Backrooms' Renate Reinsve in the basement of a furniture store: "The Worst Person in the Raymour & Flanigan"

Backrooms (2026)

*/****
starring Chiwetel Ejiofor, Renate Reinsve, Mark Duplass, Finn Bennett
written by Will Soodik
directed by Kane Parsons

by Walter Chaw There are a couple of ways to approach Kane Parsons’s Backrooms, the latest addition to the Naïve Wave of films made by filmmakers raised on new media in online spaces. The first is to acknowledge that we’ve had a revolution like this before, when the film brats at the end of the ’60s emerged as the first generation of directors primarily reared on cinema instead of literature and theatre, so even this shift–though it seems retrograde for some of the oldsters in the room (okay, me)–is not the end of the world. It may, however, be the end of understanding movies as a product of tutelage in the language of film. Editing, cinematography, screenwriting–all of that has changed and will continue to evolve. Of course, one of the things to love about film as a medium is its elasticity, isn’t it? It makes perfect sense that the rumblings of revolution are happening in horror, that most flexible and reactive of genres.

Mando and Grogu flying: "Yoicks, and away!"

The Mandalorian and Grogu (2026)

Star Wars: The Mandalorian and Grogu
½*/****
starring Pedro Pascal, Jeremy Allen White, Sigourney Weaver
written by Jon Favreau & Dave Filoni & Noah Kloor
directed by Jon Favreau

by Walter Chaw The Mandalorian and Grogu (hereafter ManGro) is awful. Was a time I would’ve simply ripped this movie apart, but there’s no real sport in it. It wouldn’t feel cathartic, just mean. If I spent much time talking about how ugly it looks, how poorly it’s written, how boring it is, I would be picking on something that couldn’t defend itself. Everyone sees that. The people who like it see that. It will have its admirers, because this product has been extruded for the maximum, frictionless comfort of its most vocal defenders. The ones who demand their entertainment validate their sense of who they are. If ManGro were a bath, the water would be body temperature; you’d scarcely feel it. What’s the point of picking on it? I figure if you’re watching this film, that’s two hours and change that I don’t have to worry about running into you. The problem for me, and it may be no problem at all, is that Star Wars is suddenly synonymous with those labels in our culture for things that are beneath contempt, as unworthy of respect as its naysayers have always insisted. It is the appendix in the body politic. The coccyx. They shout, “It’s for kids!” when a movie is unwatchable. There’s almost no way to be more dismissive in our culture. Now we can say, “It’s just a Star War” when a show is made for a niche audience of the pathetic and emotionally stunted. I still remember how angry I was after George Lucas came out in defense of his prequels, saying these movies were always “just for kids.” I’ve come to realize I was angry because I was afraid he was right.

Midori Francis staring at a spoon in Saccharine: "Uri Geller, don't fail me now"

Saccharine (2026)

***½/****
starring Midori Francis, Danielle Macdonald, Madeleine Madden, Robert Taylor
written and directed by Natalie Erika James

by Walter Chaw The bad guy in Natalie Erika James’s Saccharine is self-loathing. Self-loathing the ego-killer, the murderer of confidence, the enemy of joy. Saccharine completes a loose trilogy for James, with each entry to some extent exploring the monstrous mutation of self-hate under the tectonic effort required to repress it. It is a fog and the fire in which we burn. Relic detailed the guilt of a daughter who has lost sight of her dementia-ridden mother. Apartment 7A dealt with a young woman who has made socially unacceptable choices to achieve fame (recontextualizing Rosemary’s Baby, and Roman Polanski, in the process). Now Saccharine puts body image under the microscope. Her films are blueprints of the bans imposed on women by multiple, often conflicting (if uniformly brutal), cultural standards. Over three films, James has shown herself to be blunt but not didactic–a trick that’s harder to pull off than it seems. Hers is a voice for any person trapped in a liminal space between communities that would reject them. She’s a mixed-race person living in a predominantly white country (Australia). She’s a woman in a male-dominated industry who has, so far, only helmed projects centring women. With her third film, she’s taking on queer desire, the Asian diaspora, and what it feels like to be trapped in a body that doesn’t align with how you’ve been programmed to perceive yourself. The pain of dislocation in Relic, Apartment 7A, and Saccharine is crystalline and pure, aided by lead performances from Emily Mortimer, Julia Garner, and Midori Francis, respectively, that are naked, ugly, and raw. James is an artist. I feel seen by her work.

Ryan Gosling floating in a tin can: "Astronaut Ken"

Hoppers (2026) + Project Hail Mary (2026)

HOPPERS
**½/****

screenplay by Jesse Andrews
directed by Daniel Chong

PROJECT HAIL MARY
**½/****

starring Ryan Gosling, Sandra Hüller, Milana Vayntrub, Ken Leung
screenplay by Drew Goddard, based on the novel by Andy Weir
directed by Phil Lord & Christopher Miller

by Walter Chaw I have great affection for Pixar, even Pixar of late. I think for the most part they do their best with representation, and although their films often feel viciously engineered for maximum emotional devastation now, they’re at least skillful at honouring their role as catalysts for tangible cathexis and catharsis. They’re not all for me–you can keep, for instance, the profit-motive-driven Cars trilogy, the bowdlerized Elio, and the reckless-seeming Inside Out movies, but I still recognize the impact those films have on their audiences as similar to the lasting pull of stuff like WALL·E and Elemental on me. One criterion of good art is if it continues to evolve, nay, metastasize as one revisits it over the years. I will say that Pixar’s worst, most rote films seem aimed at younger audiences, with lessons that are essentially uncomplicated screeds about friendship and acceptance. To that end, I do wonder if their best days, when they consistently delved into real philosophical and/or existential complexities, are behind them. Maybe it’s only time that turned Ratatouille, The Incredibles, and Toy Story 3, all from the Aughts, into masterpieces in my mind. Maybe, but I don’t think so.

Jesse Buckley/The Bride hooked up to wires on an examination table: "Buckley's mixture"

The Bride! (2026)

*/****
starring Jessie Buckley, Christian Bale, Penélope Cruz, Annette Bening
written and directed by Maggie Gyllenhaal

by Walter Chaw I can’t tell you how excited I was for this. I love the Frankenstein myth for how malleable it is, how easily it slots into various syndromes and traumas. How contemporary it is, always, in its dissection of the masculine will to power. It can be told from the perspective of the pain of Icarus or the agony of Daedalus. Fathers and sons, husbands and wives; unwholesome desires, lost weekends. Frankenstein author Mary Shelley was, of course, the shit, a true progressive two centuries ahead of her time who likely helped a transgender man assume his new identity and kept a piece of her drowned husband’s heart in a folded copy of his poem Adonais. That poem is an elegy for John Keats. It’s arguably the best thing Percy Shelley ever wrote, not the least for the slight undertone of disingenuousness in its profusion. It’s like a Smiths song. This is my favourite line from it: “He is a portion of the loveliness which once he made more lovely.” I don’t think Percy liked how Keats was a genius while he, Percy, was not. I know that Keats, at least, was leery of Percy’s attention, especially as Percy began their relationship by dismissing his work. It doesn’t matter. I love how Mary Shelley chose Adonais as the shroud for her husband’s pickled heart. She was as good a literary critic as she was an author–and she was a phenomenal author. Mary would’ve torn Maggie Gyllenhaal’s The Bride! apart.

Crazy-looking Sam Rockwell accosting young men at a diner: "Have you heard the good news?"

Good Luck, Have Fun, Don’t Die (2026)

**/****
starring Sam Rockwell, Haley Lu Richardson, Michael Peña, Juno Temple
written by Matthew Robinson
directed by Gore Verbinski

by Walter Chaw Gore Verbinski’s Good Luck, Have Fun, Don’t Die is a mess. After a long hiatus, Verbinski has resurfaced with an artificial-intelligence horror story told through a high-concept time-travel plot so cluttered, so undisciplined, that whatever usefulness it might have as sociology or satire is lost in the noise. It’s good enough that you wish it were better. Terry Gilliam’s films can feel like this. Even his broadly acknowledged masterpieces haven’t aged well because of Gilliam’s twitchiness and the puerility of his distractions. Good Luck, Have Fun, Don’t Die lands somewhere between Time Bandits and The Fisher King: technically proficient films plagued by attention-deficit discursions and peppered with occasionally profound interludes of visual poetry. There’s a scene here where an army of screen-zombified teens follows the dictates of a digital god while massing for attack–sort of a Birnam Wood with cellphones glued to its trunks. It’s a tableau as inspired as The Fisher King‘s impromptu waltz in Grand Central Station–yet Verbinski doesn’t know what to do with the image once he’s conjured it. “Yes, this is a good idea. Now what?” Too often, the “now what” for Verbinski is turning up the volume without ramping up the innovation. Why not have these zombies TikTok dance people to death instead of the usual shuffling around and smashing farmhouse windows?

The flamboyant Varang tribal dancing before a bonfire in Avatar 3: "All right, who dosed Jeff Probst?"

Avatar: Fire and Ash (2025)

ZERO STARS/****
starring Sam Worthington, Zoe Saldaña, Sigourney Weaver, Kate Winslet
screenplay by James Cameron & Rick Jaffa & Amanda Silver
directed by James Cameron

by Walter Chaw I think, for white Americans, the Indigenous peoples they displaced to colonize what would become the United States aren’t real people. Instead, they are supplemental creatures in a myth of American exceptionalism: the wolf that eats grandma; the wind at the door. They are props for enlightenment, triggers of guilt. Once conquered through disease, genocide, broken treaties, and other nasty tricks born of avarice and cupidity, Indigenous peoples became objects of pity and romanticization, transitioning from boogeyman to avatar of a gentle, mystical, maternal, natural world without once passing through “human being.” From marauding savage to mourner of litter and butter saleswoman in less than a generation. What would happen, do you suppose, if white men finally thought of Indigenous peoples as men and women with the same complexity, desires, and fears as them? What if they suspected Indigenous peoples loved their children and didn’t want them taken from them to be buried beneath strange “schools” in unmarked graves? How would it affect their sense of self, to suddenly understand the unimaginable suffering they have justified and continued to celebrate under the aegis of their undead cannibal god and this beautiful stolen country they’re destroying in His name? Would they have to experience shame? Would that shame force them to grow? Unacceptable. How dare the dead hope their passing had meaning for their murderers.

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.

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.

Krypto the Dog: Oh no I'm a Krypto bro

Superman (2025)

****/****
starring David Corenswet, Rachel Brosnahan, Nicholas Hoult, Edi Gathegi
written and directed by James Gunn

by Walter Chaw I’m in the bag for Superman, I admit it. I grew up in a small town, Golden, CO, in an environment some would describe as Norman Rockwellian. Before the bullying started in earnest, before I spoke English, I would earn pennies at the corner barbershop and spend them at the 5 & 10 across the street on Silly Putty, gum, and comic books. Superman comic books, Wonder Woman, too. Superman, for me, is the superhero we should most want to be. I’m not talking about the superpowers, I’m talking about being a decent person who genuinely cares about others. He’s also the one I most wished were real–who, although he had unimaginable advantages, still cared about me. I no longer believe that anyone with more power than me is interested in whether I live or die if it serves them no profit. Do you? When did you stop? I realized somewhere along the way that Superman is my Jesus. When people talk about their Jesus, they use the same words: righteous, just, generous–the Sermon on the Mount, you know? I see a lot of fascist functionaries who want the Ten Commandments of the Old Testament God posted in schoolrooms in order to frighten children into obedience under an omniscient surveillance state. I see no Christians pushing to get their New Testament God’s Beatitudes posted in those same rooms; why? Oh, hey, did you ever notice how you’ve given Santa Claus the same power as your Christian God? What is your God, now, with the threat that bad behaviour will be punished with inferior Christmas gifts?

Jurassic World: Rebirth

Jurassic World: Rebirth

Jurassic World Rebirth
**½/****

starring Scarlett Johansson, Mahershala Ali, Jonathan Bailey, Rupert Friend
written by David Koepp
directed by Gareth Edwards

by Walter Chaw Our first film about hyper-normalization, Jurassic World Rebirth presents a world that has grown tired of dinosaurs, and it’s buoyed not only by that topicality but also by Scarlett Johansson, Mahershala Ali, and a steadfast refusal to give a good shit. About anything. Which is not to say the craft is poor (this was an expensive production, and looks it), but that the picture is more a collection of vignettes–vignettes that replicate how children play with dinosaur toys–than it is a legible narrative. It’s a rack of Scrabble tiles arranged at random, or a completely fucked-up Rubik’s Cube you’re on the verge of stripping of its stickers. That it’s not awful is a testament to stars who know the assignment, a new director who isn’t Colin Trevorrow, and a script, by professional populist screenwriter David Koepp (returning to the franchise for the first time since The Lost World), that takes it easy on the last film’s memorably ugly misogyny and autocritical metaphors for the bankrupt intentions driving franchise filmmaking. I’m not saying Jurassic World Dominion is wrong about the cynical commodification of everything, just that it made dinosaurs eating people not fun.

M3gan 2.0 looking apologetic: “'I’m sorry for MeToo-ing your Teddy Ruxpin but he had it coming.'”

M3GAN 2.0 (2025)

*½/****
starring Allison Williams, Violet McGraw, Jenna Davis, Jemaine Clement
written and directed by Gerald Johnstone

by Walter Chaw Gerald Johnstone’s M3GAN 2.0 feels like one of those 1980s teensploitation sci-fi adventure flicks. D.A.R.Y.L., for instance–D.A.R.Y.L. exactly, let’s face it. Given that D.A.R.Y.L. hardly set the world on fire, this does not bode well for M3GAN 2.0. To its credit, it takes a wild swing at relevance, M3GAN 2.0 does, in a way that’s at complete odds with what drove the first film’s safe swing at relevance, pushing this sequel into Spies Like Us/Volunteers territory. Or Best Defense, why not? All those musty Cold War artifacts of the Reagan era that looked for humor in entrenched doomsday scenarios; closed-system satires that don’t have much to say because there’s no way out–that don’t have much room to satirize anything because you can’t make the “stupid Apocalypse” any stupider than the idiots heralding it have already made it. M3GAN 2.0 plays a lot like a Naked Gun prologue, in fact, one that opens with a spybot assassinating a brown baddie in a ridiculous stalking and ends in a bump-off that’s just a little too violent to be horrible. It’s a joke everyone’s in on, told with an arched eyebrow and a whiff of “the call is coming from inside the house,” The Matrix Resurrections-style. This is payback for all the notes. This is payback for thinking this is a franchise.

Elio lying on a beach with a colander for a hat: "I don't like sand. It's coarse and rough and irritating and it gets everywhere.”

Elio (2025)

*/****
screenplay by Julia Cho & Mark Hammer & Mike Jones
directed by Adrian Molina, Madeline Sharafian, Domee Shi

by Walter Chaw Elio, from Coco co-director Adrian Molina, Madeline Sharafian (animator, Turning Red), and Domee Shi (director, Turning Red), is a derivative oddball-kid/buddy comedy space adventure of the middle-aspiring family-programmer variety Pixar now uses to pad its roster between increasingly flaccid and uninspired franchise tentpoles. How the mighty have fallen. Boasting three directors and three writers (Julia Cho (Turning Red), Mark Hammer (Shotgun Wedding), and Mike Jones (Soul and Luca)), it’s a mosaic of borrowed bits designed to geek chafed pleasure centres, thus ensuring the relative placidity of your children for a couple of hours. That is, if the shot-for-shot “live-action” remakes of Lilo & Stitch and How To Train Your Dragon have run their course…which they haven’t. Maybe the inevitably tepid word-of-mouth damning praise–the “you know, for kids!” and “the whole family will like it” kind, or even the classic “it’s not great, but I cried”–will help it reach whatever goals it’s meant to before assuming its proper place as anonymous streaming filler for a content-voracious delivery service. It’s the sort of movie Common Sense Media and other censorious sites for terrible parents adore, if that gives you an idea. It’s funny because it’s not like I even dislike Elio; it’s just that if you ask me to think about it, I start to realize how much of my life I’ve wasted.

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.

The Electric State (2025)

The Electric State (2025)

ZERO STARS/****
starring Millie Bobby Brown, Chris Pratt, Ke Huy Quan, Stanley Tucci
screenplay by Christopher Markus & Stephen McFeely, based on the book by Simon Stålenhag
directed by Anthony and Joe Russo

by Walter Chaw The Russos’ The Electric State is one of those movies where every other line is punctuated by an exhausted wisecrack from a passerby, a member of the faceless chorus, or the sassy, Black-coded sidekick. A mess, in other words; a loud one. What makes it an interesting skidmark along the road to our national humiliation, though, is how it feels like the first salvo in the kind of corporate warfare predicted by The Crimson Permanent Assurance and Demolition Man‘s triumphant, Michelin-starred Taco Bell. See, The Electric State is set in a post-robopocalyptic wasteland where the robot slave class are the invention of Walt Disney–adorable agents of meat-genocide led by a sentient, Hugs-a-lot-sounding Mr. Peanut™ (Woody Harrelson™), who, during the film’s extended prologue, solemnly signs a peace treaty with deepfake Bill Clinton after his Elon Musk, Ethan Skate (Stanley Tucci), invents humanoid robot drones. The “good guys,” then, defeat Disney! Does that make Netflix, the never-been-profitable streaming service bankrolling this Hindenburg and currently at open-platform warfare with the Mouse, the “good guys?” What of the newsreel aside that Kid Rock gave a celebratory concert upon the vanquishing of When You Wish Upon a Skynet? Is Kid Rock the anti-corporate, humanist good guy now? Or was that an unfunny insert mandated in Chris Pratt’s rider? What the actual fuck is going on?

Pattinson in Mickey 17: "Oh Mickey you’re so fine/you’re so fine you blew my mind 17 times/hey Mickey!"

Mickey 17 (2025)

***/****
starring Robert Pattinson, Naomi Ackie, Steven Yeun, Mark Ruffalo
written and directed by Bong Joon Ho

by Walter Chaw Bong Joon Ho’s Mickey 17 is a philosophical sequel to Paul Verhoeven’s Starship Troopers, expanding on that movie’s satire of an overly-militarized American Imperialist fascist state to talk about how we are at the mercy of trillionaire megalomaniacs who, because they’ve been social outcasts their entire lives, have interstellar plans for colonization tied to their specific visions of a master race. It’s another film that uses a civilization of alien bugs as a stand-in for a culture selected to be murdered, displaced, and exploited made by a foreign filmmaker who sees Americans as they are: so beguiled by money they’d trade their lives for a corporation’s. The people pushing us in Mickey 17′s direction will interpret it as a mandate, not a condemnation.

Thatcher in Companion

Companion (2025)

***½/****
starring Sophie Thatcher, Jack Quaid, Lukas Gage, Megan Suri
written and directed by Drew Hancock

by Walter Chaw Drew Hancock’s feature debut Companion plays a lot like a cross between Peter Berg’s comedy of (bad) manners Very Bad Things and Alex Garland’s solemn Ex Machina. It is, in other words, extremely my jam. Depicting an escalating series of catastrophes like a Pierre Étaix movie with a body count, Companion is a house of cards composed of appalling behaviour and hidden agendas that mashes together tropes from the “Bad Dinner Party” subgenre of awkward horror movies and the sentience melodramas of android fiction. The script is fleet and smart, the cast is game, and damned if Companion isn’t prepared to follow through on the essential human awfulness of its premise. I worry that the inevitable rush of “peeved A.I.” thrillers will fail to offer a credible reckoning with the morality of making a thing 90% of its consumer base will attempt to fuck, if not outright purchase for that purpose. (Some, like flavour-of-the-moment M3GAN, don’t even acknowledge it as a likely possibility.) Consider Companion the corrective: here, the talking toasters are made to be fleshlights capable of having rudimentary conversations. A fun ride that wrestles with the controversies at the root of its concept? Don’t threaten me with a good time.

This guy fox

Robot Dreams (2023) + The Wild Robot (2024)

ROBOT DREAMS
****/****
based on the graphic novel by Sara Varon
written and directed by Pablo Berger

THE WILD ROBOT
**/****
screenplay by Chris Sanders, based on the book by Peter Brown
directed by Chris Sanders

by Walter Chaw Pablo Berger’s Robot Dreams, an adaptation of Sara Varon’s graphic novel, has about it the sadness and loneliness of Harvey Pekar’s work. Set in a zootopia of anthropomorphic animals that’s actually New York City circa 1984, it’s about a woebegone, chonky grey dog named Dog who resorts to buying a robot for companionship in this cold metropolis. They go on walks, horse around; in an affecting moment, Robot sees lovers holding hands and takes Dog’s paw in his. He grips too hard, Dog pulls away in pain, and then, just before the scene cuts away, Dog reaches out and takes Robot’s hand again. It’s perfectly timed, sentimental but subtle, a gag paid off with a lovely grace note that doesn’t draw attention to itself–that, indeed, could be missed if one weren’t paying attention. They go to the beach together, the introverted Dog and the exuberant, animated Robot, where Dog picks out a quiet spot to put down blankets while Robot does a full back-flop into the water between a group of kids. Dog is horrified by Robot’s audacity, but Robot has won fast friends. Robot is Dog’s social confidence, his fresh outlook on the possibilities life has in store for the bright-eyed and courageously optimistic. Robot is the part of us that has died in most of us, the victim of cruel experience, and the wonder of Robot Dreams is how it doesn’t patronize the viewer with a world that conforms to the sunny expectations of a newborn. After their bucolic day at the beach, Robot rusts solid, and Dog is forced to abandon him on the now-shuttered boardwalk for an entire season.

Gemini Ma'am

My Old Ass (2024) + Omni Loop (2024)

MY OLD ASS
**½/****
starring Maisy Stella, Aubrey Plaza, Percy Hynes White, Maddie Ziegler
written and directed by Megan Park

OMNI LOOP
**½/****
starring Mary-Louise Parker, Ayo Edibiri, Carlos Jacott, Harris Yulin
screenplay by Bernardo Britto
directed by Bernardo Britto

by Walter Chaw Writing in the time of John Donne and Andrew Marvell, who both had takes on his “once was horny, now reformed” shtick, Robert Herrick was an Anglican cleric who came upon his piety late in life, as many of us do. Herrick’s most famous work is a “to his coy mistress” bit about “gather[ing] ye rosebuds while ya may,” which, while not as vivid as Marvell’s version threatening a woman that worms will take the frigid object of his pursuit’s virginity if she doesn’t lose it before she dies, is nevertheless a come-on passing as wisdom. As advice to a younger self goes, though, getting laid as much as possible seems the standard, along with more flossing. (It says something that Billy Joel offers the same carrot to his Catholic inamorata in “Only the Good Die Young.”) As we collectively advance into the winter of our sour regret over the calamities we didn’t avoid that have led us to a dark and dimming future, find two films about going back in time to warn, provide guidance for, and essentially function as a mentor to our younger selves before it’s too late. I think it’s touching that we’re having this idea at the same time–strangers, I mean, scenting great change carried on the same foul wind and offering up signal fires from their respective, isolated bunkers. It’s like the last exhalation of a drowning man: it won’t make a shred of difference, but it does trouble the water for a second. Besides, at this point, “touching” is all we got left.