NEW THIS WEEK (1/30) IN THEATERS, VOD AND/OR ON HOME VIDEO
IRON LUNG--The YouTube-to-cinema migration has produced curiosities before, but "Iron Lung" suggests the particular perils of translating a minimalist video game into a feature-length film. Directed by Mark Fischbach--who also stars under his online moniker Markiplier--it approaches a claustrophobic premise with sincerity and technical skill, yet emerges curiously airless. Adapted from David Szymanski’s stark indie game, the story strands a lone prisoner (Fischbach) inside a rusting submersible tasked with charting a vast ocean of blood on a distant moon. The vessel can't see outside, and navigation is conducted by instruments, grainy photographs and the dull terror of metal stressed past its limits. As missions accumulate, the submarine descends deeper while hints of something vast and sentient press against the hull. As director, Fischbach shows an evident command of sound design and production detail. The submarine set is tactile and convincingly grimy, and the best moments rely on noise, vibration and sudden silence rather than visual spectacle. Yet what works in short, player-driven YouTube bursts proves exhausting over two-plus hours. The script leans heavily on repetition, mistaking sustained tension for narrative development and the metaphysical gestures arrive with a thud of portentousness rather than dread.
Fischbach’s performance is earnest but limited, pinned to a narrow band of anxiety that rarely modulates. While aiming for cosmic horror, it lands closer to industrial malaise: an admirable experiment whose ambitions exceed its expressive range. (C.) https://youtu.be/tZ0JbnbWpQ8?si=18KzfMWfdDUQXBzM
ISLANDS--Sun-drenched and unsettling, German director Jan-Ole Gerster's initial foray into English-language cinema is an unsettling, sun-drenched thriller that unfolds like a mirage, an atmospheric tale of suspicion, desire and displacement. Sam Riley, best known for playing Joy Division frontman Ian Curtis in 2007's "Control," gives one of his best performances to date as Tom, a former professional tennis player whose career has slipped into obscurity. Now working as a pro at a Canary Islands resort, Tom fills his days with lessons for sunburned tourists and his nights in a blur of parties and brief liaisons--an endless summer that feels less like paradise and more like purgatory. Enter Anne, played by Stacy ("Nymphomaniac, Volume 1") Martin with a cool, enigmatic elegance who arrives with her husband Dave (Jack Farthing) and their young son Anton (Dylan Torrell). Inexplicably drawn to Anne, Tom agrees to give Anton private lessons, but the lines between professional courtesy and personal intrigue quickly blur. When Dave mysteriously vanishes after an evening out, the casual rhythms of island life give way to suspicion and Tom finds himself at the center of a police investigation that seems to hinge as much on his own emotional turmoil as the facts of the case. Gerster resists easy payoffs, allowing tension to accrue in the leisurely beats of a story that is at once a character study and a whodunit. The setting (sun-bleached beaches, late-night bars and the endless horizon of the Atlantic) becomes a silent participant reflecting Tom’s internal drift. Riley’s portrait of a man undone by regret and yearning finds a perfect foil in Martin’s inscrutable Anne whose motives remain tantalizingly opaque. It's a quietly powerful film that lingers like a horizon you can almost touch, but never quite reach. (A MINUS.) https://youtu.be/b-iT2YrZGnM?si=Gxj-NoWt2DMM_ZBs
SEND HELP--Sam ("The Evil Dead," "Spider-Man") Raimi’s stripped-down survival thriller arrives with the deceptive modesty of a two-hander and the mischievous assurance of a director who knows exactly how much tension he can wring from a palm tree, a broken ankle or a stray glance held a beat too long. it’s a wryly humane study of how people behave when there’s no one left to impress but the sea. The premise is elegantly simple. After their small plane goes down in the Pacific, two coworkers wash up on a remote island: a mousy office worker (Rachel McAdams) and her arrogant corporate fixer boss (Dylan O’Brien). With no hope of immediate rescue, they must ration supplies, tend to injuries and learn how to coexist in a place that offers neither privacy nor mercy. Raimi wastes no time on spectacle. The crash is over almost as soon as it begins; what matters is the aftermath and the slow, grinding work of staying alive. Raimi, returning to leaner productions after years of studio maximalism, stages the island as both physical trap and psychological arena. His camera finds unease in the ordinary mechanics of survival: opening a coconut, stitching a wound, deciding who gets the last mouthful of water. His predilection for jump-scares is still evident, but it’s tempered with patience. Suspense accumulates through character, not contrivance. McAdams gives a performance of flinty intelligence, letting control escalate in increments so small they’re almost imperceptible. O’Brien, playing against his usual affability, reveals a talent for quiet desperation, his toxic braggadocio slowly eroded by hunger and fear. Their chemistry is less romantic than adversarial, a chess match conducted under a merciless sun. “Send Help” is ultimately less about rescue than reckoning--about the stories people tell themselves to survive, and the harder truths they’re forced to confront when stories no longer suffice. (B PLUS.) https://youtu.be/0MhBUGRmWEM?si=MsjoSGZ0n-AZAmbm
SHELTER--The indomitable Jason Statham returns to the cinematic turf he's long made his own: the weather-beaten fringes of action filmmaking where existential solitude meets procedural danger. Directed by Ric Roman Waugh ("Greenland: Migration"), an old hand at muscular thrillers, trades mostly on his leading man's star wattage for something marginally more contemplative if still cozily familiar. Statham plays Mason, a former operative exiled to a windswept coastal outpost, as hermetic in temperament as he is isolated in geography. When he rescues a young girl from a tempestuous sea, the act of compassion becomes the catalyst for a chain of violence that insinuates Mason back into his carefully sequestered life, forcing him to reckon with ghosts he hoped were long buried. Waugh favors grounded, tactile action over the digital gloss that defines most contemporary thrillers and stages sequences with an eye for physicality that reflects his background in stunt work. The pacing--deliberate in its early stretches and building toward escalating confrontation--suggests an ambition to balance character development with plot propulsion. Supporting Statham is a cast that provides ballast to his weathered archetype. As the young girl whose fate becomes entwined with Mason's, Bodhi Rae Breathnach offers an emotive counterpoint to his taciturn survivalism. Seasoned actors Billy Nighy and Naomi Ackie imbue the material with intermittent depth although the script’s minimalism insures that their roles merely orbit Mason’s arc rather than fully inhabiting it. Trading in familiar thriller tropes (the reclusive anti-hero, a reluctant paternal bond and the inexorable return of a violent past), it displays the unshowy craftsmanship of Waugh’s previous work and Statham's reliable charisma. Visually the film leans into the austere beauty of its remote settings, and the thematic thrust--redemption through connection, isolation pierced by obligation--aspires to lend an emotional spine to the inevitable action scenes. Despite those ambitions, it rarely escapes the gravitational pull of genre cliches. It’s a movie where the pleasures are incremental rather than revelatory: the satisfying execution of a setpiece here, a moment of vulnerability there, all wrapped up in the assurance that Statham remains a reliable vessel for stories predicated on resilience and grit. (C PLUS.)
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AVATAR: FIRE AND ASH--In a saga that has grown increasingly ambitious, visually extravagant and thematically dense, "Fire and Ash" pivots from physiological explorations of ecosystems to a more mythic framing of its conflicts. Where "Avatar" (2009) introduced the lush alien wonder of Pandora and 2022's "The Way of Water" immersed viewers in its maritime cultures, this iteration pushes the narrative toward darker, more volatile terrain. The result is a mixed but fitfully engaging continuation: grand in intention, occasionally overwrought in execution and undeniably shaped by the legacy of the previous entries. Jake Sully (Sam Worthington) and Neytiri (Zoe Saldana) remain central, but the story increasingly focuses on their children whose competing instincts of loyalty, rebellion and self-discovery mirror Pandora’s own shifting tensions. This generational expansion succeeds in theory, yet the film sometimes struggles to distribute its weight emotionally. Some character arcs resonate, especially those tied to grief and responsibility, while others feel truncated amid the sprawling structure. Visually, director James Cameron continues to set technical benchmarks. The volcanic regions introduced are stunningly realized, contrasting sharply with the aquatic serenity of the previous installment. Action sequences are suitably massive, intricately choreographed and frequently overwhelming although the sensory overload sometimes overshadows character arcs that needed more room to breathe. One of the movie’s strengths is how it reframes the trilogy’s ongoing conflict between the Na’vi and human invaders. Rather than repeating earlier dynamics, "Fire and Ash" complicates them by emphasizing the fractures within both societies. However, some thematic threads--particularly those relating to spiritual communion and ecological trauma--repeat ideas the first two chapters handled with greater clarity. The cumulative effect is a sense of narrative transition that feels less like a standalone chapter and more like connective tissue toward the franchise’s endgame. Still, there's a compelling through-line anchored by the cast’s motion-captured performances and Cameron’s unwavering sincerity. Without matching the elegant simplicity of "Avatar" or the immersive novelty of "The Way of Water," it pushes the series into new emotional and visual terrain. (B.)
THE BREAKFAST CLUB--With 1985's "The Breakfast Club," John Hughes wasn’t merely chronicling the woes of high school detention; he was defining the emotional terrain of adolescence for an entire generation. Nearly four decades later, the film endures not just as an artifact of Reagan-era teen culture, but as a strikingly perceptive human study: funny, tender and unflinchingly honest about the fragile boundaries between identity and stereotype. Set almost entirely within the sterile walls of a suburban high school library, the story follows five students sentenced to spend a Saturday in detention. Each represents a familiar high school archetype: the brain (Anthony Michael Hall’s Brian), the athlete (Emilio Estevez’s Andrew), the princess (Molly Ringwald’s Claire), the criminal (Judd Nelson’s Bender), and the basket case (Ally Sheedy’s Allison). Under the watchful but indifferent eye of assistant principal Richard Vernon (Paul Gleason), these kids are expected to sit silently and “think about what they’ve done.” Instead, they slowly dismantle the labels that confine them and, in doing so, discover unexpected truths about themselves and one another. The movie’s genius lies in its simplicity. Hughes confines his characters to a single location, allowing the drama to unfold through talk rather than action. The setup, deceptively straightforward, becomes a pressure cooker in which defenses erode and emotions rise. The dialogue feels spontaneous and raw, yet it is meticulously crafted to reveal layers of fear, insecurity and longing beneath the surface bravado. Hughes captures the rhythms of adolescent speech without resorting to caricature, and his actors respond with performances that feel lived-in. Nelson, with Bender's swaggering defiance and glimpses of wounded pride, anchors the emotional center while Ringwald’s Claire brings poise and vulnerability to a role that could have been one-note. Hall delivers a quietly devastating portrait of intellectual anxiety and Sheedy’s Allison, initially mute and inscrutable, blossoms into the film’s biggest surprise. Estevez gives token jock Andrew an earnestness that makes his own reckoning with expectation and masculinity particularly affecting. Their chemistry feels organic as a group of disparate souls learn how listen to each other over the course of one long afternoon. Hughes’s direction is invisible in the best sense. He lets the camera linger, observes his characters in moments of awkward silence and trusts the audience to engage with their vulnerabilities. The soundtrack, anchored by Simple Minds’ now-iconic “Don’t You (Forget About Me),” captures the movie’s spirit of yearning and defiance. The music isn’t just background, it’s a statement of connection between viewer and character; a plea not to let adolescence, in all its confusion and hope, fade into irrelevance. A master class in empathy, its power comes from Hughes' refusal to trivialize teenage pain or to offer neat resolutions. When the characters leave the library, they do so changed, though perhaps only slightly, and that modest transformation feels utterly real. Hughes reminds us that the struggle to be understood, to escape the boxes others build around us, never truly ends. The film’s enduring resonance lies in that recognition: that every adult, however far removed from high school, carries within them the echo of that long Saturday spent trying to figure out who they are. The new Criterion Collection release includes both 4K and Blu-Ray copies of the movie as well as myriad bonus features. There's an audio commentary track with Nelson and Hall; standalone interviews featuring cast/crew members including Ringwald and Sheedy; a video essay featuring Hughes' production notes read by Nelson; fifty minutes of deleted and extended scenes; promotional/archival interviews; excerpts from a 1985 American Film Institute seminar with Hughes; Ringwald's audio interview from an episode of "This American Life;" a Hughes radio interview; and author/critic David Kamp's essay, "Smells Like Teen Realness." (A.)
HAMNET--Oscar-winning director Chloe ("Nomadland") Zhao's adaptation of Maggie O'Farrell's 2020 best-seller is a raw-boned, affecting exploration of grief, love and the creative process. Focusing on the tragic death of William Shakespeare's young son, Hamnet, and how it reverberates through his parents' lives, Zhao explores the tenderness of family life and the devastating weight of loss. As Agnes Shakespeare, Buckley delivers a performance of elemental force, summoning both fragility and ferocity in equal measure. Mescal's Will offers a quieter but complementary portrait, his anguish tethered to Shakespeare's creative restlessness as his pain inexorably fuels his art. Their chemistry helps give the movie a grounded realism. Cinematographer Łukasz Żal's lush, tactile lensing frames forest and home in a way that feels both timeless and immediate. And Zhao balances poetic stillness with emotional urgency, giving space for small moments--a touch, a glance, the way light falls on fabric--that carry as much emotional weight as the big dramatic scenes. While the elegiac pacing can feel overly deliberate at times, it ultimately serves the meditative tone. The payoff, especially in the devastating final scenes, is deeply cathartic as Zhao transforms personal sorrow into universal resonance. In mourning her child, Agnes becomes a vessel for something larger than herself and a reminder of how art and love emerge from human vulnerability. (A MINUS.)
THE HOUSEMAID--This glossy adaptation of Freida McFadden's best-selling novel marks an assured segue into psychological thrillers for director Paul Feig. Known primarily for raucous comedies (including "Bridesmaids" and "Spy"), Feig shows an assured grasp of mood, favoring restraint and atmosphere over easy shocks while letting the story's simmering tensions and sense of dread percolate. Sydney Sweeney plays Millie, a young woman who accepts a live-in housekeeping position at an upscale home that quickly proves too good to be true. Sweeney confidently balances vulnerability and watchfulness, making Millie’s cautious optimism feel earned rather than naïve. Amanda Seyfried delivers another knockout turn as Nina, her wealthy employer whose brittle charm and erratic behavior keep both Millie and the audience constantly off balance. Their dynamic is the movie's engine, a carefully calibrated push-and-pull of power, class and unspoken resentment. Rounding out the central trio is Nina's husband Andrew (Brandon Sklenar from "It Ends With Us" and "1923") whose genial exterior masks an unsettling ambiguity. Sklenar brings just enough warmth to remain plausible while subtle shifts in tone hint at deeper, er, complications. Sweeney, Seyfried and Sklenar expertly create a triangle of suspicion that neatly mirrors the novel’s slow-burn construction. The pacing allows unease to accumulate scene by scene, smartly preserving McFadden’s key plot reversals without tipping its hand too early. While it may not be reinventing the domestic thriller, Feig and his superb cast execute its familiar elements with laudable flair and conviction. (A MINUS.)
I KNOW WHERE I'M GOING--Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger’s 1945 masterpiece occupies a singular position within their extraordinary oeuvre, a film seemingly modest in scale yet profound in emotional resonance. Nestled chronologically between the wartime grandeur of "A Canterbury Tale" and the operatic intensity of "Black Narcissus," it stands as a transitional work that shows the filmmaking duo at their most playful, humane and deceptively daring. What begins as a romantic fable becomes a meditation on fate, desire and the subtle magic of place. The Archers were always fascinated by the interplay between inner longing and external environment, and "I Know" distills that theme with exquisite clarity. Rather than the stylization they'd later embrace, Powell and Pressburger craft a narrative built on wind, sea, mist and the rugged rhythms of the Hebrides. Yet their stylistic signatures--unexpected moments of fantasy, symbolic visual motifs and wry humor--appear in fully formed miniature. Both grounded and enchanted, it confirms that their artistry derived from the acute sensitivity with which they observed human nature. At the center of this enchantment stands Wendy Hiller whose performance is essential to the magic of the film. Playing Joan Webster, a fiercely determined young woman convinced she knows exactly what she wants, Hiller brings not only fierce intelligence but an emotional transparency that allows us to see Joan’s inner shift long before she consciously senses it herself. Hiller’s radiant presence anchors the movie’s spiritual and romantic journey. Her Joan is not merely an archetype of modern ambition, she's a woman discovering that certainty can be a trap and that deeper forms of happiness require vulnerability, humility and an openness to forces beyond one’s control. Hiller’s chemistry with Roger Livesey helps enrich this transformation, but it's her gradual surrender to the allure of landscape and community that gives the film its beating heart. Powell’s camera regards Hiller with admiration, never objectifying her but instead capturing the quick flashes of doubt and wonder that mark Joan’s awakening. In the broader context of Powell and Pressburger’s collaborations, this is a crucial work precisely because of its hushed intimacy. It demonstrates their ability to craft movies as emotionally expansive as their more visually lavish efforts while encapsulating the thematic concerns (romantic destiny, cultural collision, the mystical property of locations) that would echo throughout their latter pairings. Effortlessly charming yet deeply affecting, this remains one of The Archers’ most enduring achievements, a testament to their storytelling brilliance and to Wendy Hiller’s unforgettable luminosity. The Criterion Collection set features both 4K UHD and Blu-Ray copies as well as myriad extras including a demonstration of the painstaking restoration process by Powell enthusiast Martin Scorsese; an audio commentary featuring historian Ian Christie; Mark ("The History of Film") Cousins' 1994 documentary, "'I Know Where I'm Going' Revisited;" behind the scenes stills narrated by Powell's widow, editor Thelma Schoonmaker; Nancy Franklin's photo essay exploring locations used in the film; home movies from one of Powell's Scottish expeditions; and an essay by author/critic Imogen Sara Smith. (A PLUS.)
MARTY SUPREME--A dizzying, electrifying joy ride throbbing with ambition, madness and unexpected poignancy, Josh ("Uncut Gems," "Good Time") Safdie's staggering achievement is nothing short of a full-throttle masterpiece. From its very first frame, Safdie throws you into a world out of time: a 1950's New York City that feels mythic, vaguely surreal and charged with possibility and desperation. The film’s stylistically heightened aesthetic is blazingly original, gritty and immersive, making the period setting seem both familiar and vaguely haunted. Playing Marty Mauser, a down‑on‑his‑luck shoe store clerk turned obsessive ping‑pong hustler, Timothee Chalamet delivers what may be the defining performance of his career: raw, unfiltered ambition and desperation wrapped in nervous energy and hubristic bravado. Marty is magnetic precisely because he’s so damn infuriating. He believes he’s destined for greatness even while sabotaging relationships, dreams and maybe even himself in the process. His journey is simultaneously wrenching, hilarious, tragic and absurd. As retired movie star Kay Stone whose elegance and fading glamour make her as fascinating as she is touchingly vulnerable, Gwyneth Paltrow radiates longing and a messy tenderness. The wonderful Odessa A'zion brings heart and a touching vulnerability to the unhappily married housewife Marty unwittingly impregnates. Her fealty to Marty is rooted not just in attraction, but in memory (they were childhood sweethearts), disillusionment and fragile loyalty. Indelible supporting turns from, among others, "Shark Tank"'s Kevin O'Leary, Tyler the Creator, indie auteur Abel Ferrara, and Fran Drescher bring added textures to the madcap, unpredictable world that Marty inhabits. Darius Khondji's cinematography practically vibrates with nervous energy; the editing jangles with urgency; and the deliberately anachronistic musical choices--at times dissonant, at times elegiac--
root you in Marty’s inner turbulence. As the narrative hurtles towards its climax--a ping‑pong match, yes, but also a moral reckoning--you understand that Marty’s real opponent is himself. More than just a sports dramedy, it’s a blistering portrait of ambition, self‑destruction and the warped, destructive allure of "The American Dream." Marty Mauser is an unforgettable protagonist, and so is the world Safdie has crafted around him. A marvel of controlled chaos crackling with danger, defiance, desire and despair, it shows what it's like to desperately want to win--even when the cost is, well, pretty much everything. (A PLUS.)
MERCY--Timur Bekmambetov’s movie arrives burdened by its high-concept premise, a sci-fi procedural that feels as engineered as the AI that presides over the narrative. Bekmambetov, the Kazakh-born director whose credits include the kinetic, stylized "Wanted" (2008) and whatzit? genre-bender "Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter" (2012), seems intent on pivoting into philosophical territory here. The result, alas, more closely resembles a studio-mandated thought experiment heavy on gestural futurism and light on substantive drama. In the near future, Los Angeles has outsourced justice to an advanced artificial intelligence courtroom, and Detective Chris Raven (Chris Pratt) finds himself trapped physically and narratively in a 90-minute trial to prove he didn't murder his wife. The twist lies in the fact that Raven once championed the Mercy AI he must now convince of his innocence. As the inscrutable digital arbiter, Rebecca Ferguson is denied the chance to transcend her role of "ambient antagonist." The tension Bekmambetov strives for never quite coalesces into urgency; prolonged sequences of exposition and technocratic jargon dilute what should have been an acute psychological drama. While gesturing at the dangers of algorithmic justice and the fallibility of legal systems designed to be objective, its speculative potential has been reduced to bleak sterility: an earnest conceit as rigid and unyielding as the future it depicts. (C.)
MISERICORDIA--Set in the sun-dappled countryside of southern France, this unsettling, oddly tender examination of guilt and the uneasy bonds within small communities unfolds with cult director Alain ("Stranger by the Lake") Guiraudie’s signature blend of mystery, dark comedy and sensual unease. The story follows Jérémie (Félix Kysyl), a young man who returns to his hometown for the funeral of his former employer. Planning only a brief stay, Jérémie impulsively accepts the hospitality of the widow Martine (Catherine Frot) whose quiet warmth both comforts and unsettles him. Her son Vincent (Jean-Baptiste Durand), bristling with suspicion, resents Jérémie’s presence. Their fraught dynamic escalates to a shocking confrontation in the woods where Vincent is killed. In the aftermath, Jérémie finds an unlikely protector in Father Pierre (Jacques Develay), the parish priest, who offers him an alibi in exchange for sexual favors. This morally ambiguous bargain entangles Jérémie further in the town’s web of secrets where desire and suspicion uneasily coexist. The performances help ground the strangeness in emotional truth. Kysyl brings a restless, opaque quality to Jérémie; Frot conveys Martine’s grief and resilience with understated power; Durand makes Vincent’s jealousy both pitiable and threatening; and Develay invests the priest wit anh unsettling gentleness. Cinematographer Claire Mathon frames the village and its surrounding woods with a lyrical menace, turning the pastoral into something charged with hidden danger. Guiraudie uses silence, sudden bursts of violence and sly humor to keep viewers off balance. A richly atmospheric, thought-provoking film, it thrives on ambiguity, asking what mercy means in a world where love, violence and survival are inextricably bound. The Criterion Premieres Blu-Ray features an interview with Guiraudie, the theatrical trailer and notes by critic Imogen Sara Smith. (A.)
PRIMATE--Directed by genre veteran Johannes ("Strangers: Prey at Night," the "47 Meters" franchise) Roberts, this marks a lively if uneven start to 2026's horror movie sweepstakes. Known for his white knuckle survival thrillers, Roberts' taut pacing and practical effects help ground the scares in visceral tension rather than superfluous exposition. The premise is refreshingly straightforward. A tropical vacation devolves into chaos when the family’s pet chimpanzee becomes infected with rabies and turns homicidal. Within its brisk 89-minute runtime, Roberts leans heavily into claustrophobic setpieces, often confining the action to a pool area that becomes both refuge and trap. As Lucy, whose emotional arc helps anchor the mayhem, Johnny Sequoyah provides a relatable emotional center even when the focus shifts largely towards simian mayhem. In his first horror outing, Oscar-winner Troy ("CODA") Kotsur brings welcome gravitas to scenes that might otherwise feel disposable and generic. Even though the story treads familiar ground and tips into tonal inconsistency, fans of old-school creature features will dig the lean, mean thrills. (B MINUS.)
RETURN TO SILENT HILL--"The Brotherhood of the Wolf" director Christophe Gans’ two-decades-later sequel to his cultish 2006 video game adaptation is a belated attempt at reviving a franchise whose power has long since dissipated. Gans was clearly hoping to tap into the psychological dread of the game that inspired it, but settles for a dour, overly literal retread of familiar imagery and narrative beats without generating the tension that distinguished the original. Jeremy ("War Horse") Irvine steps into the role of James, a widower drawn back to the titular fog-shrouded town after receiving a message from his supposedly dead wife, Mary (Emily Anderson Alberta). Irvine brings a certain earnestness to the role, but Gans gives him little to work with beyond wide-eyed confusion and repetitive panic. Alberta's Mary is stranded in flashbacks and spectral appearances that never cohere into a compelling emotional arc. Gans still knows how to compose moody tableaus--ashen streets, rusted metal chambers, etc.--but the visual aesthetic that once felt striking now resembles a museum exhibit of early-'2000s horror movie tropes. And the sluggish pacing, heavy on tedious exposition, drains momentum from an already skeletal plot. (C MINUS.)
SONG SUNG BLUE--Skillfully balancing nostalgia with genuine heart, Craig ("Hustle and Flow") Brewer's warm, emotionally resonant biopic tells the true-life story of Mike and Claire Sardina, a working-class Milwaukee couple who channelled their hopes, heartbreaks and resilience into a Neil Diamond cover band. Hugh Jackman brings vulnerability and charisma to Mike, a middle-aged mechanic with a complicated past and an undying passion for performing. Hudson’s Claire balances joy, heartache and perseverance in a way that makes her character seem fully dimensional. Watching them grow together personally and professionally is the emotional core of the movie. Brewer’s unfussy direction allows the story to breathe, giving space for quieter, introspective moments without sacrificing the energy of the musical setpieces. Even when shifting into darker territory--addiction, loss and setbacks--it never feels hokey or manipulative. The soundtrack is predictably
layered with iconic Diamond songs, but the musical performances are more respectful than reverent. Grounded and warm, the cinematography evokes the small-town venues, smoky bars and road-weary life of traveling musicians in a way that feels lived-in. More than just a Diamond tribute, it's a film about perseverance, love and the power of music to both heal and connect. (B PLUS.)
THE SPONGEBOB MOVIE: SEARCH FOR SQUAREPANTS--The fourth big screen outing for the inhabitants of Bikini Bottom sends SpongeBob (Tom Kenny reprising his trademark role) on a deep-sea quest to prove his bravery by trailing a legendary ghost pirate (Mark Hamill's Flying Dutchman) into uncharted ocean depths. By leaning into a boilerplate "Prove you're brave!" narrative, the emotional stakes feel thin. Compared to the original 2004 theatrical film which balanced adventure and satire with unexpected emotional depth, "Search for SquarePants" rarely surprises. For longtime fans used to the more creative and absurd edges of the series and earlier features, this feels more like treading water. "Sponge Bob" has always thrived on weirdness, absurd humor and bizarre turns, but this iteration seems content to merely coast on safe laughs and lazy nostalgia. (C.)
28 YEARS LATER: THE BONE TEMPLE--A gripping, imaginative continuation of the "28" universe that showcases a bold new vision while still honoring the post-apocalyptic groundwork laid by its predecessors. Directed by Nia DaCosta whose eclectic résumé includes last year's superb "Hedda," an impressive "Candyman" reboot and 2023's disastrous "The Marvels," this latest installment proves her ability to balance visceral horror with thematic depth. From the opening sequence, DaCosta confidently establishes a world where terror isn’t confined to the infected but yoked to the shattered remnants of humanity itself. Alex Garland's screenplay helps propel the narrative into uncharted territory, exploring how survivors redefine morality after civilization itself has irrevocably crumbled. Central to the film's success is a stellar ensemble. Ralph Fiennes returns as Dr. Ian Kelson, delivering a layered performance that anchors the proceedings with an aching vulnerability and quiet resolve; Jack O’Connell reprises his chilling Sir Lord Jimmy Crystal introduced in last summer's "28 Years Later," insuring that every scene is rife with tension; and young Alfie Williams continues to impress as the determined Spike, navigating a landscape where hope and terror intermingle. Erin Kellyman and Chi Lewis-Parry round out the principal cast with a compelling urgency that heighten the emotional stakes. By juxtaposing desolate expanses with claustrophobic setpieces, it creates an immersive environment that never surrunders its grip. DaCosta's assured direction draws out psychological dread and kinetic action setpieces without overwhelming the human core. Although rooted in franchise lore, "The Bone Temple" stands on its own by pushing the boundaries of what a genre sequel can achieve. (B PLUS.)
TWIN PEAKS: FIRE WALK WITH ME--When "Fire Walk With Me" hit theaters in 1992, audiences expecting a return to the quirky rhythms of the cult television series were instead met with a descent into anguish and darkness. David Lynch’s prequel to the short-lived ABC show defied all conventional expectations of narrative closure or nostalgia. More than three decades later, it stands as one of Lynch’s most audacious and emotionally harrowing achievements. A cryptic prologue follows FBI agents investigating the death of Teresa Banks in the small town of Deer Meadow (a grim mirror image of Twin Peaks itself). These scenes, surreal and jagged, prepare us for the central narrative: the final seven days in the life of Laura Palmer (Sheryl Lee), the homecoming queen whose death haunted the town that idolized her. Lynch strips away the folksy eccentricities that characterized the series, leaving only dread, sorrow and flickering hope. In Laura’s world, high school dances and cozy diners are overshadowed by demonic visitations and domestic horror. Sheryl Lee delivers an extraordinary performance, one that feels both raw and transcendent. Her portrayal of Laura as victim, survivor and self-destructive martyr remains one of the greatest thesping turns in Lynch’s canon. Ray Wise, as Laura's father, matches her with a performance of unbearable tension, shifting between manic affection and terrifying violence. Cinematographer Ron Garcia bathes the movie in saturated reds and bruised shadows while Angelo Badalamenti’s score alternates between dreamy jazz and dirge-like lamentations. Together they summon an atmosphere that feels simultaneously supernatural and achingly human. Every frame seems alive with unease: the flicker of a ceiling fan, the hum of electricity, the whisper of wind in the trees. Lynch’s fascination with the boundary between dream and nightmare has rarely felt so intimate or devastating. What distinguishes the film from other horror-inflected dramas is its empathy. Beneath the shrieking surrealism lies a profound compassion for Laura, a recognition of her suffering, her isolation and her desperate attempts to reclaim control of her body and soul. The final moments, widely misunderstood at the time of its release, now read as an act of transcendence, the transformation of tragedy into something luminous and deeply spiritual. Viewed today, it feels less like a franchise extension than a cinematic exorcism. It's Lynch’s most personal and painful work, a masterpiece of emotional exposure disguised as a genre flick. By bringing Laura Palmer to life in all her torment and resilience, Lynch restores dignity to a figure once defined by her death. The result is not merely a prequel, but a requiem: blazing, haunted and unforgettable. The Criterion Collection release includes both a 4K UHD disc as well as a Blu-Ray copy of the film. Extras include "The Missing Pieces," ninety minutes of deleted scenes and alternate takes personally supervised by Lynch; interviews with Lee and composer Angelo Badalamenti; Lynch interviewing Lee, Wise and Grace Zabriskie (Laura Palmer's excitable mom); and excerpts from "Lynch on Lynch," a 1997 book edited by filmmaker/writer Chris Rodley. (A PLUS.)
YI YI--Edward Yang’s "Yi Yi" (2000) is not only the crowning achievement of his tragically curtailed career, but also one of the clearest articulations of Yang's worldview--an approach to cinema in which the textures of ordinary life are allowed to accumulate into profound insight. Its recent appearance near the very top of the New York Times survey of the best movies of the first quarter-century of the 2000's simply formalizes what cinephiles have long recognized: "Yi Yi" is a masterwork of modern humanist filmmaking. Yang had already established himself as a central architect of the Taiwanese New Wave before "Yi Yi," and it synthesizes many of the thematic concerns that run through his previous works. From "Taipei Story"’s anxiety about a rapidly globalizing urban landscape to "The Terrorizers"’ intricate, multi-perspective narrative design, Yang consistently probed the friction between private aspiration and social constraint. Yet it was with A Brighter Summer Day "(1991) that he demonstrated the full breadth of his ambition. That expansive, nearly four-hour portrait of 1960s youth steeped in political unrest, cultural hybridity and generational conflict revealed Yang’s fascination with the forces that sculpt identity across time and space. "Yi Yi" distills that scope into a more focused, intimate register: the life of a single Taipei family across a year marked by births, deaths and ethical reckonings. What makes the film so extraordinary is its balance of narrative precision and philosophical openness. Yang structures it around the perspectives of three family members (NJ, the middle-aged father reconnecting with a lost love; Ting-Ting, the teenage daughter navigating first heartbreak; and Yang-Yang, the young son whose photographs of the backs of people’s heads become emblematic of Yang's epistemological curiosity). Each character’s storyline could function independently, yet Yang interlaces them with such emotional coherence that the mosaic structure feels inevitable. The result is a cinematic world that radiates empathy, acknowledging that every life contains its own rhythms, secrets and disappointments. In this sense, the movie converses deeply with Yang’s oeuvre: the emphasis on personal responsibility, the difficulty of communication and the subtle but persistent encroachments of modernity are all motifs carried forward from his earlier work. But "Yi Yi" tempers the often-adversarial social environments of those films with a gentler, more contemplative sensibility. Even moments of pain are handled with an unhurried delicacy, inviting viewers not to judge but to observe. Its enduring legacy can be attributed to this profound generosity. Yang’s refusal to sensationalize struggle or simplify emotion produces a rare cinematic experience: a work that grows over time, offering new insights with each return. Not merely a summation of Yang’s career, it's a testament to what cinema can achieve when it treats human experience with patience, clarity and profound respect. The Criterion Collection release includes both 4K UHD and Blu-Ray copies of the film; Yang and critic Tony Rayns' audio commentary; a featurette with Rayns discussing Yang's career and his pivotal role in the New Taiwan Cinema movement; critic/director Kent Jones' essay, "Time and Space;" and Yang's posthumous notes about his filmmaking process. (A PLUS.)
ZOOTOPIA 2--Nearly a decade after the original Disney blockbuster, "Zootopia 2" arrives with ambition, heart and a brand new mystery that lives up to its predecessor's legacy. Directors Jared Bush and Byron Howard--who also helmed the first movie--reunite the iconic duo of Judy Hopps (Ginnifer Goodwin) and Nick Wilde (Jason Bateman) for a layered, emotionally resonant sequel that delivers both laughs and substance. The story revolves around a new character (sly, enigmatic snake Gary voiced by Ke Huy Quan) whose arrival in Zootopia disrupts the status quo, sending Judy and Nick in uncharted parts of the city. This set-up allows Bush and Howard to explore new terrain, literally and thematically, introducing reptilian districts that expand the world-building of the 2016 incarnation. Along the way, the movie challenges its protagonists’ relationship and forces them to confront not only external danger but internal doubts. The humor is playful and fast-paced, leaning into clever wordplay and animal puns while never undercutting the gravity of its deeper themes. Yet Bush and Howard don’t shy away from social commentary either, offering reflections on inclusion, prejudice and community in a way that feels organic without being preachy. Vibrant, richly detailed animation helps immerse us in the sprawling metropolis of Zootopia as well as some exotic new settings. The emotional payoff satisfies by tying together character growth and thematic arcs in a way that reaffirms the values of partnership, trust and acceptance. Entertaining, thoughtful and bold in its expansion of a beloved franchise, it stands as a worthy sequel that should have no trouble appealing to fans and novitiates alike. (B PLUS.)
---Milan Paurich
