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.

Ghostface wielding a knife: "Like I said, some people will die."

Scream 7 (2026)

*/****
starring Neve Campbell, Isabel May, Jasmin Savoy Brown, Courteney Cox
screenplay by Kevin Williamson and Guy Busick
directed by Kevin Williamson

by Walter Chaw Follow me for a second: If you were of limited morality, you would make the decisions that went into Scream 7. And as a person of limited morality, it’s very possible, nay, probable, that you lack some of your factory-allotted share of human empathy. Depending on the kind of asshole you are, you may even lack empathy altogether, thus qualifying you for corporate management and elected positions. Likely, you’ve become quite wealthy on the backs of others. But without empathy, you’re incapable of creating or understanding art, and so you make the decisions that went into Scream 7. Your cultural analogue is the bad guy from The Incredibles, Syndrome. You, who pray for machines to do what others do naturally, so that others will look at you the way they look at them. You, who are arrested at the point in childhood when you watched gifted but otherwise less-privileged kids outpace you in every measurable category. Still, it’s not the same, is it? You know you weren’t born exceptional, and your jealousy makes you shrunken and vile. Now everyone else suffers for your mediocrity.

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?

Rachel McAdams looming with a spear: "Abolish ICE"

Send Help (2026)

**½/****
starring Rachel McAdams, Dylan O’Brien, Edyll Ismail, Dennis Haysbert
written by Damian Shannon & Mark Swift
directed by Sam Raimi

by Walter Chaw It’s broad. Obvious broad. So broad that I suspect if you got too close to it, holes would start to appear, like graphics in a 16-bit video game. But for a year that’s started this dismally, this inhumanely, this dominated-by-the-little-men-who-rule-us, who respond to any perceived humiliation–especially from the women they’re trained to fear and despise–with deadly tantrums, Sam Raimi’s Send Help has the benefit of being bang on the nose. Its central manbaby is failson nepo-CEO Bradley (Dylan O’Brien), a hissable villain who likes to sexually harass women at work while elevating old frat buddies into powerful positions within the business his father founded. It’s hard to suss whether Bradley’s company is meant to have a real-world analogue because, in truth, it could be a vicious skewering of any number of companies run by little princes who inherited the role, then used every one of their bad traits to maintain their position as petty kings of a shit castle. A tiny-dicked morlock exactly like Bradley convinced me to stop climbing the ladder and start questioning the way our society programs us to believe that salaries and titles are tantamount to morality and accomplishment, when in reality they’re more often evidence of the opposite. Capitalism is WOPR’s conundrum: the only way to win is not to play the game.

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.

Hudson and Jackman performing on stage: "Girl, You’ll Have an Oscar Soon"

Song Sung Blue (2025)

*/****
starring Hugh Jackman, Kate Hudson, Fisher Stevens, Jim Belushi
based on the documentary Song Sung Blue by Greg Kohs
written and directed by Craig Brewer

by Walter Chaw I wonder sometimes about movies like Craig Brewer’s Song Sung Blue, the “live-action” version, if you will, of a documentary about a popular pair of Wisconsin wedding singers and the surprisingly “VH1 Behind the Music”-friendly arc of their career. What I wonder is: Who wants this? Is there still pleasure in patronizing yokel-sploitation? Still meat left to worry on this feature-length Marty and Bobbi Mohan-Culp bone? It’s the Golden Corral of movies: emotionally un-taxing and mentally affordable, a determinedly middlebrow bellwether for class-coded nostalgia that reassures no matter how bad things are going for you, they’re going worse for some other good, hard-working, God-fearing folks out there. It’s not that one’s taking pleasure in the suffering of Thunder (Kate Hudson) and Lightning (Hugh Jackman), see, it’s that one’s taking pleasure in the fact that their suffering is not only more humiliating, protracted, and public than our own, but also inspiring. Always that.

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.

Mackey smiling in a limo: "Well, my next one will be better!"

Ella McCay (2025)

½*/****
starring Emma Mackey, Jamie Lee Curtis, Kumail Nanjiani, Woody Harrelson
written and directed by James L. Brooks

by Walter Chaw I wonder if there’s an easy answer to the question of what the fuck happened to James L. Brooks. The James L. Brooks who created “The Mary Tyler Moore Show” and “Taxi”. Who never made a movie in which I couldn’t at least see bits of the Brooks I have always loved, up to and including the one that started out as a musical. Even motherscratching Spanglish–which is terrible, sure, but has its virtues in retrospect–or How Do You Know, which, although I’ve largely blocked it out, didn’t rub me wrong like his latest does. What happened to the man behind Broadcast News, my favourite film of the 1980s while I’m watching it (a thing I try to do at least once a year)? That James L. Brooks. Ella McCay, Brooks’s first movie in well over a decade, is dreadful. It’s his Megalopolis: an elderly attempt at reckoning with the fall of the American Empire that is neither sharp enough to fully recognize the gravity of the current moment nor stout enough to deal with it meaningfully even if it were. It’s like trying to cut a garden hose with a soup spoon. Maybe whatever pixie dust Polly Platt sprinkled on her collaborators to make them almost as brilliant as she was finally wore off. Maybe it’s just time, the great equalizer. We’re bound to lose with age not only physical vigour, but also the edge of wit and the ability to ken when you’ve lost the thread–and the room along with it.

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.

Lee Byung-hun raising a plant pot over his head: "But can you do *that*, RFK Jr.?"

No Other Choice (2025)

어쩔수가없다
****/****

starring Lee Byung-hun, Son Yejin, Park Hee-soon, Lee Sung-min
screenplay by Park Chan-wook, Lee Kyoung-mi, Don McKellar, Jahye Lee, based upon the novel The Ax by Donald E. Westlake
directed by Park Chan-wook

by Walter Chaw I was a fan of Donald Westlake from a young age. It was his Parker books, of course, the gateway drug to his other meticulously crafted crime novels. I always liked him more than Ed McBain and Elmore Leonard, admiring his invisible prose, that magical ability he shares with Stephen King to write things that read as if they were written without the intermediary of text. Straight into the vein and doesn’t leave a mark. I kept up with Westlake through college and beyond. I read The Ax the year I moved in with the girl who became my wife. Based on the title, I was expecting Westlake’s inevitable transition into splatterpunk–a hardcore slasher, perhaps. What I got was a wry takedown of capitalism uncomfortably close to the reality I was choosing by settling down, getting married, and getting a job working for someone else. I didn’t see the connection then, but I’ve thought about The Ax off and on over the past 28 years. Still married, two kids college-aged, several recessions, bailouts, disastrous administrations… A series of jobs where I shot up the ladder before stepping off because I couldn’t reconcile what was required to succeed with the image I had of myself as a person. Every time I hit rock bottom, The Ax was waiting with that shit-eating, “toldja so” grin.

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.

Jeremy Allen White as the Boss: "I’m a fancy-ass chef, what’s a boy to do?/Locked myself in the freezer, at the end of season two"

Springsteen: Deliver Me from Nowhere (2025)

**½/****
starring Jeremy Allen White, Jeremy Strong, Paul Walter Hauser, Stephen Graham
based on Deliver Me from Nowhere: The Making of Bruce Springsteen’s Nebraska, by Warren Zanes
written and directed by Scott Cooper

by Walter Chaw There are a handful of untouchable albums; Bruce Springsteen’s Nebraska is one of them. It’s a record that didn’t make a lick of sense to me until it did, and then, once it did, burrowed in, insinuating and close. It occupies a place in my heart with Tom Waits’s Swordfishtrombones and Neil Young’s After the Gold Rush: chronicles of broken men adrift in cold shoals constructed from their own inadequacy, in love with women who deserve better. If you alternate Nebraska with Suicide‘s self-titled debut (itself an all-timer), they play like a double album, given how deeply the one influenced the other. A couple of tracks on the Boss’s project function as sequels to tracks on Suicide‘s masterpiece; another even sounds like a remake. That’s what Nebraska is: a masterpiece–and a conversation. It’s this dark postcard from the edge where Springsteen teetered for a while. He would have fallen in, I think, if he didn’t have this project tethering him to the earth. Nebraska is a chronicle of depression delivered directly from a battered Gibson J-200 into a four-track TEAC 144 Portastudio cassette recorder in the Colts Neck, New Jersey bedroom of some guy who’s at once the most miserable and most successful he’s ever been.

Aziz Ansari and a winged Keanu Reeves outside a Denny's: "No one can be told what Denny's is, you have to see it for yourself."

Good Fortune (2025)

*/****
starring Seth Rogen, Aziz Ansari, Keke Palmer, Keanu Reeves
written and directed by Aziz Ansari

by Walter Chaw Comedians can be great educators. They speak truth to power. They needle inconsistencies and hypocrisies to light like splinters coaxed from the body politic. Charlie Chaplin. George Carlin, of course. Richard Pryor, Lenny Bruce, Lucille Ball, Mary Tyler Moore–just the beginning of a roll call of storied court jesters attached to naked emperors. There are good modern examples, too, even ones who didn’t perform in Riyadh at the discretion of a homicidal regime fond of public beheadings, dismembering American journalists, and, you know, brutally punishing women who dare to challenge the status quo. And then there’s Riyadh headliner Aziz Ansari, who has made a career of playing the most irritating side character in other people’s stuff, parlaying whatever fame that earns a person into the smart, at times surprisingly raw three-season dramedy “Master of None”. There’s some depth to Ansari, it appears, despite his being the weakest part–whinging, facile, fast-talking, insincere–of his own strong project. Orson Welles famously said about Woody Allen:

After the Hunt group setting: Garfield and Friends

After the Hunt (2025)

**/****
starring Julia Roberts, Ayo Edibiri, Andrew Garfield, Michael Stuhlbarg
written by Nora Garrett
directed by Luca Guadagnino

by Angelo Muredda SPOILER WARNING IN EFFECT. “It happened at Yale,” an onscreen caption proclaims at the start of Luca Guadagnino’s After the Hunt, a handsomely-mounted but undisciplined culture-war sampler platter. The film is the unruly if rarely boring child born of the intellectual marriage between the Guadagnino who saw Dario Argento’s Suspiria and imagined a 150-minute adaptation about postwar Germany and longtime actor and first-time screenwriter Nora Garrett, who told BUSTLE that After the Hunt was inspired by her time in a pair of online philosophy courses in the early days of the pandemic about “how to live morally in what often feels like an immoral world.” What exactly happened to inspire a feature-length reflection on morality is not defined with much precision in After the Hunt, which prefers to raise an assortment of questions about race, gender, and privilege in higher education with the nuance of an edgelord podcaster thinking out loud rather than look directly at a concrete example of those mechanics at, say, Yale. But if a low-stakes psychological thriller about well-dressed academics in immaculate cream suits and rumpled chambray shirts with not one but two beautiful minimalist apartments is what you’re after, you could do worse.

Rebecca Ferguson on the phone: “No, I don’t want gluten-free crust, we’re all about to be incinerated anyway.”

A House of Dynamite (2025)

**/****
starring Idris Elba, Rebecca Ferguson, Gabriel Basso, Jared Harris
written by Noah Oppenheim
directed by Kathryn Bigelow

by Walter Chaw Stanley Kubrick tried to tell the story of Dr. Strangelove straight until he realized how funny the end of the world is, especially as it will inevitably be ushered in by the stupidest people on the planet. See, playing a game where the only winning move is not to play defines its contestants as idiots. Indeed, there’s an essential hilarity, a baked-in hyperbolic overreaction, to just the idea of a nuclear apocalypse that makes it surprisingly difficult to frame the premise as serious drama. The movie that might come closest is Roger Donaldson’s Thirteen Days, but only in its DVD incarnation under the short-lived “infinifilm” imprimatur, which branched to extracurricular documentary or archival materials that made watching the film very much like attending an entertaining and informative seminar on the Cuban Missile Crisis. By itself, it’s light in the britches: a Kennedy-impersonation contest with a stolid Kevin Costner along for the ride. Yes, the made-for-television movies The Day After, The War Game, Threads, and Testament are uniformly excellent, but they’re focused on the aftermath of nuclear apocalypse. Ditto the not-made-for-TV When the Wind Blows, The Quiet Earth, and On the Beach.

DiCaprio on a pay phone in sunglasses: "Hello, ICE tip hotline? Baba Booey!"

One Battle After Another (2025)

****/****
starring Leonardo DiCaprio, Sean Penn, Benicio Del Toro, Regina Hall
written and directed by Paul Thomas Anderson

by Walter Chaw One Battle After Another feels like contraband. It’s the sort of movie the Ministry of Culture would ban before offering the position of Head of the Ministry of Culture to its director. A Fritz Lang situation, if you will, where a nation-under-siege’s Best shoot their shot before being silenced or recruited–or they escape in the last crepuscular years before the curtain finally drops. It’s impolite. It’s outraged about what’s obviously outrageous and outspoken at a time when most everyone else is stunned into silence or cowed into surrender. It’s as sick of the bullshit as you are. A miracle, then. Or it feels like a miracle, anyway. Depending on how things go, we could eventually be talking about it the way we talk about Marcel Carné’s Children of Paradise. Do I exaggerate? If I do, it’s only by degrees. We are all in this pot together, and it’s hotter than you think. Not noticing has brought us to where we are: bright red and just south of parboiled. Do you notice? Paul Thomas Anderson does.

David Jonsson and Cooper Hoffman, fg, in The Long Walk

The Long Walk (2025)

**½/****
starring Cooper Hoffman, David Jonsson, Charlie Plummer, Mark Hamill
screenplay by JT Mollner, based on the book by Stephen King writing as Richard Bachman
directed by Francis Lawrence

by Walter Chaw SPOILER WARNING IN EFFECT. My least favourite thing is to go after something I mostly agree with, made by people who seem well-intentioned despite failing to recognize their dangerous biases. Francis Lawrence’s The Long Walk nails who we are right now: a nation that leads the world in pride and trails the field in things to be proud of. A nation crowdfunding life-saving healthcare while bankrolling genocide. A nation where dozens of billionaires control the same amount of wealth as the millions of everyone else. Last I checked, the thing America laps every other industrialized country at is the percentage of our adult population that believes in angels. Throughout The Long Walk, the cartoonish Major (Mark Hamill), channelling the spirit of Sgt. Rock, lets loose with jingoistic statements about the greatness of these United States and how it will one day, through a baptism of blood and the violent suppression of generations of hope and self-worth, be great again. It’s “IRONIC” spelled out in blazing letters across a dystopian sky, like the fireworks that greet our heroes after their long walk–but what is irony when it’s just the facts? What is satire when we are beyond satire?

Honey Don’t! (2025)

Honey Don’t! (2025)

*/****
starring Margaret Qualley, Aubrey Plaza, Charlie Day, Chris Evans

written by Ethan Coen & Tricia Cooke
directed by Ethan Coen

by Walter Chaw Ethan Coen and Tricia Cooke have a mission, and that mission is apparently to make affected, arch neo-noir “comedies” showcasing angry cunnilingus and the sense of humour that, in tiny doses, gave Ethan’s collaborations with his brother Joel a soupçon of bitterness. Without what seems to be Joel’s humanism to leaven what appears to be Ethan’s misanthropy, the residue left at the bottom of this cup is bitter to the point of repugnant. Flying solo, Ethan comes across as the kind of kid who inflates a toad to pop it with a slingshot for yuks. In some ways, Honey Don’t! is a definitive film for our era of nihilism, this generation of people becoming dead inside. It’s an endurance challenge, our Freddy Got Fingered, a sociopath by any other name. Remember that scene in Fargo where the wife tries to run away from her captors with her hands tied behind her back and her head covered by a hood? How she stumbles around in a confused circle before tripping and falling, causing kidnapper Steve Buscemi to laugh uproariously? Imagine an entire movie that is just that. Cruel. Mean. Tying-tin-cans-to-a-dog’s-tail mean. It’s aggressively nasty in a way I find punishing, and it’s scary because I suspect Coen and Cooke have enrichment on their minds. I think they’re doing this to force the “normies” to put some respect on alternative lifestyles. I think they’re doing it because they think the way to do that is to push our noses into our own sick.

Little boy in clown makeup at the back of an underlit classroom: "There's always a class clown."

Weapons (2025)

****/****
starring Julia Garner, Josh Brolin, Alden Ehrenreich, Amy Madigan
written and directed by Zach Cregger

by Walter Chaw Zach Cregger’s Weapons is joy. It’s nostalgia without an obvious antecedent, capturing the phenomena of “hiraeth” for a sensibility raised on weird pulp and Halloween. If nostalgia is the last deposit with cultural veins still rich enough to mine, this is the way to do it. Weapons is the best Ray Bradbury adaptation there has ever been; while it’s not actually based on any of his stuff, one could argue it shares roots with 1962’s “Boys! Raise Giant Mushrooms in Your Cellar!”, 1948’s “The October Game”, and 1952’s “April Witch”. There are infernal images here snatched from modern sources as well. In its general (sub)urban chaos scene, it rivals the incomparable opening 10 minutes of Zack Snyder’s Dawn of the Dead reboot. In its after-hours-in-familiar-places dread, it mirrors Tobe Hooper’s Salem’s Lot and the indelible midnight classroom set-piece from Demián Rugna’s When Evil Lurks. But the engine driving it, that coalesces these tantalizingly familiar bits and pieces into a toothsome meal, is the same thing that animates Stephen King’s work: a clever and nimble manipulation of the uncanny. Comedians (Cregger co-founded the comedy troupe “The Whitest Kids U’Know”), the good ones, boast that same gift for inserting the absurd into the mundane. The line between horror and laughter is so slight, there almost isn’t one. In Weapons, it’s the clown where your wife should be, dinner guests who don’t ever speak and refuse to leave, the obvious witch showing up for a parent/teacher conference. Terrifying in the moment, but funny…should you survive. Weapons made me feel like I was a seventh grader ripping through It over a long weekend in the fall of 1986 again. As with most things made only for me, I suspect it has delights for everybody.

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.