspective of the individual. If we were to observe reality while discarding our characteristics, such as judgment and empathy, the experience would be somewhat stale, as without these, we’d be unable to react to the world. The same applies to engaging with a story. Without getting to know the individuals involved, there is little reason to react to the events that occur. This is why Warfare has no soul. It delivers an experience as if the audience were witnessing a crime. You witness the act being committed, yet are ignorant of the circumstances which provoked such an event to occur and the backgrounds of the individuals involved. Our involvement, therefore, can only be met at a certain distance. While Warfare has no obligation to give us insight into those involved or present ideas that stimulate the mind, it would be a mistake to describe the final delivery as immersive.

Out in UK cinemas now

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Ironically, The Amateur turns out to be an amateurish piece of cinema. The kind of film reminiscent of a weekend rental you’d pick up on a whim from Blockbuster in the 2000s, but then discover that it did nothing to enhance your Saturday night. While technically sound, the story elements are as dull as Rami Malek’s charisma. It's a modern action film that takes the revenge formula of competent counterparts such as Taken (2008) and John Wick (2014), yet fails to meet the same standard due to a lack of fury and passion.

Our journey begins with weightless exposition. We’re asked to believe that Heller (Rami Malek) and Sarah (Rachel Brosnahan) are an authentic couple despite no chemistry between them. When Heller is informed that his wife was killed in a terrorist attack in London, rather than reacting as if his world had been torn apart, it is as if he realised that he was going to be late for a concert due to a traffic jam. As a result of this lacklustre reaction, we’re unable to feel the loss of his wife. It’s hard to pinpoint whether this poor attempt at authenticity was down to the performances, directing, writing, or perhaps all are to blame.

Heller informs his bosses at the CIA that he wants to be trained to become a killer so that he can enact revenge on those responsible for his wife's murder. His small physique and lack of masculinity result in mockery from his employers; however, they send him off to be trained by Laurence Fishburne, who also doubts the geeky spy’s competency, insisting he’s unable to make someone who’s not a killer, a killer. Despite the barriers that are presented to him by others, Heller is determined to hunt down Sarah’s killer and reverts to using his skills of intelligence and craft as a substitute for embodying the instinct of a killer.

Heller demonstrates his skill set by delivering a presentation to the CIA on how the terror attack unfolded step by step using surveillance footage. This is the only part of the journey that's truly engaging, as you admire Heller’s competency at telling a story more captivating than the one in which he is the central character. This particular scene is reminiscent of when Bryan Mills (Liam Neeson) in Taken (2008) demonstrates his skill set in being able to track down the individuals who took his daughter. It’s at this point when you wish you were watching Taken rather than The Amateur as you analyse what this particular journey gets wrong.

There were high stakes in Taken as Bryan Mills had only 96 hours to ensure that he’d find his daughter. However, no high stakes exist in The Amateur. With Heller’s wife already dead and no indication that trouble is heading his way, the only drive is revenge. However, this doesn’t mean that this sole driving force inevitably results in poor storytelling. You just have to look at stories such as The Last of Us Part II as fine examples of plots powered solely by revenge that are incredibly immersive. What The Amateur fails to learn from The Last of Us Part II is that you need to make the audience want to seek revenge to create storytelling that is engaging.

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Heller justifies his motivation for revenge by insisting that Sarah “mattered”. That may have been the case for him, albeit not showing it clearly, but she certainly doesn’t matter to us. Perhaps if we witnessed her getting shot in the head, we might be so appalled by the antagonists' brutality that we wish to see a similar fate for them. However, such a moment is censored from us, unable to feel any fury or rage, as you conclude there is no reward for seeing this journey through.

Taken thrived on a fast pace, delivering a highly emotive and intense journey within a comfortable hour-and-a-half running time. The Amateur clocks up two hours of our time, but for no good reason. The action fails to excite, as you wish the deaths were more punchy or violent to compensate for the weak forces of antagonism. The only tension this journey was able to produce is a scene in which Heller has to unpick a lock using a YouTube tutorial video within a matter of seconds as the homeowner is approaching meters away. However, this moment isn’t worth the price of admission.

The technicalities of the plot aren’t too easy to follow as you struggle to comprehend who’s who, or at least fail to keep your attention focused on the details. There is somewhat of an interesting confrontation with the enemy in the final act; however, just when you thought it might lead to something insightful, it falls flat. The film concludes with a message about an individual defying expectations and reaching above their perceived limits, but it fails to hit deep or inspire. No matter which big names are attached to The Amateur, it cannot compensate for dire storytelling that keeps its intentions and emotions at a distance, if there were truly any to begin with.

Out in UK cinemas 11th April

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Death of a Unicorn serves as a demonstration of the weak art that is produced as a result of pandering to Gen Z. A generation that claims to want to be entertained, but not too much to the extent that it may provoke sensory overload. They want violence, but not too much to the extent that it might disturb them. They want something meaningful, but not too much to the extent that it may reveal their vulnerability, provoking them to experience an unpleasant confrontation with life itself. Of course, this is all generalising, but Death of a Unicorn feels as though it treads too carefully, reluctant to lean into its full potential. As a result, the film restricts its audience by appealing to one generation in particular. However, not even Gen Z may dig this platter that has been served especially for them.

Paul Rudd and Jenna Ortega star as our father-daughter duo who, while driving to the estate of a wealthy family to conduct legal work, manage to smash into a unicorn on the road. After Ortega’s character, Ridley, touches the suffering creature’s horn, she undergoes a hallucinogenic experience that transports her into another worldly realm until the father brings it to a halt as he hopelessly bludgeons the unicorn to death. However, once they arrive at the estate, it turns out the creature isn’t dead, only to be put out of its misery a second time. Once the family gets wind of the fact that the beast may be magical, they hire a team of medics to experiment with its biology in the hopes of curing the patriarch's cancer.

The introduction to this journey offers a premise worth getting excited about, as you’re led to presume that a herd of unicorns lurking in the surrounding woods will enact bloodthirsty revenge as they find out that one of their own has been killed. While it somewhat delivers that expectation, it doesn’t lean into the slasher or home invasion subgenres of the horror movie. Instead, it strays away from simplicity, resulting in a journey where genre is all over the place. What we end up with is a family drama supplemented with occasional bursts of horror and fantasy.

When these horror elements do emerge, it all feels restrained. The BBFC warns audiences of strong bloody violence and gore. However, it feels like a stretch to label it as such. Although you can identify the content that resulted in this labelling, the lack of practical effects and heavy reliance on CGI creates horror that feels too artificial to be plausible. You see potential in some of the deaths that characters encounter; however, it feels as though there is a big disconnect between the idea and the competency at execution. It's as though the artists were hesitant to give the gore too much detail or make the violence too much fun. The trouble is that the fun can’t be found elsewhere.

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The plot technicalities of the family drama are somewhat of a struggle to follow due to having to endure the delivery of it through characters that lack any ounce of depth. Each of them feels as though they were secondary to the premise, a necessity to build the elements required for a functioning story. There’s no intensity to this tale as you’re kept away at a distance to observe events unfolding rather than be involved in them. When this tale attempts to introduce emotion during its final act to compensate for the lack of character depth, you’re unable to empathise as the writing gave you no reason to care from the outset. It begs the question whether this is just solely bad writing, or whether the artists were hesitant to involve their target audience too much emotionally to save them from the pain they might endure when tragedy unfolds. Perhaps both.

Not everything is dire in Death of a Unicorn. The film has a dark sense of humour as it provokes genuine laughter in a scene in which our battered and bruised unicorn resurrects. Giving too much detail would spoil the moment; however, you shouldn’t expect moments like this to recur. As there are further efforts to provoke laughter from dark moments, it only manages to land just once. This moment of enjoyment isn’t enough to make the nearly two-hour running time worth enduring. There is nothing deep or meaningful about this journey, or even fun. With the absence of such elements, what you’re left with is a shallow piece of art, with no reward for the observer. This timid approach to creating art that's too conscious of the audience results in a work that is soulless, pleasing no one. More boldness from today's artists is required to create work that is worthwhile. We should start demanding it.

Out in UK cinemas now

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With a trailer that displays the unpleasant but familiar aspects of brain-dead entertainment, which include cheap gags thrown into life-and-death scenarios, over-theatrical reactions, and a general tone of lack of seriousness, expectations for a torturous viewing experience were high. However, Novocaine suspends the arrogance of arriving at what you may think is a reliable critique of a film you haven’t watched. It delivers a surprise that makes you hesitate to pass judgment far too quickly. Yet, calling it a pleasant surprise would be giving Novocaine more praise than it deserves.

Everybody Hurts by R.E.M. playing over the opening credits of a film about a guy who can’t feel pain gives you an immediate taste of the tone you’ll have to endure on this journey. Nate (Jack Quaid) is a bank worker who suffers from nice guy syndrome. It doesn’t take much seduction from a somewhat new female colleague, Shelly (Amber Midthunder), for him to almost immediately fall in love with her. This new romance is brought to an abrupt halt when a gang of thieves dressed up as Santa Claus rob the bank and take Shelly along as their hostage as they escape the scene. With the girl who gave new meaning to his life now in the hands of ruthless criminals, Nate embarks on a journey to save her.

We’ve all had this story told to us many times before: the nice guy must discover his inner strength to fight off his enemies who appear stronger and tougher than he is in order to save the girl. Despite being dressed in the skin of a protagonist who is unable to feel pain, there’s nothing new or fresh that Novocaine has to offer. You’d expect to find the predictability of events somewhat of a bore, but the experience is surprisingly comforting. The story continuously moves at a desirable pace, and no scene feels like a waste, even if there may not be much meat on the bone.

Although you feel content watching this familiar pattern flow by, you’re never deeply immersed in the action. The violence, while punchy, fails to thrill you. The communication between characters lacks daily life authenticity, but it's not something you’re willing to get hung up on. Mass audiences have accepted this unnaturalism for decades. There are plenty of attempts to introduce laughter into the equation; however, it would be a struggle to provoke such a reaction from someone who isn’t so easily pleased. The apparent faults of Novocaine don’t leave a bad taste in the mouth. You can accept its mediocrity rather than hate it.

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It all falls apart ever so slightly in the film's final act, in which the acceptance of mediocrity develops into impatience as a highly over-dramatic battle with the enemy outstays its welcome. It’s at this point where you lose the little interest you may have had in seeing how events unfold and the fate of those involved. While the expectation of events veers off into a different direction during this final chapter with a twist you weren’t quite expecting, this stimulation only lasts for a matter of minutes.

You may give Novocaine credit for exceeding very low expectations and revealing itself to be smarter than it initially appeared, but it doesn’t live up to something that will be remembered or revisited outside of its year of release. It’s a movie that you could attempt to indulge in if you had nothing better to do with your precious time. However, it's probably better spent indulging in something that's likely to enhance your life. No matter where your taste in movies lies, Novocaine certainly isn’t going to do the latter.

Out in UK cinemas now

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Just days before its release, some critics have been swirling around that Disney’s Snow White isn’t as bad as audiences may suspect after the film's star Rachel Zegler suggested we’d be in for a woke makeover of the original picture that she hinted was out of date with modern times. Following the PR disaster, Disney has delayed the film, and undergone reshoots to try and salvage what they predicted would be a box office catastrophe. But no matter how much Disney has tried to morph their work into something that may warm back audiences by reintroducing dwarfs, albeit computer generated, the original intention behind this makeover is still laid bare on the table for all to see. It reveals itself to be everything that is wrong with art in this woeful era we find ourselves stuck in.

As soon as our tale kicks off, it almost instantly leaves a bad taste in the mouth. We’re presented with a backstory that reverses the purpose behind the name of our well-known princess. No, her skin isn’t as white as snow; rather, she was named after being born during a snowstorm. But the change in skin tone isn’t the issue here. There are much deeper problems to be concerned about, such as the loss of elegant music. There are no equivalents to the divine examples of “I’m Wishing” or “Some Day My Prince Will Come”. Instead, these new tunes reek of composition that disregards the opportunity for mastery.

The visuals are too theatrical, leaning on the edge of over-stylisation as black smoke whirls around the queen as she speaks to the mirror. One of the most crucial elements that make the classic Disney animations evoke beauty is their minimalist approach to visual storytelling. However, the artists behind this work reveal that beauty is the least of their interests. You evaluate fairly quickly that the motivation behind Disney’s Snow White isn’t to enrich our youth with art but rather to instruct them.

Throughout the tale, Snow White tries to encourage a vision of a world that functions on the foundations of kindness and fairness. She’s met with opposition from the evil queen who Snow White insists has poisoned the minds of the people into thinking everyone is out for themselves. Ironically this is the attitude of the charming male she falls for, but inevitably she manages to influence him to her way of thinking. The dwarfs are also aligned with this ideal as they reference the queen's “greedy economic policies”. When language such as the latter is introduced, it would be dishonest to suggest that the creators weren’t aware of the theme of activism at play.

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Snow White insists that to change the world we need to have more faith in each other. However, this attitude leads her to take a bite of an apple from a stranger without much persuasion, causing her to fall into a sleeping death. It’s at this point this reimagining of the original 1937 work takes a stark change of direction as the evil queen doesn’t fall to her death after being chased by dwarfs but rather retreats to her palace. It’s also not over once Snow White is awakened by true love’s first kiss, a scene which some doubted would happen judging by Zegler’s disgust at the attitudes of the 1930s. The final act is dedicated to somewhat of a social uprising in which a society of kindness and fairness triumphs over one held by greed and power. While the political intentions are stark, it's the only moment in the film in which the emotions feel authentic to the characters. This along with a new character arc for Dopey, are the only elements of this work that are worth giving credit to.

Disney’s Snow White may symbolise the final nail in the coffin of taking classic tales and reworking them into vehicles of political activism for audiences that would rather indulge in escapism. Perhaps the upcoming live-action remake of Lilo & Stitch will present a different pathway for Disney in which they return to delivering visual storytelling that enriches audiences' lives and their relationship to the art form. Currently, it's not so easy to predict which film will present itself as the start of the turn of the tide and whether that will come as soon as a matter of months. However, when it does come, everyone who went along with this ideological decay of storytelling, will of course pretend that they never fell for the insanity.

Out in UK cinemas now

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Writer-director duo Steven Soderbergh & David Koepp take a sharp change in gear from their paranormal haunting feature Presence to a smart British spy thriller that executes with charm. If you thought that your journey with Presence may have faltered from impatience with its slow pacing and lack of urgency to get things going, Soderbergh and Koepp swiftly reverse that as they deliver a thriller that has its foot pressed firmly on the gas pedal.

Our story opens with a tight over-the-shoulder long take as Michael Fassbender’s character, George smoothly shifts his way through an ambiguous London venue during the night to meet someone out back. This seductive visual technique ends abruptly as his contact reveals that the traitor he is seeking might be his wife. Black Bag values its audience's attention as it wastes no time getting straight to the point as we’re introduced to the plot within just a few minutes. We’re then swiftly transported to George’s house as he prepares dinner for his wife Kathryn (Cate Blanchett) and colleagues to suss out who among them is the liar in a scene that is flavoured with dramatic tension and supplemented by sharp and witty dialogue.

The masterful craft we’re presented with early on in our journey ensures it's not set to depart. Black Bag remains consistent with its intelligence. Soderbergh directs every scene with precision, transforming the most basic visual storytelling such as cooking a meal into something worth paying attention to. During the first dinner scene, Soderbergh occasionally cuts to angles that capture the event as though we’re witnessing it from the perspective of hidden cameras. Although visually unfamiliar, Soderbergh ensures that a technique as minimal as this is one of high importance, serving a purpose behind everything he conducts.

Koepp rewards our time with seductive lines such as when George is watching Kathryn undress she says “I can feel you’re watching me”. George apologises yet Kathryn responds with “I like it”. As George plays a game with his guests at dinner to provide him with clues of whom the deceiver is, he says to Kathryn “That was the rock, now I watch the ripples”. Tom Burke delivers the most killer line among them all “This is the most boring thing you’ve done hands down”. While this provides more context to understand the witt, it would be a disservice to spoil what provokes it.

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The high-stakes tension presented at the first dinner follows through in stand-out scenes such as when George only has only a couple of minutes to find out what Kathryn is up to in Europe as he spies on her remotely via surveillance albeit forbidden. Likewise, when he later conducts a lie detector test on his spy colleagues as each of them tries to outwit him, showing convincing signs that any of them could be the traitor we’re hunting.

Evidently, there is much to praise about Black Bag, however, the technicalities of the plot may outsmart our ability to keep up with following it with clarity. Just when you think the complications may embark you on a downward path, you’re then saved by the intensity of drama between our characters. It also maintains the ability to surprise even when you think that you’re being led to a weak climax, which is anything but the sort. While Black Bag is perfectly satisfying, it's by far a work that stands out as something to get excited about. Even if it is the best film of the year so far as we speak in March of 2025. British cinema still has a long way to go to persuade audiences that it matches the same calibre as America and France, but Soderbergh and Koepp at least contribute a work that demonstrates a fine use of the resources available within the nation.

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After his historic best picture win at the Oscars for Parasite, you may think that the anticipation for Bong Joon-ho’s next film would be soaring among cinephiles. Yet, no such excitement made its way into the atmosphere. It was almost as if something in the air was warning us that what we were about to be served would be far from the competence of his former work, even if we’d been waiting over half a decade. That something in the air would prove to be right. While Parasite was crafted with award-winning prestige, Joon-ho’s sci-fi follow-up Mickey 17 takes a bumpy detour towards political satire that mimics the same overindulgence as Greta Gerwig’s insufferable Barbie.

Robert Pattinson plays Mickey, who out of ignorance, signs up to become an expendable on a colonisation mission that grants the company permission to kill him multiple times to carry out ‘necessary’ experiments. Mickey is granted the pleasure of living again as the company produces multiple copies of his body, taking the count up to eighteen. The seventeenth production of Mickey survives what the company predicted would be a gruelling death from a ‘mother creeper’, taking the form of an intimidating gigantic worm surrounded by her miniature offspring. As Mickey 17 heads back to base, he discovers that the company wasted no time creating the eighteenth version of himself, leaving him to fight for his survival as this time he’s decided he isn’t willing to die.

It’s worth acknowledging that Mickey 17 delivers a strong first hour into the journey we’re committing ourselves to. It rewards us with something interesting: the exploration of our confrontation with death. This stimulation is enhanced further by the affection we feel towards Pattinson’s character due to his frailty and tortured soul that seeks to please those around him at the expense of his own life. It’s a good job Pattinson’s performance is so compelling as it’s the only redeeming feature alongside the adorable ‘creepers’ that we have to carry us into the bizarre remaining hour and twenty minutes.

The intrigue is stalled when Joon-ho turns up the political satire to a deafening volume as the audience is spoon-fed with references to the politicians and public figures that exist in our own reality. In favour of leaning into commentary, Joon-ho abandons the essential cinematic elements that made Mickey 17 so engaging. While Parasite didn’t shy away from expressing its critique of capitalism, character and narrative still remained the priority as the driving force. Joon-ho reverses this in Mickey 17, placing commentary and theme in the driving seat just like Gerwig did with Barbie in which both works suffer a lack of authenticity in both the characters and the worlds these artists have created. Still, the success of the film may have displayed that mass audiences don’t mind being fed ideology in the guise of art, as long as they agree with it of course.

What I couldn’t help reflecting on while suffering through the latter half of Mickey 17 was what are the defining works of cinema in the millennium we find ourselves in now? Which works in the last decade in particular leave behind characters that could live on throughout the generations of viewers? Where are our Ripley’s, Clarice Starling’s, and Lester Burnham’s? Which films are our Rocky or Taxi Driver? Unfortunately, Joon-ho can’t provide any of these answers, nor has any hope of creating them.

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Pamela Anderson doesn’t quite shine as bright as others across the critique board are suggesting in her big-screen revival. The return of a star can’t salvage mediocre filmmaking and a weak screenplay. The Last Showgirl presents itself as a painful bore-fest for most of its duration. However, there is some slight magic to this tale, albeit if it reveals itself all too late.

We start this story seeing Shelly (Anderson), a middle-aged, near-retirement showgirl prepare backstage surrounded by younger counterparts. Our eyes don’t have access to the performance but are only granted exposure to the before and after happenings in the dressing room. You wonder why we’re being concealed from sights that we feel we should have access to. However, the reason for this becomes clear if you are patient enough to see it through to the film's third act.

What we are clear of in the beginning however is that Shelly doesn’t have much of a life. Outside of work, she spends her time in the company of her manager who also happens to be her ex, as well as Annette (Jamie Lee Curtis), a friend who always has a drink in her hand yet evokes the same impression that she too has no reason to worry about spending the passing of time in the shallow.

There’s not much on offer to entice our attention with. So far we’re presented with what appears to be a sad portrait of a middle-aged woman, surrounded by equally miserable individuals who cling to the excitement of their youth but struggle to find any spark, as deep within they conclude there is no revival of the lifestyle that offered them ecstasy earlier in life.

Later on, Shelly finds out the show she has performed for thirty decades is drawing to a close, yet even this revelation isn’t enough to pull you in. Things start to perk up ever so slightly when Shelley’s daughter enters the scene. The mother and daughter relationship is broken but it's not clear yet why. However, it's the only source of intrigue that the story has offered us thus far.

After enduring an hour’s worth of boredom, the remaining duration introduces us to something that's finally worthy of our attention. The Last Showgirl reveals itself to be a story of deep-seated pain, an individual's confrontation with the uncomfortable truth of reality following decades of residing within a delusion. However, this satisfaction doesn’t redeem the journey we’ve encountered. While the introduction of pain can significantly enhance mediocre journeys such as Anora, The Last Showgirl doesn’t match the significant punch Sean Baker and Mikey Madison delivered.

What’s left behind is a mediocre tale that could have been so much more interesting, if only the screenplay had been worked on more, and if the director hadn’t conducted a piece that was reminiscent of a final-year student’s graduation piece in film school. However, it’s a very fitting piece in the dying era of modern cinema, where we’re offered works that play it far too safe, presenting its intentions with soft care. But ultimately what this era suffers with the most is complacency among filmmakers, knowing they can get away with delivering works to an audience that's built a reputation of timidity, sensitivity and worst of all, a complete ignorance of the purpose of art. Works like The Last Showgirl are a fine reminder of why this stale movement should face an immediate death in order to reignite engagement with the art form.

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The Monkey may start off with a bang in a highly entertaining opening scene that gives us a taste of the comedic death traps that would make Final Destination blush, but the drama that takes place later down the line doesn’t match the entertainment value of the horror. What you begin to conclude is that this tale would be better off up taking a compilation format of the most creative ways to die rather than have us endure a story that lacks any emotional engagement to force us to care.

Osgood Perkins follows up his 2024 audience smash hit Longlegs with an adaptation of Stephen King’s 1980 short story The Monkey. The lack of seriousness in Longlegs ended up ruining its potential to be something greater than it was, but Perkins leans in and goes full throttle on comedy in his latest work. It’s highly effective at provoking laughter amongst its audience as we witness some of the most ridiculous ways to die captured in cinema. However, while the craft of the comedy may have been paid special attention to, the same can’t be said for the story.

The Monkey follows the journey of two twin brothers as they discover a toy that kills loved ones, or at least those that are close by, at random when they twist the handle positioned on its back to provoke it to play its musical instrument which leads to a gruesome death. After the death of a babysitter, an uncle and their mother, the young brothers disband the killer toy down a well only to be haunted by it twenty-five years later.

While this premise may sound promising, especially coming from the source material of Stephen King, the adaptation and execution is at least mediocre. Although there’s many factors that may encourage us to care such as sibling rivalry, the bullied child and the confrontation of our own mortality, the drama feels secondary to the comedic gore and as a result, feels soulless. Each time we take a break from the horror to endure the progression of the story, there’s a growing sense of impatience to be thrust back into the killing.

You may argue that the slasher film suffers the same effect of story being secondary to what we all really came here for (the slashing). However, an important ingredient that improves the quality of such work is the element of atmosphere, and The Monkey has none of it. There is no ounce of seriousness to this work where an atmosphere of tension could thrive. The comedic tone throughout could be considered as almost slapstick. This isn’t an argument for the work to tone down on what it does best, but rather a realisation that this could have served more effectively as a compilation short film rather than having to waste our precious time seeing Perkins stretch this out into a feature concept with a lack of care.

Perkins appears to be building a reputation of being Gen Z’s horror godfather, delivering storytelling that panders to an observer that has little interest in intelligence or depth, but merely art that is the equivalent of seal clapping. The filmmaker seems to be shitting out films like there’s no tomorrow with his next horror tale Keeper set for release in time for Halloween season later this year. I wonder whether this rush-filmmaking trajectory may be the reason why The Monkey feels so bare in weight, and judging by the sneak peek of Keeper, I suspect it will suffer the same fate. If so, Perkins is not the next horror mastermind, even if Gen Z claim differently.

Out in UK cinemas now

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The new Bridget Jones film kicks off as if we were watching an IKEA commercial as Bridget frantically tries to control a hectic single-mom household captured by cinematography with no art to it. This was a bad starting point with no signs that it would improve with cheap gags, and an edge of fluffiness within the first fifteen minutes. But surprisingly we travel on an uphill trajectory once Bridget is thrust on a mission to find a new man. You suddenly begin to feel that there’s something sickly enjoyable about all the elements that left a bad taste in your mouth prior to settling into the experience.

Bridget is set up on Tinder to find love as a widow, however, the man she’s been searching for appears in front of her eyes on Hampstead Heath as he offers to help her children get down from a tree. Fascinated by this new prospect of shagging someone twenty-two years younger, there’s also a different kind of tension growing between her and the children's science teacher.

There’s a certain magic to Briget Jones that could even seduce a serious cinephile into falling for it. There is no obvious formula or explanation as to why it has this effect, but there's a charm that creates a sense of comfort within the spectator. This charm can even allow you to forgive moments where boredom exists. It also allows you to accept the numerous events that don’t quite match the expectations of reality because what you’re witnessing is enjoyable.

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An example that springs to mind is a scene taking place at a garden party where Bridget accidentally drops a miniature dog into the pool and her toyboy appears from nowhere, jumps in to save the poor thing who isn’t exactly drowning. Walking out of the pool dripping wet with the dog cradled against his muscly torso, spectators gorp at this beautiful stranger who then takes Bridget in his arms and lays a dramatic kiss in front of her envious friends. This scene is a bit ridiculous and exaggerated, but it’s entertaining and amusing, and that’s all that is required sometimes.

This is a classic stay-at-home on-the-weekend film, however, it’s not perfect. An hour-and-a-half run time would have hit the sweet spot rather than having it drag to a two-hour runtime. There’s still unfinished business that needs to be addressed at what would be the desired sweet spot, but the comfort and satisfaction turn into impatience as we wait for loose ends to be tied up. The loose ends being the most uninteresting aspect of the story. Conveniently mirroring the opening of the film, you’re again reminded of the low-calibre artistic elements as the near-end resembles a John Lewis Christmas ad. However, you’re only reminded of the faults as the story weakens its grip on you. It’s a fine reminder that ultimately what saves a feature-length film is story, and Bridget Jones just slightly misses the mark of ensuring your engagement lasts until the end.

Out in UK cinemas now

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