Blue Heron (2026)
****/****
starring Eylul Guven, Iringó Réti, Ádám Tompa, Amy Zimmer
written and directed by Sophy Romvari
by Walter Chaw I don’t know if others will talk about it this way, but Blue Heron, the debut feature of writer-director Sophy Romvari, is the finest, most subtle, most incisive horror film I’ve seen this year. Watching it gave me the same feeling as watching The Exorcist as an old man who has had children and still wakes up in a cold sweat thinking of those times when the kids were sick and I didn’t know why, or in trouble and there was nothing I could do. It’s horror not as jumps and gross-outs (those things don’t really work on me anymore), but as existential helplessness to slow entropy as it claims us and shapes us. The scariest scene in The Exorcist for me now is when a little girl is subjected to a series of medical tests that feel to the worried parent like an inquisitor’s panel of torture devices: useless, sadistic, based on faith in a flawed and fanatical belief system. Love is limited in its ability to heal, see. Having children is reckless. It’s madness. It’s an investment in a mortal commodity that will break you, should it predecease you. It can be a responsibility trap, too, tethering you to this earth when you’d rather cut the straps and float into the sweet, insensible black. My kids are the greatest thing in my life, the only significant contribution I have ever made to a world that doesn’t deserve them. Sometimes it feels like it was a selfish act. Sometimes, when I see them express compassion and kindness to others, it feels like a generous one.
by Bill Chambers I found the imposed misery of Never Let Me Go a lot less provocative and haunting than the self-inflicted kind one encounters in Benedek Fliegauf’s Womb, whose one-word title seems to not-unduly affiliate the picture with Jonathan Glazer’s great Birth. I love this movie, but it took me a few days to digest it, and I’m not sure I’d have the patience to sit through it again. It’s challenging from the get-go, what with the quasi-kiddie porn of its opening sequences, in which a beautiful young boy and girl start sleeping together, and the girl caresses her skin, then the boy’s, as if trying to decipher some message between them written in Braille. (For pure eroticism, though, nothing trumps the pair watching a snail writhe across a kitchen table–and it’s here that I wish I possessed Walter Chaw’s vocabulary for discussing suggestively Romantic images such as these.) The girl, Rebecca, moves to Tokyo, and grows up to be played by Eva Green. She returns to the little beach community where she met the boy, Thomas (Matt “Doctor Who” Smith as an adult), and looks him up, having transparently spent the intervening years pining for him. When they meet again, he’s so thunderstruck that he dumps his current girlfriend on the spot, and the two impulsively begin a life together as eco-activist–an amateur entomologist, he breeds cockroaches, speaking to indelibility and infestation–and muse. Just as suddenly, Thomas is killed on the way to a protest, and Rebecca, feeling cosmically robbed, has and implements the lunatic idea to be artificially inseminated with Thomas’s clone and cultivate in the child an Oedipal complex, so that at some point in the future she will get to be with a facsimile of her lover, even if he is, technically, her son. What ensues is a distaff 
by Walter Chaw
by Walter Chaw