The family in The End of Oak Street with their legs in potato sacks. Patriarch Ewan McGregor tells them: "“George Lucas used to make us do potato-sack races at gunpoint!”

The End of Oak Street (2026)

***/****
starring Anne Hathaway, Ewan McGregor, Maisy Stella, Christian Convery
written and directed by David Robert Mitchell

by Walter Chaw David Robert Mitchell’s The End of Oak Street feels like a lost Spielberg film. There’s a two-year gap in Steven Spielberg’s filmography between 1941 (1979) and Raiders of the Lost Ark (1981), and that’s the slot in which this most slavishly Spielbergian film since J.J. Abrams’s Super 8 belongs. It’s the space where Spielberg was reeling from his first commercial and critical failure–where he might have been taking stock of what it was that really worked about Jaws and Close Encounters of the First Kind. Mitchell’s film is essentially an amalgam of the pedal-to-the-floor set-piece structure of Raiders of the Lost Ark and the suburban idealization of its follow-up, E.T.–the birth moment of a style so distinctive, it will be the first thing even non-cinephiles notice about this film. “I’ve been here before…” they will think. Collective cinematic hiraeth: if you were raised in this culture, this is the childhood you remember. Period-appropriate mom jeans and dad workout shorts with tube socks? Check. Squabbling tween siblings? Check, check. Suburban milieu patrolled by adorable dogs and kids on Schwinns? Man, you know that’s a Roger. There’s also a lovely moment early on where a young woman’s head is framed so perfectly by a lens flare (a quintessential Spielberg visual hallmark that works like an artist’s signature now) that she looks, appropriately, like a sacred Giotto illumination, complete with glorious harp arpeggios on the soundtrack. Many will call The End of Oak Street a spiritual sequel to Jurassic Park, but it’s more a Spielbergian take on Stephen King’s novella The Mist, except instead of fucked-up other-dimensional monsters, the beasties invading the aggressively WASPy middle-class enclave of the title are Late Cretaceous dinosaurs. It’s everything you’d want from a movie. Even my favourite dinosaur, Isaac from “The Love Boat”, makes a cameo on a television running in the background of a Spielberg™ family dinner scene.

Einbinder and Anderson in a movie theatre, projector light behind them: "Somehow, watching teenagers get impaled feels good in a place like this"

Teenage Sex and Death at Camp Miasma (2026)

***/****
starring Hannah Einbinder, Gillian Anderson, Jack Haven, Patrick Fischler
written and directed by Jane Schoenbrun

by Angelo Muredda “You talk about it so academically,” reclusive actress Billy Presley (Gillian Anderson) chides filmmaker Kris Williams (Hannah Einbinder) about her pitch to revive the slasher series the former anchored in her youth early on in Jane Schoenbrun’s Teenage Sex and Death at Camp Miasma. Rather than being about gender trouble, the pleasure principle, and whatever other high concepts the millennial theory kid Kris might bring to her meta reboot of the not-so-storied Camp Miasma franchise, the actual films, Billy insists, are about something concrete: “flesh and fluids.” Schoenbrun, a neurotic queer filmmaker with an abiding love for genre and a knack for mediating that love through smart metafictional narratives about trans and nonbinary identity, could certainly do worse for an authorial self-insert than Einbinder, whose sexually stunted, voraciously consuming (both movies and candy) Sundance wunderkind Kris is lovably guileless. But preemptively owning up to their own tendency to intellectualize the base pleasures of pulp art doesn’t fully take the sting out of Billy’s criticism, as far as Teenage Sex and Death at Camp Miasma itself is concerned. At once an agreeably campy horror-comedy, an arch portrait of the creative compromises of queer mid-budget filmmaking, and a subtextually ripe queer coming-of-age melodrama-cum-slasher about a fictional trans killer resolving an aloof artist’s hangups about sex and death, Teenage Sex and Death at Camp Miasma is as baroque as its ostentatious title suggests. If it’s ultimately less than the sum of its parts, and not as emotionally gratifying as Schoenbrun’s previous two features, then at least there’s plenty of flesh and fluid behind its more inspired elements.

Tirion Healy peering out from behind a wall in Insectasy

Fantasia Festival ’26: Home Bodies; Godhead; Insectasy

HOME BODIES
*/****
starring Emma Ho, Ian Ho, Ess Hödlmoser
written by Adrian Murray, Marcus Sullivan
directed by Casey Walker

GODHEAD
**½/****
starring Sarah Coffey, Kimball Farley, Luke Speakman, Al Warren
written and directed by Mark H. Rapaport

INSECTASY
***½/****
starring Sadie Healy, Lyndall Huber, Jan Roeth, Emmett Roiko
written and directed by Angus Silver

by Walter Chaw Casey Walker, producer of 2024’s breakout arthouse slasher In a Violent Nature, directs Home Bodies, a William Sleator-inflected two-hander starring real-life brother and sister Ian and Emma Ho. They play “Blue” and “Red,” respectively (their names also the colours of their respective jumpsuits), siblings holed up in a well-appointed, multi-room apartment with only each other and a CRT television that’s always broadcasting a puppet-based kids’ show as diversion. Is there any significance to the colours beyond their gendered connotation? Not that I could tell. Blue and Red have a “father” (voiced by Walker) who is a light in a closet that talks to them, and to whom they report their moods and activities now and then. And for a while, they have a mute “friend” called Pal (Ess Hödlmoser), who moves around like a person pretending to be a creepy robot. Is Pal a robot? Doesn’t seem to matter. One day, over a game of “hide and find,” Blue does an awful thing that makes Father angry with them, meaning he stops feeding them and (invisibly) maintaining their environment. Really, what Blue does is not that awful, relative to our understanding of this game’s poorly established rules.

The eponymous Samurai and the Prisoner talking privately: "And you say this “sex purge” is for one night only?"

The Samurai and the Prisoner (2026)

黒牢城
***½/****
starring Masahiro Motoki, Masaki Suda, Yuriko Yoshitaka
written by Kiyoshi Kurosawa, based on the novel by Honobu Yonezawa
directed by Kiyoshi Kurosawa

by Angelo Muredda The obscure motive behind samurai Araki Murashige’s decision to abandon his besieged castle is the first puzzle of many for us to work through in Kiyoshi Kurosawa’s pleasantly twisty The Samurai and the Prisoner. Adapted from the prize-winning 2021 novel by Honobu Yonezawa, the film marks a number of firsts for the master of modern urban alienation, despite the familiar hook of an unsolved mystery. The dense, knotty text finds Kurosawa transplanting something of the creeping gloom of works like Charisma and Pulse onto a period drama that is atypically centred not on humble citizens like low-level yakuza (Serpent’s Path), factory workers (Bright Future), or police officers (Cure and Retribution), but on real historical figures of power and consequence. Though it’s as stately and poised as his contemporary work, Kurosawa’s rare period piece is also an uncharacteristically loquacious affair for him, successfully splitting the difference between a traditional jidaigeki–a dialogue-heavy costume drama set in feudal Japan–and a season of “Columbo”, complete with talking killers and shrewd detectives playing dumb to solicit confessions.

A stoic Jun Ji-hyun surrounded by zombies

Fantasia Festival ’26: Colony

군체
Gunche

***½/****
starring Jun Ji-hyun, Koo Kyo-hwan, Ji Chang-wook, Kim Shin-rok
written by Yeon Sang-ho, Choi Gyu-seok
directed by Yeon Sang-ho

by Walter Chaw Colony is Yeon Sang-ho’s return to the zombie feature (after Train to Busan and its animated sequel, Peninsula), a rip-roaring, often fascinating treatise on tech bros, social media, and the dangerous resolve of the mob. Per its name, Yeon’s zombies are hive animals–like ants, for instance, or bees–who gain a communal intelligence through an invisible, scent-based or possibly mycelial network. Using it, they learn from one another how to be better hunters and better evangelists for their “eat of my body, drink of my blood” contagion. They have done what Catholics once feared film could do. Colony‘s BigBad, in the final analysis, is the dangerous ability to connect with a group of people scattered around the world who agree with your worst ideas. When you were a lunatic incel moron creep in the pre-Internet era, you were shunned and disgraced. As it should be. Now? Now if you’re a deranged, flat-earthing, creationist Christian Scientist weirdo, you buy a red hat and join your fuckwit brethren looking for a golden idol who will piss on your adoring, upturned face. Consider how LLM chatbots are merely the poison of external validation mechanized for inhuman efficiency. People will still get tired of you, no matter how proudly you wear your prejudice and ignorance as a personality. An LLM will never get sick of your stupid, violent, grandiose delusions. Yeah, we’re double-fucked.

Rupert Grint look down through a large hole in his floor

Fantasia Festival ’26: Nightborn

***/****
starring Seidi Haarla, Rupert Grint, Pamela Tola, Pirkko Saisio
written by Hannah Bergholm, Ilja Rautsi
directed by Hannah Bergholm

by Walter Chaw I wanted to like Hannah Bergholm’s crimson-spattered folk horror Nightborn more than I did. It is, after all, the kind of thing I like: a Finnish changeling fable that leans heavily into the Czech otesánek fairytale (memorably immortalized by Jan Švankmajer via his freakout masterpiece Little Otik), with a heavy dose of Rosemary’s Baby to spice the hunter’s stew of it. It joins Lynne Ramsay’s Die My Love as another stunning essay on post-partum marriage and navigating the shock and condemnation new mothers face when they don’t behave the way they should, and it boasts a monstrous child who conjures up memories for me of reading Ray Bradbury’s “Small Assassin” as a kid myself. Both Nightborn and Die My Love–not to mention Mary Bronstein’s If I Had Legs, I’d Kick You–are portraits of “difficult” women taken for granted, despised and ignored, by the people who should love them most. If Nightborn hums with the same ferocious, infernal energy as those films, it ultimately falls short by not putting enough faith in subtext. Its richness is in the complexity of its metaphor; why not leave it as metaphor? Trust in the audience’s ability to accept ambiguity marks the difference between a neat little exercise and a haunting masterwork.

Kristine Froseth taking a selfie in a luxury space

Fantasia Festival ’26: Her Private Hell

****/****
starring Sophie Thatcher, Charles Melton, Havana Rose Liu, Dougray Scott
written by Nicolas Winding Refn and Esti Giordani
directed by Nicolas Winding Refn

by Walter Chaw Fantasia 2026 opens with another gauzy, roiling, Tsai Ming-liang via Mario Bava psychosexual dreamscape from Nicolas Winding Refn. Her Private Hell, Refn’s first feature since 2016’s The Neon Demon, plays in the same sandbox: It’s easy to imagine the gamine, fledgling model played by a blonde Elle Fanning in that film evolving into Her Private Hell‘s brunette “Elle” (Sophie Thatcher), a filmmaker burning through a variety of gaudy facial accessories that hide the essential emptiness of her expression. Her Private Hell is no less stunned, soporific–a feature-length version of the rhapsodic shower sequences from Brian De Palma’s Carrie and Dressed to Kill. Given that composer Pino Donaggio has been recruited to provide the film with a swooning score dripping with harp arpeggios and syrupy strings, I suspect the comparison to De Palma’s oeuvre is more artifact than accident.

Disclosure Day (2026)

Disclosure Day (2026)

***/****
starring Emily Blunt, Josh O’Connor, Colin Firth, Colman Domingo
screenplay by David Koepp
directed by Steven Spielberg

by Walter Chaw Disclosure Day is Steven Spielberg’s Megalopolis: a cri de cœur from an old man using the entirety of his bag of tricks to persuade, to incense, to cajole a stunned generation into collective action. The villains of both films are billionaires with secrets and outsized influence in government, while the heroes are visionaries, truth-tellers, products of trauma, struggling to wake from the nightmare of the last twenty years. My fear is that Spielberg has overestimated his influence, as Coppola did–that he believes his passion will peanut-butter over the cracks in this narrative; that he’s unaware, perhaps, of how elderly–how frightened and out-of-touch–he sounds when ripping from the headlines. Spielberg’s singular importance to the formation of modern film history does nothing to keep him from aging out of the cultural moment. But he has been singular. Indeed, although he may have equals in his technical mastery of the medium, no one has ever been his superior.

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.

A shark fin poking out of the water, a plane about to crash: "Here comes my DoorDash, right on time."

Thrash (2026) + Deep Water (2026)

THRASH
*/****

starring Phoebe Dynevor, Whitney Peak, Djimon Hounsou
written and directed by Tommy Wirkola

DEEP WATER
***/****

starring Aaron Eckhart, Angus Sampson, Molly Belle Wright, Ben Kingsley
screenplay by Pete Bridges and Shayne Armstrong & SP Krause and Damien Power
directed by Renny Harlin

by Walter Chaw If the first stories we told each other in those caves were warnings–horror by any other name–then it’s a good idea to wonder what kind of warning our horror entertainments are desperate to communicate. Since they’re expressions of the subconscious surfing the (literally) bleeding edge of the zeitgeist, they must reveal something about our common fears. Why was The Exorcist a box-office phenomenon? Or The Blair Witch Project? We think it’s our choice, what we make and what we want to see, but it’s not. Not entirely. When we speak of the scale of time in human evolution, we are after all just a flicker of an eyeblink removed from hunting and gathering in a primal night. That being said, monsters in movies are reliable bellwethers indicating a specific pollutant in the collective swamp, and the classic ones resurface when the environment is most conducive to their survival. The latest Frankenstein riffs reframe Mary Shelley’s story as the first salvo against the hubris-driven creation of artificial intelligences. Recent adaptations of Dracula couldn’t help but be allegories for evil foreigners buying up real estate and perving on our women. Now, a couple of new films join last year’s Dangerous Animals, the upcoming Chum, the deathless Sharknado franchise, and still others in asking the question: why have so many shark movies arrived in a toothy school all at once?

Close-up of a harried Samara Weaving: "Coming back to where you started is not the same as never Weaving"

Ready or Not (2019) + Ready or Not 2: Here I Come (2026)

READY OR NOT
***½/****
starring Samara Weaving, Adam Brody, Mark O’Brien, Andie MacDowell
written by Guy Busick & Christopher Murphy
directed by Matt Bettinelli-Olpin & Tyler Gillett

READY OR NOT 2: HERE I COME
**/****
starring Samara Weaving, Kathryn Newton, Sarah Michelle Gellar, Elijah Wood
written by Guy Busick & Christopher Murphy
directed by Matt Bettinelli-Olpin & Tyler Gillett

by Walter Chaw There’s an old chestnut that you can always tell who we’re going to war with next by the villains in our mass entertainments. I hope that’s true, because over the past few years, the bad guys in movies have been explicitly and almost exclusively the rich. No warfare except class warfare, amiright? That’s one of the reasons I loved Tyler Gillett and Matt Bettinelli-Olpin’s 2019 thriller Ready or Not, a key example of the dam breaking in the proletariat’s tolerance for the excesses of the bourgeoisie. It’s also a crackerjack horror contraption that establishes fresh lore without making lore the purpose of its existence, and it minted a genre superstar in Samara Weaving following years of strong showings in cult triumphs (like The Babysitter, Mayhem, and Guns Akimbo). Should the Evil Dead series get another reboot, Weaving is the natural heir to Bruce Campbell’s throne, possessed of the same A-list good looks, the same elastic expressiveness, the same gift for slapstick and self-effacing sense of humour.* Ready or Not really feels like a modern screwball classic–a genre metastasis of the marriage comedies of the 1940s, starring the new Carole Lombard and a few gallons of blood.

All the President’s Men (1976) – 4K Ultra HD + Digital Code

All the President’s Men (1976) – 4K Ultra HD + Digital Code

Please note, the film and Blu-ray portions of this review were originally published on October 7, 2012.-Ed.

****/****
BD – Image A Sound B Extras A
4K UHD – Image A Sound A Extras A-
starring Robert Redford, Dustin Hoffman, Jack Warden, Jason Robards
screenplay by William Goldman, based on the book by Carl Bernstein and Bob Woodward
directed by Alan J. Pakula 

by Walter Chaw The final film in director Alan J. Pakula’s loose “paranoia trilogy,” All the President’s Men does the impossible by making heroes of newspaper reporters and a thriller out of telephone calls and follow-up interviews. Based on Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein’s exposé of the Watergate Scandal and President Richard Nixon’s involvement in felonious dirty tricks, it’s more than just a cunningly-crafted docudrama–it’s a key film in the best era of the medium’s history. It’s a picture that highlights the period’s mistrust in our leadership while establishing highly unconventional heroes for whom the stakes couldn’t possibly be higher. And though we know how it all works out, it seems more poignant for our knowing how everything works out.

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.

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.

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.

The Ugly/The Furious

TIFF ’25: The Ugly + The Furious

THE UGLY
*½/****

starring Park Jeong-min, Kwon Hae-hyo, Han Ji-hyeon, Shin Hyeon-bin
written by Yeon Sang-ho, based on his graphic novel Face
directed by Yeon Sang-ho

火遮眼
**½/****

starring Xie Miao, Joe Taslim, Yang Enyou, Brian Le
written by Frank Hui, Lei Zhilong, Tin Shu Mak, Kwan-Sin Shum, Aidan Parker
directed by Kenji Tanigaki

by Angelo Muredda In his 2007 book Aesthetic Nervousness: Disability and the Crisis of Representation, Ato Quayson suggests that disability “short-circuits” the protocols of representation, throwing into crisis all kinds of formal and thematic properties as a text struggles to account for its disruptiveness. If there’s a prize for the most aesthetic nervousness, or for a text whose nervousness about how to depict disability all but causes it to self-destruct, it ought to go to Train to Busan director Yeon Sang-ho’s dispiriting The Ugly. A slow-burn procedural mystery-thriller about a documentary crew and a son in arrested development getting to the bottom of a historical murder, The Ugly is thrown into a full-blown panic attack by the aesthetic challenge posed by something as simple as depicting its disabled characters moving through the world.

Wahlberg. The caption reads, "Make this quick, I have a 4am shower and then prayer and then a 4:30 shower and then family time"

Play Dirty (2025)

½*/****
starring Mark Wahlberg, LaKeith Stanfield, Rosa Salazar, Tony Shaloub
written by Charles Mondry & Anthony Bagarozzi
directed by Shane Black

by Walter Chaw It took me 72 hours to finish Shane Black’s Play Dirty, his long-gestating take on Donald Westlake’s Parker novels (written under his nom de plume, Richard Stark), which adapts no particular one of the 28 published but rather attempts to transplant the general vibe of the series into a complex, violent heist concept set in the current day. I can maybe get behind the idea of it. Especially since it began life as (or at least shares a title with) the legendary–and legendarily discarded–script for Lethal Weapon 2. You know, the one that Black, after getting paid a then-record six figures to write it, was asked to make less sadistic. A skosh lighter on the misanthropy, perhaps; a soupçon more likely to support a burgeoning franchise by, oh, not killing off the star, let’s say. I like Shane Black, for all his lapses in judgment and vile bedfellows. I think he has a way with hard-R action, and I’m a fan of his patter, his dense verbal humour, whose frat-boy sensibility I could rationalize until now. I’m starting to think it’s a reflection of someone not entirely capable of growing up. In other words, Black is feeling like an indictment of me, this child of the Blockbuster, holding on too long to my affection for one of my obnoxious uncles.

Paula Beers in a red convertible, looking skeptical

TIFF ’25: Miroirs No. 3

Mirrors No. 3
***/****
starring Paula Beer, Barbara Auer, Matthias Brandt, Enno Trebs
written and directed by Christian Petzold

by Angelo Muredda Not content to have already put his stamp on Vertigo with 2014’s postwar noir Phoenix, where an Auschwitz camp survivor and cabaret performer who’s undergone facial reconstruction surgery finds herself remade into the image of her former self by the scoundrel husband who sold her out to the Nazis, Mirrors No. 3 sees Christian Petzold delivering a lower-key riff on Alfred Hitchcock’s masterwork. An uncanny, tragicomic European idyll that improbably takes equal inspiration from Vertigo, Final Destination, Mulholland Drive, and Hansel and Gretel despite largely being set on sun-kissed porches and in open garages, Mirrors No. 3 is a beguiling, singularly strange picture that could only have been made by the simultaneously heady and easygoing German auteur.