Black and Rudd in a Jeep looking flustered: "We are two wild and crazy guys!"

Anaconda (2025)

*/****
starring Paul Rudd, Jack Black, Steve Zahn, Thandiwe Newton
written by Tom Gormican & Kevin Etten
directed by Tom Gormican

by Walter Chaw The pitch must’ve sounded like: “Picture it! Tropic Thunder, but for Congo. A mashup of Jungle Cruise and Three Amigos! in the tradition of Spies Like Us!” Or, more likely, given how sloppy and unaware it is for a “meta” comedy, the entire pitch went: “We got Jack Black.” Would that they had a script, too. Would that it were actually as funny and imaginative as a sequel to Anaconda that acknowledges Anaconda is a movie promises instead of an awkward redux of Wild Hogs somehow: same aging cast and weird Latino panic, just more CGI snake and desperate improv–all of it adding up to something equally listless and dull. Is it a millennial nostalgia grab for the generation reared on Never Been Kissed and High Fidelity? Is it their turn already? Has this been going on for a while? Once it starts slipping, it’s astonishing to mark how quickly one’s cultural relevance circles the drain. Before Anaconda, I also hadn’t considered Jack Black and Paul Rudd to be in the last act of their respective careers, but here we are: Old men cashing a check drawn against shtick they’ve been milking for almost thirty years. This is the “me so solly” routine Krusty should have retired in the 1950s. There’s a layer of dust on it about an inch thick.

Ben Whishaw lounging in bed and smoking: Marmalade and cigarettes, baby

Peter Hujar’s Day (2025)

***/****
starring Ben Whishaw, Rebecca Hall
screenplay by Ira Sachs, based on the book Peter Hujar’s Day by Linda Rosenkrantz

directed by Ira Sachs

by Angelo Muredda Celebrated New York portrait photographer Peter Hujar becomes the subject of a distinctive portrait himself in Ira Sachs’s Peter Hujar’s Day, a gentle, minor-key experiment in memorializing the everyday. Anchored by a puckish performance from Ben Whishaw, who spends most of the time platonically seducing his interrogator–Hujar’s friend, author Linda Rosenkrantz (Rebecca Hall)–and, by extension, the spectator listening in like a fly on the wall, the film lovingly recreates not a day in Hujar’s life but his languid recalling of it the day after.

Jennifer Lawrence holding a baby while sitting on a porch with Robert Pattinson: "Little JD here just loves the couch for some reason"

Die My Love (2025) + Keeper (2025)

DIE MY LOVE
***½/****
starring Jennifer Lawrence, Robert Pattinson, LaKeith Stanfield, Sissy Spacek
screenplay by Enda Walsh & Lynne Ramsay and Alice Burch, based on the novel by Ariana Harwicz
directed by Lynne Ramsay

KEEPER
***½/****
starring Tatiana Maslany, Rossif Sutherland, Birkett Turton, Eden Weiss
written by Nick Lepard
directed by Osgood Perkins

by Walter Chaw A woman’s body is the battleground we savage, collateral damage in the litigation of collective fear: battered, bloodied, stripped of dignity and individuality. Every religion is founded on the control of it, and most secular bans are, too. A woman is blamed for our knowledge of good and evil, a woman’s beauty for the Trojan War. The opening of a woman’s “box” unleashes all the evils of the world. It is the incubator of our anxieties, the beginning and the end, the salvation and the sin. Her body is the rich, fertile black of the richest loam, and when blood and semen fall upon it, monsters grow. It’s always a trap, and very seldom a person; always a fatale, never merely a femme. It is the Grail, and men, the knights errant in thrall to it. Small wonder that so many of our horror films are about a woman’s body and the florid, manifold violations men visit upon it. More still are about women proving both stronger and stranger than men could ever begin to imagine. No wonder the malleability of flesh, the perverse elasticity of skin, like a scrim stretched between states of being, is where we centre our notions of identity and nurse our fetishistic fascinations. We magnify and romanticize their difference. We make a woman’s body an object of worship, a golden calf that, if we regard it as such, suddenly becomes the core of four of the ten Old Testament Christian Commandments instead of only three. Six, if we also consider her body property to be coveted and stolen.

Bald white Emma Stone leashed around the neck and wrists

Telluride ’25: Bugonia

**½/****
starring Emma Stone, Jesse Plemons, Aidan Delbis, Alicia Silverstone
screenplay by Will Tracy, based on the screenplay by Jang Joon-hwan
directed by Yorgos Lanthimos

by Walter Chaw I don’t know what it’s like to come to Yorgos Lanthimos’s Bugonia fresh, given that it’s a remake of Jang Joon-hwan’s gonzo, lacerating Save the Green Planet!, a film about wild conspiracy theories and the people who drink deep from them that seemed considerably more novel in 2003 than it does in 2025. Now, some pathetic incel white supremacist dufus doing a terrorism is a weekly–soon to be daily–occurrence, making Bugonia a lot like Ari Aster’s Eddington: too late to be a warning and too directionless to offer solutions. What is it, then? Well, it’s sort of like Idiocracy, if Idiocracy came out today instead of 20 years ago, when it was a terrifying prophecy of unusual prescience. I guess the proper term for this exercise would be “past its sell-by date,” but what I think it is, mostly, is a very fine vehicle for Jessie Plemons and possibly a test of how close we are to Lanthimos and Emma Stone finally pushing their luck a little too far and launching themselves into the land of the terminally overexposed. I love that they continue to inspire each other and stuff, though their collaboration is starting to feel like a party where everyone else has left and I have to work in the morning, you guys, please.

TIFF ’25: The Fence

TIFF ’25: The Fence

***/****
starring Isaach De Bankolé, Matt Dillon, Mia McKenna-Bruce, Tom Blyth
screenplay by Claire Denis, Suzanne Lindon, and Andrew Litvack, based on Black Battles with Dogs by Bernard-Marie Koltès
directed by Claire Denis

By Angelo Muredda A sparsely populated construction site in West Africa becomes the locus of a nocturnal power struggle between Black labourers, white occupiers, and the land that rejects the latter like a virus in Claire Denis’s The Fence, an eerie postcolonial thriller where the subaltern not only speaks but compels, standing at the gate of the white occupiers’ ill-acquired homes and enterprises. Adapted from French writer Bernard-Marie Koltès’s 1979 play Black Battles with Dogs, the film comfortably slots into Denis’s oeuvre alongside her earlier works examining the uneasy presence of white settlers in Africa, even as its commitment to the symbolically freighted, dialogue-heavy text makes it, to its detriment, talkier than her usual work. Although it often threatens to devolve into a stilted filmed play, The Fence thrums along to its own strange rhythm on the strength of its magnetic cast, a quartet of polarized opposites bumping into one another in close-quarters, and Denis’s sensitivity to the particular sensory experiences of her characters, each feeling acutely out of place in an uncanny space that one longtime settler assures a new arrival is “very real.”

J-Lo with an intact horse

The Cell (2000) [Limited Edition] – 4K Ultra HD

***/**** Image A- Sound A Extras A+*
starring Jennifer Lopez, Vince Vaughn, Vincent D’Onofrio, Marianne Jean-Baptiste
written by Mark Protosevich
directed by Tarsem Singh

by Walter Chaw It’s a collision of travel-worn ideas, this movie–a tired serial-killer thriller married to Dreamscape–and the wear shows whenever someone mouths their ration of exposition like a toothless shut-in gumming their daily soup-soaked toast. Yet Tarsem’s The Cell is also a collection of astonishments, visions so startling and sticky they linger like the midnight-carnival sequence in Peter S. Beagle’s The Last Unicorn: a hellish gallery adjacent to Clive Barker’s nightmare mosaics of violated flesh. Portions of it were inspired by the techniques perfected by the Catholics during the Spanish Inquisition, and no one knows invasions and perforations of the body like the Catholics. Now imagine Eiko Ishioka designing the costumes for this infernal Mass; Howard Shore composing the score; and Tarsem (a.k.a. Tarsem Singh), a Desi-American artist steeped in the eye-popping iconography of the Hindu pantheon, pulling the strings. Even the supporting cast (Jake Weber, Dylan Baker, James Gammon, Dean Norris, Marianne Jean-Baptiste, and so on) is a murderer’s row of total bangers, albeit tasked with the most serviceable roles. There’s too much talent here for the story at hand. It’s like inviting the 1927 Yankees to play in a beer-league softball tourney.

Joaquin Phoenix and Pedro Pascal arguing: "'Now, now, I think you'll find it tastes great.' 'No, it's less filling!'"

Eddington (2025)

***/****
starring Joaquin Phoenix, Pedro Pascal, Luke Grimes, Emma Stone
written and directed by Ari Aster

by Walter Chaw The problem I have with Ari Aster movies is that Ari Aster is contemptuous of his characters. He gives them anxieties he then maximalizes into catastrophes so extreme they’re funny. (How else does a cake allergy turn into a telephone-pole beheading?) And once he creates an unbearable situation, he scoffs. It’s tempting to draw a corollary between his work and that of post-Raising Arizona Coen Brothers, but however bleak the Coen Brothers can be, however barbed their humour gets, there is always a redemptive element. Not hope, exactly, but dignity, whereas Aster’s films feel like audience punishment and only that. He’s confirmed his desire to troll: In a 2018 interview with FILM COMMENT, Aster described Hereditary as a hybrid of Peter Greenaway, whom he sees as “maybe our most authentic misanthrope,” and Douglas Sirk, whose heightened emotions and forced artificiality Aster found horrifying. His 2011 short film The Strange Thing About the Johnsons was his answer to the question, “What is the worst”–as in most offensive–“thing I could make at AFI?” Aster fancies himself the great gadfly, the wizened stirrer of a pot left too long on the burner.

Finn Little and Nicolas Cage holding surfboards: "They look board"

The Surfer (2025)

**½/****
starring Nicolas Cage, Julian McMahon, Nic Cassim, Miranda Tapsell
written by Thomas Martin
directed by Lorcan Finnegan

by Walter Chaw A time or two during Lorcan Finnegan’s The Surfer, I wondered if it wasn’t at least a spiritual cousin to Frank Perry’s The Swimmer, seeing as how both films offer an overarching metaphor of going home while examining an aimless, tortured masculinity on the existential skids. Indeed, there’s a literary quality to The Surfer that smells like the leather and furniture polish of John Cheever spiced with the postmodern detachment of Alex Garland’s The Beach–which is to say I was never really engaged with The Surfer so much as I was trying to figure out its thesis and its sources as though it were an essay question. Not unlike a test. In demanding an active viewership, it creates disengagement; it’s an irony I haven’t been able to untangle entirely. I’ve felt similarly detached from Finnegan’s recent work: His carefully crafted but arguably airless Vivarium and its follow-up, Nocebo, are so explicitly and dedicatedly about something that the only way out for me is through analyzing them. Here’s the thing: I don’t think they’re complicated. They’re like escape rooms in the sense that it’s possible to exist in a room without wanting to escape it, unless it’s clear the only point of the room is to escape from it. Finnegan’s best work doesn’t do this. His 2011 short film Foxes, in which a woman finds her inner nightbitch in the midnight ritual of wild foxes outside her carefully manicured suburban existence, is About Something, too, of course, and dry critical analysis is a way through it, yet there’s a freedom about it that doesn’t immediately demand a close critical reading. It can just be.

Benicio Del Toro and Mia Threapleton in front of a plane crash: "If only the pilot and the first officer had communicated with each other"

The Phoenician Scheme (2025)

***½/****
starring Benicio Del Toro, Mia Threapleton, Michael Cera, Riz Ahmed
screenplay by Wes Anderson
directed by Wes Anderson

By Angelo Muredda Midway through Wes Anderson’s The Phoenician Scheme, Zsa-Zsa Korda (Benicio Del Toro), a stateless arms dealer and industrialist hated by any number of governments, drops everything to visit Marty (Jeffrey Wright), a shipping magnate from Newark, to muscle him into upping his investment in the titular scheme: a dicey Middle Eastern infrastructure deal. Physically tethered to Marty in the middle of a blood transfusion that’s necessitated by a gunshot wound he acquired in the course of securing his share from a sketchy French ally named Marseille Bob (Mathieu Amalric), Korda pushes the deal by pulling the tab of the hand grenade he brought Marty as a peace offering (the way some might bring chocolate), insisting he’ll put it back only if his pal increases his share. Unfazed by the threat of mutually assured destruction, Marty, a universal donor who’s already pushing blood from his body into Korda’s with a hand pump, pledges to give his financial share and more, “just to watch the grand finale.”

Hiddleston and partner dancing in the street: "Dance like Stephen King’s watching."

The Life of Chuck (2025)

ZERO STARS/****
starring Chiwetel Ejiofor, Tom Hiddleston, Annalise Basso, Mark Hamill
written by Mike Flanagan, based on the short story by Stephen King
directed by Mike Flanagan

by Walter Chaw I admit it: I have an allergy to sentimental treacle. I get that this shit is like mother’s milk to some–that fading stars and, indeed, entire cable channels have tied their strings to the “shameless tearjerker” to great if niche fame and fortune; it’s a “me” problem, and I accept that. I reject being force-fed platitudes as meaningful life lessons. I break out in hives in the presence of humpy-bo-dumpty scores thick on strings and a sense of wonder, maybe a wistful tinkle of the keys when an angel earns its wings or dies of cancer. I dislike it enough that not even Macaulay Culkin getting stung to death by bees could save My Girl for me. I confess I haven’t read the Stephen King short story upon which Mike Flanagan’s The Life of Chuck is based, though I do remember a lovely piece King published decades ago in his collection Night Shift, “The Last Rung on the Ladder,” that, sans any supernatural elements, managed to bring a tear to my eye. So it’s not King’s variety of sentiment I’m immune to (I weep my eyes out still at the last “I love you, man” in Christine), only the bad faith kind that traffics in broad stereotypes dedicated to milking those fucking tear ducts like Amish grandfathers speed-bagging the herd’s teats before dawn.

Zhao Tao in Caught by the Tides; petting a robot: "Hello, member of Daft Punk"

Caught by the Tides (2024)

***½/****
starring Zhao Tao, Li Zhubing
written and directed by Jia Zhangke

by Angelo Muredda While some spent their COVID lockdowns making sourdough starters and boning up on the medicinal properties of horse dewormer, Jia Zhangke retraced two decades’ worth of cinematic memories, from 2002’s Unknown Pleasures to 2018’s Ash is Purest White, weaving them into a singular new project about urban alienation and the passage of time. Caught by the Tides is the formally playful product of that act of pandemic creative stir-craziness. Conceived and partially shot in the final days of China’s COVID-Zero policies in 2022, the film takes the real-life constraints of social distancing and contact tracing as an aesthetic inspiration to burrow into the past before standing firmly on the present. The strange times, and their restrictions on film shoots, prompt Jia to revisit and reposition the actors, characters, and settings of his oeuvre into a contemporary mosaic. Inspired, as he said at the film’s NYFF festival premiere, by ukiyo-e art from the Edo Period, a tradition of Japanese woodblock prints of transient urban life and folk scenes, he’s fashioned a singular floating world portrait of 21st-century China.

"Everything plus the Sadie Sink."

O’Dessa (2025)

ZERO STARS/****
starring Sadie Sink, Kelvin Harrison Jr., Murray Bartlett, Regina Hall
written and directed by Geremy Jasper

by Walter Chaw Every once in a while, a film comes along that is so not for me I don’t even dislike it. I don’t feel anything towards it. We barely exist in the same dimension. It’s like an animal from the deep ocean presented to me for my approval or condemnation, a cuniform poem written in a dead language; I don’t even have a baseline to test it against. Whaddaya mean, “Do I like it?” What the fuck is it? It’s dinner and a show at H.P. Lovecraft’s house. You could say that Geremy Jasper’s O’Dessa shares DNA with Six-String Samurai or Anna and the Apocalypse, or that it’s what The Wiz would be like if a sea cucumber and Alejandro Jodorowsky’s medulla oblongata collectively excreted it, though I look at it and all I see is a collection of stuff slammed together using an organizing principle I can neither recognize nor articulate. It is the product of an alien intelligence, and while it might appeal to children at a specific developmental age, I don’t know whether that’s good or bad or what that sweet spot is. I guess I could say the music in this musical (?) is just fucking godawful to my ear, but we live in an age where Lin-Manuel Miranda is treated like the second coming of Kander & Ebb. Again, there are things in the world that are not for you, and you’re better off leaving them alone, lest the existential horror of reckoning with your strangeness in this time and place swallow you whole like that kid in Stephen King’s “The Jaunt.”

Wright and Hanks in Here

Here (2024)

ZERO STARS/****
starring Tom Hanks, Robin Wright, Paul Bettany, Kelly Reilly
screenplay by Eric Roth & Robert Zemeckis, based on the graphic novel by Richard McGuire
directed by Robert Zemeckis

by Walter Chaw If it were only vapid, insipid, faux-high-concept middlebrow treacle, then fine, you know, that’s between you and your withered stump of low-aspiring taste. If it were only a terrible concept done terribly, a body-temperature tongue-bath delivered without enthusiasm or interest, well, then, so be it; I have liked too many of Robert Zemeckis’s movies to muster up the energy to go after a genial tapestry of sopping Hallmark platitudes–especially those that make idiots happy. Happy is in short supply, after all. If it were merely mildly pathetic in its desperation to be liked; had it only avoided the deadly sin of also wishing to be relevant, wise, respected. But, alas, Here isn’t just awful by most measurable standards established over 130 years of this medium’s astonishing evolution–it’s didactic and self-satisfied about it. It’s the spiritual offspring of Paul Haggis’s Crash, another The Blind Side packed to the tippy-top with privileged foolishness in which the soft-pedalling of broad melodrama paints over history’s sins for the validation of one miserable, unmotivated white guy’s congenital lack of introspection and imagination. Who could’ve guessed that this film, widely touted as the reunion of Forrest Gumps writer, director, and stars, would be a redux of its messages, too? Has it ever occurred to you that you “never know what you’re gonna get” in a box of chocolates only if you refuse to read it?

Breathless (1960) [The Criterion Collection] – 4K Ultra HD + Blu-ray Combo

Breathless (1960) [The Criterion Collection] – 4K Ultra HD + Blu-ray Combo

À bout de souffle
****/**** Image A+ Sound A+ Extras A+
starring Jean Seberg, Jean-Paul Belmondo, Van Doude, Jean-Luc Godard
written and directed by Jean Luc Godard

by Walter Chaw Jean-Luc Godard is punk, and Breathless is his Never Mind the Bollocks, Here’s the Sex Pistols. If he’d only ever made this one film, it would have been enough: the sneer that launched a thousand film careers–the carbuncular adolescents gathered behind their enfant terrible king seeing a future in taking a giant piss on politesse and convention. Among the filmmakers of the Nouvelle Vague, Godard carried the flag of disaffection first and longest. Like the other young men of his generation, he was force-fed the cinema of France’s American occupiers, who flooded French theatres post-WWII with what they saw as genre detritus: B-movies and cheap melodramas, gangster flicks and westerns, tabloid movies and smoky noir provocations. France the capitulated, the humiliated, the liberated, exploited as a clearinghouse for used Yankee culture that became grist for a generational film movement that came of age having ingested it, working it through their biology in a hormonal stew then expelling it in alien tributes now fawning, now excoriating, always defiantly, well, French. What we sent to France, we got back with an experimental jazz score, a Paul Klee print, and a Sartre quote about isolation.

Young Werther/Friendship

TIFF ’24: Young Werther + Friendship

YOUNG WERTHER
*/****
starring Douglas Booth, Alison Pill, Iris Apatow, Patrick J. Adams
screenplay by José Lourenço, based on the novel The Sorrows of Young Werther by Johann Wolfgang Goethe
directed by José Lourenço

FRIENDSHIP
**½/****
starring Tim Robinson, Paul Rudd, Kate Mara, Jack Dylan Grazer
written and directed by Andrew DeYoung

by Bill Chambers Johann Wolfgang Goethe’s 1774 semi-autobiographical novel The Sorrows of Young Werther made Goethe a global literary sensation practically overnight. José Lourenço’s Young Werther dares to poke a hole in the fourth wall by splashing this factoid across the screen in introductory text, comparing the book’s impact to that of Beatlemania. It’s certainly a choice, explaining the success of The Sorrows of Young Werther as if today’s audiences have no sense of history while simultaneously drawing an analogy to a fad from the ’60s. A more current reference would, I suppose, throw off the film’s Luddite chic. This is a modern-dress adaptation, yes, but there’s a strong whiff of Wes Anderson in how it translates the novel’s epistolary form into a fondness for the quaint and the bespoke (those opening titles are presented with filigreed borders, silent-movie style)–not to mention the picture’s formalist approach to shot design, which at least gives Young Werther more visual élan than one expects of a Crave Original. Citing the book’s fame at all, though: what’s the point? It feels like insecurity at best, overpromising at worst. Can you tell I didn’t care for Young Werther? It’s just so in love with itself that I felt like a third wheel.

Megalopolis/Oh, Canada

TIFF ’24: Megalopolis + Oh, Canada

MEGALOPOLIS
***/****
starring Adam Driver, Giancarlo Esposito, Nathalie Emmanuel, Aubrey Plaza, Shia LaBeouf
written and directed by Francis Ford Coppola

Oh Canada
***/****
starring Richard Gere, Uma Thurman, Jacob Elordi, Michael Imperioli
written by Paul Schrader, based on the novel Foregone by Russell Banks
directed by Paul Schrader

by Angelo Muredda Here at last is Megalopolis, Francis Ford Coppola’s long-delayed, triple-XL-sized work of utopian science-fiction, in development since the late 1970s and emerging nearly 50 years later not as the mid-career capstone once intended, but as a kind of valedictory address on the importance of family and the timelessness of unrestrained baroque aesthetics. Funded at last by 120 million dollars worth of the filmmaker’s stake in his winery (presumably diminishing the future inheritance of several Coppola cast members in the process), the film is impossible to divorce from its outsized origin story. The making of Megalopolis is allegorized in a pleasantly goofy way in its fable of an uncompromising and misunderstood architect named Cesar (Adam Driver), whose radical vision of the titular hypothetical city, rising from the decadent rubble of the downtrodden New Rome, clashes with the more conservative urban planning of his arch-nemesis mayor, Cicero (Giancarlo Esposito). The war between the two men for what will become of New Rome, mediated by yellow journalists like Wow Platinum (Aubrey Plaza), decrepit financiers like Cesar’s uncle Cassius (Jon Voight), snivelling populist politicians like Cesar’s spiteful cousin Clodio (Shia LaBeouf), and Cicero’s dilettante socialist daughter–and Cesar’s eventual lover–Julia (Nathalie Emmanuel), becomes a proxy battle for what’s to come of the human race: stasis and tedium or dynamic big swings. The future, Coppola suggests, is an unknown country that we may be so lucky to dwell in: It can either give in to conservative values about the status quo and fall into permanent decline, or welcome with open arms the next generation, in the form of Cesar and Julia’s child–not to mention films like Megalopolis, ostensibly a proof of concept that bold ways of seeing and doing are worth the investment.

The Brutalist

TIFF ’24: The Brutalist

**½/****
starring Adrien Brody, Felicity Jones, Guy Pearce, Alessandro Nivola
written by Brady Corbet & Mona Fastvold
directed by Brady Corbet

by Angelo Muredda “I’m not what I expected, either,” Hungarian-Jewish architect Laszlo Toth tells the first of many resentful hosts he’ll encounter in his new land early in Brady Corbet’s The Brutalist, a super-sized historical epic that, despite its flashy, roguish presentation, tells a fairly old-fashioned story of capitalism funding, then strangling, art, interwoven with a fable about the ethnic roots of American innovation dying in a soil poisoned by white supremacy. It’s a good line, ably delivered by Adrien Brody in a nimble performance that flits from the depths of prostration to the confident delivery of treatises on the utility of brutalist architecture. Like a number of the film’s pronouncements concerning the titular artist (whose name, as fictionalized art-world stars go, is at least as good as Lydia Tár’s, evoking the Australian geologist who took a hammer to Michelangelo’s Pietà in 1972), it’s also a thematic tease. Protracted in length but paced like it’s in a hurry to get someplace, The Brutalist is prone to such dashed-off expositional asides about the self-alienation that ostensibly drives its protagonist, who would otherwise remain something of a cipher apart from his strong feelings on the literal and figurative endurance of concrete.

Kryptic

Fantasia Festival ’24: Kryptic; The Beast Within; Vulcanizadora; Animalia Paradoxa

KRYPTIC
*½/****
starring Chloe Pirrie, Jeff Gladstone, Jason Deline, Ali Rusu-Tahir
written by Paul Bromley
directed by Kourtney Roy

THE BEAST WITHIN
*/****
starring James Cosmo, Ashleigh Cummings, Kit Harington, Caoilinn Springall
written by Greer Ellison & Alexander J. Farrell
directed by Alexander J. Farrell

VULCANIZADORA
***½/****
starring Melissa Blanchard, Joshua Burge, Joel Potrykus, Solo Potrykus
written and directed by Joel Potrykus

ANIMALIA PARADOXA
****/****
starring Andrea Gomez, Daniela Ossa, Javiera Reyes, Hormazábal Rocío
written and directed by Niles Atallah

by Walter Chaw The problem with Kourtney Roy’s Kryptic is that its subtext is text. It’s well-shot, well-performed, even has some nice Yuzna-esque goop effects, but it’s so didactic that all that hardly matters. When the message becomes exposition, it indicates a lack of faith in both the audience and the material. I’m as tired of writing about this as you are of reading about it, I’m sure, and I must confess it takes a lot out of me nowadays to finish films like this, however well-made and however promising its director might be, should they ever get out of their own way. Kryptic would be less frustrating if it weren’t so good in so many ways. It opens with shy, socially anxious Kay (Chloe Pirrie) on her drive to a guided cryptid hike, repeating positive affirmations to buck herself up for meeting new people and maybe making new friends. In the woods, she strays from the group and encounters the terrifying Sooka (glimpsed only in flashes), sending her into a fugue state wherein she forgets who she is and what she does. “I’m a dentist?” she asks. “I’m a veterinarian?” Most likely, she’s a cryptozoologist named “Barb” who has been missing in these woods for some time. Also likely is that Barb went missing because she was fleeing her abusive husband, Morgan (Jeff Gladstone).

Vampire sitting at a picnic table with a severed head on it: "I think we can win Clacton."

The Vourdalak (2023)

Le Vourdalak
***½/****
starring Kacey Mottet Klein, Ariane Labed, Grégoire Colin, Vassili Schneider
written by Adrien Beau and Hadrien Bouvier, based on the story “La famille du Vourdalak” by Aleksei Tolstoy
directed by Adrien Beau

by Walter Chaw Adrien Beau’s The Vourdalak has the look and feel of all those period horrors from the heyday of AIP and Hammer and the early years of Amicus. There’s even a touch of Jean Rollin, who brought production value and class of a sort to eroticized genre fare. It also features my favourite horror scenario: a lost traveller landing on the doorstep of a mysterious manse in the middle of a haunted wood. In films that start like this, sometimes it’s during a storm, sometimes the moon is new and the night’s so black the traveller can’t see his hand in front of his eyes. Sometimes, he is the monster, though more often, the traveller finds himself in the company of monsters. In Valeri Rubinchik’s The Savage Hunt of King Stakh, maybe the pinnacle of movies that open this way, our wayward traveller is bewitched by the sight of a beautiful woman, the lady of the manor, who haunts the decrepit, cavernous expanse like the rumour of a draft. In The Vourdalak, the traveller is prim Marquis Jacques Antoine Saturnin d’Urfé (Kacey Mottet Klein), a member of the King’s court who has been separated from his companions by bandits. The family of Gorcha, a great man currently away on a mission of vengeance against the marauding Turks who ransacked this part of the world, takes him in. Gorcha has warned his sons and daughters (and daughter-in-law) not to let him, Gorcha, back in the house should his absence stretch longer than six days. Because if he comes back after that, he says, it will be as the Vourdalak.

Or did they see Prince's ghost? (Stars of I Saw the TV Glow bathed in purple,)

I Saw the TV Glow (2024)

****/****
starring Justice Smith, Brigette Lundy-Paine, Helena Howard, Danielle Deadwyler
written and directed by Jane Schoenbrun

by Walter Chaw SPOILER WARNING IN EFFECT. I have a summer evening inside me, a particular one, a purple one. It’s almost dawn, and the sidewalk is warm beneath me. I’m lying there staring at the sky pushing into dawn; it’s the last day of my life. I feel like I’m still there sometimes. I left enough of myself there that I’ll always be there. I’ll never leave. I don’t remember much of my life up to and including high school. It was a confusion of sensation and shadows. I hold shame and sadness in a cage with my heart and won’t let them out. But I remember this night, because it was the day I tried to kill myself. There are times I think I didn’t fail and that all of these decades since have been a moment between breaths. I can smell the moss phlox growing by the street if I concentrate. What if this ends soon? I will blink awake and be there on the warm concrete, waiting for the last sun to rise, and maybe that would be alright. Maybe it would be alright when the stars fade into the blue of day. Maybe it would explain why everything, all this time, has felt so strange, and why that clean, wide-open night has always been so close to me.