The Alliance of Women Film Journalists have announced their picks for the best of 2025! The winners are in bold!
BEST FILM FRANKENSTEIN HAMNET IT WAS JUST AN ACCIDENT ONE BATTLE AFTER ANOTHER THE SECRET AGENT SENTIMENTAL VALUE SINNERS TRAIN DREAMS
BEST DIRECTOR Paul Thomas Anderson – ONE BATTLE AFTER ANOTHER Ryan Coogler – SINNERS Jafar Panahi – IT WAS JUST AN ACCIDENT Joachim Trier – SENTIMENTAL VALUE Chloe Zhao – HAMNET
BEST SCREENPLAY, ORIGINAL IT WAS JUST AN ACCIDENT – Jafar Panahi JAY KELLY – Noah Baumbach SENTIMENTAL VALUE – Joachim Trier SINNERS – Ryan Coogler SORRY, BABY – Eva Victor
BEST SCREENPLAY, ADAPTED BUGONIA – Will Tracy FRANKENSTEIN – Guillermo del Toro HAMNET – Maggie O’Farrell & Chloe Zhao ONE BATTLE AFTER ANOTHER – Paul Thomas Anderson TRAIN DREAMS – Clint Bentley & Greg Kwedar
DOCUMENTARY COME SEE ME IN THE GOOD LIGHT – Ryan White MY MOM JAYNE – Mariska Hargitay ORWELL 2+2=5 – Raoul Peck THE LIBRARIANS – Kim A. Snyder THE PERFECT NEIGHBOR – Geeta Gandbhir
ANIMATED FEATURE ARCO – Ugo Bienvenu & Giles Cazaux IN YOUR DREAMS – Erik Benson & Alexander Woo KPOP DEMON HUNTERS – Chris Applehaus & Maggie Kang LITTLE AMELIE OR THE CHARACTER OF RAIN – Liane-Cho Jin Kuang & Mailys Vallade ZOOTOPIA 2 – Jared Bush & Simon Howard
BEST ACTRESS Jessie Buckley – HAMNET Rose Byrne – IF I HAD LEGS I’D KICK YOU Renate Reinsve – SENTIMENTAL VALUE Emma Stone – BUGONIA Tessa Thompson – HEDDA
BEST ACTRESS, SUPPORTING Nina Hoss – HEDDA Inga Ibsdotter Lilleaas – SENTIMENTAL VALUE Amy Madigan – WEAPONS Teyana Taylor – ONE BATTLE AFTER ANOTHER Wunmi Mosaku – SINNERS
BEST ACTOR Leonardo DiCaprio – ONE BATTLE AFTER ANOTHER Joel Edgerton – TRAIN DREAMS Ethan Hawke – BLUE MOON Michael B. Jordan – SINNERS Wagner Moura – THE SECRET AGENT
BEST ACTOR, SUPPORTING Benicio Del Toro – ONE BATTLE AFTER ANOTHER Jacob Elordi – FRANKENSTEIN Paul Mescal – HAMNET Sean Penn – ONE BATTLE AFTER ANOTHER Stellan Skarsgård – SENTIMENTAL VALUE
BEST ENSEMBLE CAST & CASTING DIRECTOR HAMNET – Nina Gold & Lucy Amos MARTY SUPREME – Jennifer Venditti NOUVELLE VAGUE – Stéphane Batut ONE BATTLE AFTER ANOTHER – Cassandra Kulukundis SINNERS – Francine Maisler
BEST CINEMATOGRAPHY FRANKENSTEIN – Dan Laustsen HAMNET – Łukasz Żal ONE BATTLE AFTER ANOTHER – Michael Bauman SINNERS – Autumn Durald Arkapaw TRAIN DREAMS – Adolpho Veloso
BEST EDITING F1: THE MOVIE – Stephen Mirrione & Patrick J. Smith HAMNET – Affonso Gonçalves & Chloe Zhao MARTY SUPREME – Ronald Bronstein & Josh Safdie ONE BATTLE AFTER ANOTHER – Andy Jurgensen SINNERS – Michael P. Shawver
BEST INTERNATIONAL FEATURE IT WAS JUST AN ACCIDENT – Jafar Panahi NO OTHER CHOICE – Park Chan-wook SENTIMENTAL VALUE – Joachim Trier SIRÂT – Oliver Laxe THE SECRET AGENT – Kleber Mendonça Filho
FEMALE FOCUS AWARDS Presented Only to Women
FEMALE FOCUS: BEST FEMALE DIRECTOR Kathryn Bigelow – A HOUSE OF DYNAMITE Mary Bronstein – IF I HAD LEGS I’D KICK YOU Mona Fastvold – THE TESTAMENT OF ANN LEE Eva Victor – SORRY, BABY Chloe Zhao – HAMNET
FEMALE FOCUS: BEST FEMALE WRITER Mary Bronstein – IF I HAD LEGS I’D KICK YOU Nia DaCosta – HEDDA Hikari & Stephen Blahut – RENTAL FAMILY Eva Victor – SORRY, BABY Chloe Zhao & Maggie O’Farrell – HAMNET
FEMALE FOCUS: BEST VOICED PERFORMANCE IN ANIMATED FILM Ginnifer Goodwin – ZOOTOPIA 2 Loïse Charpentier – LITTLE AMELIE OR THE CHARACTER OF RAIN Arden Cho – KPOP DEMON HUNTERS Fortune Feimster – ZOOTOPIA 2 Zoë Saldaña – ELIO
FEMALE FOCUS: BEST BREAKTHROUGH PERFORMANCE Odessa A’Zion – MARTY SUPREME Chase Infiniti – ONE BATTLE AFTER ANOTHER Teyana Taylor – ONE BATTLE AFTER ANOTHER Wunmi Mosaku – SINNERS Eva Victor – SORRY, BABY
FEMALE FOCUS: BEST STUNTS PERFORMANCE Ana de Armas – BALLERINA Hayley Atwell – MISSION: IMPOSSIBLE – THE FINAL RECKONING Chase Infiniti – ONE BATTLE AFTER ANOTHER Teyana Taylor – ONE BATTLE AFTER ANOTHER Pom Klementieff – MISSION: IMPOSSIBLE – THE FINAL RECKONING
“Memories are meant to fade, Lenny. They’re designed that way for a reason.” — Lornette “Mace” Mason
Kathryn Bigelow’s Strange Days plunges into a gritty, near-future Los Angeles teetering on the edge of the millennium, where illegal “SQUID” technology lets people hijack others’ sensory experiences, fueling a black-market addiction to raw thrills. Released in 1995 with a screenplay by James Cameron and Jay Cocks, the film stars Ralph Fiennes as Lenny Nero, a shady ex-cop dealing these clips amid escalating racial tensions and urban chaos. At over two hours, it mixes cyberpunk visuals with thriller tension, crafting an immersive world that pulses with sensory overload and moral ambiguity.
The story opens with a heart-pounding sequence—a robber’s point-of-view heist captured in one seamless, breathless shot that drops you right into the adrenaline-fueled action, setting a template for the film’s signature subjective dives into chaos. Lenny navigates this underworld, peddling clips of highs and dangers to escape his own regrets, especially over a past love, singer Faith Justin, brought to life by Juliette Lewis with vulnerable intensity that captures the pull of faded dreams. He pulls in his loyal bodyguard Mace, Angela Bassett delivering a fierce, grounded performance, as a mysterious clip hints at deeper corruption involving cops and power players in the city, drawing them into a web of intrigue that tests loyalties amid the neon haze. Bigelow leans into the tech’s seductive pull, where users feel every rush or rush of emotion, blurring lines between observer and participant in uncomfortably real ways that linger long after the credits roll.
Visually, the film explodes off the screen, with cinematographer Matthew Leonetti’s dynamic camera and Bigelow’s high-octane style painting L.A. as a neon-drenched maze of helicopters, crowds, and holographic distractions that feel alive and oppressive. That kinetic opening blends POV chaos with slick editing that amps the disorientation, making every frame pulse with urgency. The world feels authentically grimy and multicultural, alive with New Year’s Eve energy in clubs and streets, evoking millennial anxiety through thumping sound design and distorted audio bleeds that heighten the sensory assault. Bigelow channels her action roots into visceral set pieces that turn the future into something tangible and tense, rewarding close attention to the details that build immersion, from flickering holograms to rain-slicked streets buzzing with tension.
Fiennes captures Lenny’s sleazy charisma perfectly—a sweaty, chain-smoking hustler whose charm masks desperation, keeping him oddly relatable even as his flaws pile up in moments of quiet vulnerability. Bassett dominates as Mace, a tough wheelwoman with unshakeable integrity, her presence anchoring the frenzy and elevating every exchange with quiet strength that cuts through the chaos like a blade. Lewis adds raw edge to Faith, trapped in a web of influence and ambition, her scenes crackling with desperation and fire. Tom Sizemore brings twitchy noir flavor as Max, Lenny’s private investigator buddy who adds layers of unreliable grit to their partnership, his manic energy bouncing off Fiennes in tense, believable banter. The cast meshes well in the overload, though some peripheral figures lean into cyberpunk stereotypes like street dealers and digital oddities, occasionally stretching the vibe thin without fully fleshing out their roles amid the relentless pace.
At its core, Strange Days digs into tech’s grip on empathy in a numb world, where SQUID clips turn voyeurism into full-body complicity, raising tough questions about detachment, consent, and the thrill of borrowed lives. Lenny’s habit of replaying personal moments underscores the addictive pull of reliving the past, turning memory into a dangerous escape that erodes real connections. Bigelow threads in sharp commentary on racism and authority, drawing from real ’90s unrest, with Mace pushing for truth amid systemic shadows in ways that feel urgent and unflinching, her moral compass a steady force against the moral rot. The infamous rape scene stands out as a gut-wrenching pinnacle of this approach, forcing viewers into the perpetrator’s twisted perspective via SQUID playback, amplifying the victim’s terror and the assailant’s depravity to confront voyeuristic horror and power imbalances head-on without pulling punches or easy outs—its raw intensity is jarring, deliberately so, to expose the ethical rot at the tech’s heart. The female-led perspective highlights abuses thoughtfully, adding layers to the spectacle and giving the film a distinctive edge that balances exploitation with unflinching critique.
That said, the film isn’t without bumps, as the plot weaves a tangled web of alliances and betrayals that can feel convoluted under the sensory barrage, occasionally losing focus amid the noise and demanding sharper clarity to match its ambition. Its 145-minute runtime sags midway with Lenny’s brooding and repetitive demos, testing patience before ramping up to its feverish peaks, where the editing could trim some fat for tighter momentum. The climax aims for catharsis amid riots and revelations but lands unevenly, with a hopeful turn that feels rushed or tidy in spots, underplaying certain social threads post-buildup and diluting their harder-hitting potential just when they build to a roar. Some effects show their age, like glitchy clip transitions that disrupt rather than enhance the immersion at times.
Still, these rough edges can’t overshadow the film’s bold highs. Bigelow’s direction thrives on discomfort, using the SQUID concept to mirror how media desensitizes us, making every clip a window into ethical quicksand. The sound design deserves special mention—bass-heavy tracks and visceral screams that bleed from headsets create a claustrophobic intensity, amplifying the tech’s invasive allure. Action beats, from high-speed chases to brutal confrontations, showcase Bigelow’s knack for kinetic choreography, with Bassett’s physicality in the driver’s seat stealing the show. Lenny’s arc, flawed as it is, lands with pathos, his hustler’s denial cracking under pressure to reveal flickers of redemption tied to loyalty and loss.
Strange Days delivers highs that exhilarate and lows that challenge, mirroring its own addictive clips—a raw, uneven ride pulsing with Bigelow’s bold vision that thrives on discomfort and connection. Mace’s decency offers human spark amid the dystopia, balancing provocation with heart in a way that elevates the whole, her bond with Lenny grounding the spectacle in something real. It’s provocative cyberpunk for those craving immersion with bite, a film that doesn’t just show a future but makes you live it, flaws and all, leaving you wired and wary. Fire it up if you’re ready to jack in and feel the rush—just brace for the crash.
For an athlete, what does it take to become the greatest of all time?
Does it take natural talent?
Does it take determination and a willingness to keep playing and practicing through the pain?
Does it take going to an isolated desert training camp and getting regular injections of someone else’s blood?
That was the question asked by Him, a so-called “sports horror” film that came out in September of this year.
Tyriq Withers plays Cam Cade, a college football player who is on the verge of turning professional. Every one is expecting Cam to be the number one pick at the upcoming league draft …. or at least, they are up until Cam is struck in the back of the head by a man wearing a goat costume. Cam suffers a severe concussion. The doctors warn his mother that another severe brain injury could end his career but both Cam and his family are determined for him to turn pro. Even when Cam was a child, his father was grooming him to become a football star. Cam grew up idolizing Isaiah White (Marlon Wayans), a college quarterback who came back from a terrible injury, turned professional, and who has since led the San Antonio Saviors to eight championships.
In fact, Isaiah is willing to train with Cam! Isaiah is considering retirement and he thinks that Cam could be a worthy replacement. Cam travels out to the desert compound, where Isaiah lives with his staff and his wife (Julia Fox). After making his way through the groupies who are angry at the thought of anyone trying to replace Isaiah on the team, Cam begins to train with his idol. Isaiah spends a lot of time talking about Roman gladiators and how tough it is to be black quarterback. He pushes Cam to his limits, forcing him to become a more aggressive and a more arrogant player. Isaiah shows Cam that it takes more than just having talent to be the GOAT. Instead, it’s an entire lifestyle. Cam starts to have bizarre visions while getting regular shots (“for the pain”) from Isaiah’s doctor. Eventually, Cam learns the truth about how great players are created and about how success can come at the cost of one’s soul.
Him is definitely a flawed film. A major problem is that neither Marlon Wayans nor Tyriq Withers really have the screen presence to be believable in their roles. Wayans, in particular, seems miscast and he gives a rather one-note performance as a character who is supposed to be as charismatic as he is athletic. (Wayans comes across as being neither charismatic nor particularly athletic.) The script attempts to deal with just about every controversy there is about football but it often does so in the most shallow, perfunctory way possible. The whole gladiator thing? We’ve all heard it before.
That said, the film’s narrative is so over-the-top (and, I believe, intentionally so) and the direction is so excessively stylish that it does hold your attention. For all of the film’s flaws, the compound is a wonderfully ominous location and the use of X-ray shots to show us concussions and twisted limbs does rather forcefully drive home the point that football is not a gentle game. Him may not be good but it’s just ludicrous enough to be watchable.
“Alicia” from the Clair Obscur: Expedition 33 soundtrack hits with this quiet emotional force that sneaks up on you. Louis Testard’s composition feels intimate, almost fragile at first, built around a slow progression that flows between melancholy and solace. When Alice Duport‑Percier’s voice comes in, it feels less like a vocal performance and more like a memory being sung—gentle, human, and full of warmth that complements the game’s painterly atmosphere. The track doesn’t tell you what to feel; it just leaves space for you to find your own emotions in it.
What stands out most to me is how balanced it feels—Testard’s score never overwhelms. Every instrument breathes, giving Duport‑Percier’s voice that clear space to bloom. The music grows patiently, moving from soft contemplation toward a kind of quiet hope, like someone lifting their eyes after a long, heavy silence. It’s the kind of composition where you can feel each breath behind the notes, and that subtle pacing mirrors the emotional rhythm of Clair Obscur beautifully.
By the time the last notes fade, “Alicia” leaves this lingering ache that’s hard to shake. It feels deeply personal—the kind of track that stays in your chest long after it ends. Testard and Duport‑Percier manage to craft something that transcends simple “game music”; it’s closer to a conversation between sorrow and serenity. It’s not just background—it’s the emotional pulse of the adventure itself.
4 Shots From 4 Films is just what it says it is, 4 shots from 4 of our favorite films. As opposed to the reviews and recaps that we usually post, 4 Shots From 4 Films lets the visuals do the talking.
Today, we wish a happy birthday to director Taylor Hackford. It’s time for….
4 Shots From 4 Taylor Hackford Films
Against All Odds (1984, dir by Taylor Hackford)
Dolores Claiborne (1995, dir by Taylor Hackford)
The Devil’s Advocate (1997, dir by Taylor Hackford)
To me, there is no better way to close out the year than with this classic song from Journey! Have a happy and safe New Year’s Eve!
Ever since I first saw Caddyshack (not to mention the episode of The Simpsons were Rodney Dangerfield played Mr. Burns’ son), Any Way You Want It has always been my favorite Journey song. The video is also Journey at its best, simple, without pretension, and rocking!
“What kind of American are you?” — Unnamed ultranationalist militant
Alex Garland’s Civil War is the kind of movie that feels both uncomfortably close to reality and strangely abstract at the same time, like a nightmare built out of today’s headlines but deliberately smudged at the edges. It plays less like a political thesis and more like a road movie through a country that has already gone past the point of no return, seen through the eyes of people whose job is to look at horror and keep pressing the shutter anyway.
Garland frames the story around war journalists traveling from New York to Washington, D.C., hoping to reach the President before rebel forces do, and that simple premise gives the film a clear spine even when the politics around it stay fuzzy. Kirsten Dunst’s Lee, a veteran photographer, and Cailee Spaeny’s Jessie, a young aspiring shooter, are paired with Wagner Moura’s adrenaline-chasing reporter Joel and Stephen McKinley Henderson’s weary old-timer Sammy, forming a sort of dysfunctional road-trip family driving straight into hell. The setup is classic “last assignment” territory, but the context—an America shattered by an authoritarian third-term president and secessionist forces from places like Texas and California—is what makes the film play like speculative non-fiction rather than pure sci-fi. That Texas-California alliance as the Western Forces stands out as such strange bedfellows, two states about as diametrically opposed as you can get politically and culturally, which subtly hints at just how monstrous the president must be to drive them into the same camp against a common enemy.
The plot itself is pretty straightforward once you strip away the political expectations people bring in. The group moves from one pocket of chaos to another, crossing a patchwork United States where some areas still look almost normal while others are full-on war zones. The tension ramps as they get closer to Charlottesville and then D.C., eventually embedding with Western Forces as they push toward the capital. Along the way, the journalists encounter a series of vignettes—mass graves, roadside militias, bombed-out towns—that feel intentionally episodic, like flipping through the front page of a dozen different conflicts and realizing they all share the same language of fear and dehumanization.
Performance-wise, Dunst is the emotional anchor, playing Lee with a kind of hollowed-out professionalism that feels earned rather than performative. Her character is someone who has seen too many wars abroad and now finds herself documenting one at home, and Dunst sells that numbness without turning Lee into a complete emotional void. Spaeny’s Jessie, meanwhile, is the mirror opposite: all raw nerves and hungry ambition, constantly pushing closer to danger for the shot, until that drive becomes its own kind of addiction. Their dynamic—mentor vs. rookie, caution vs. thrill—gives the movie a human arc to track even when the bigger national stakes remain frustratingly vague.
The supporting cast makes the most of their moments. Moura brings a reckless charm to Joel, someone who clearly gets off on the chaos even as he understands the risks, while Henderson’s Sammy has that lived-in, old-school journalist vibe that makes his presence feel instantly comforting. Nick Offerman’s president shows up mostly as an image and a voice—an isolated leader giving delusional addresses about “victories” and “loyalty” while the country burns—which fits Garland’s choice to keep power distant and almost abstract. And then there’s Jesse Plemons in a late, unnerving scene as a soldier interrogating the group with the question “What kind of American are you?”, a moment that pulls the film’s subtext about nationalism and dehumanization right up to the surface.
Visually, Civil War is stunning and deeply unpleasant in the way it should be. Garland and his team lean heavily into realism: grounded battle scenes, chaotic firefights, and that disorienting sense of being in the middle of something huge and unknowable, with the camera clinging to the journalists as they scramble for cover or line up a shot. The film often uses shallow depth of field, throwing backgrounds into blur so explosions and tracers feel like ghostly streaks behind the tight focus on a face or a camera lens, which reinforces how narrow the characters’ survival focus has become. Sound design is equally aggressive—gunfire, drones, and explosions hit hard in a theater, and Garland doesn’t shy away from making violence both terrifying and, in a way, disturbingly exhilarating.
That’s one of the film’s more interesting, and arguably more uncomfortable, tensions: it’s overtly anti-war in its messaging, but it also understands that war, on a visceral level, can feel like a rush. Several characters clearly chase that feeling, and the film doesn’t let them—or the audience—off the hook for enjoying the adrenaline that comes from life-or-death stakes. There are moments where the action almost tips into “too cool” territory, but Garland usually undercuts this with the emotional fallout afterward, making it clear the cost of those images and thrills is paid in trauma and numbness.
Where Civil War is really going to divide people is in its politics—or more accurately, its refusal to spell them out. The film never fully explains how this United States got here or exactly what the sides are fighting over, beyond hints of authoritarian overreach and regional alliances like the Texas-California Western Forces. You get breadcrumbs: a third-term president who dissolved norms, references to an “Antifa massacre,” and presidential rhetoric that echoes real-world strongman language, but Garland refuses to plant a big obvious flag that says, “This is about X side being right or wrong.”
Depending on what you want from the movie, that choice either feels smartly universal or frustratingly evasive. On one hand, treating the conflict like a kind of Rorschach test lets viewers project their own anxieties onto the screen; it becomes a story about any country pushed too far by polarization, propaganda, and the normalization of violence. On the other, the vagueness around ideologies can come across as sidestepping tough specifics, especially in today’s charged climate, where audiences might crave a bolder stance on division and power.
To the film’s credit, its focus is very clearly on the experience of war, not the policy debates that preceded it. The journalists are not neutral robots; they have opinions, fears, and moments of moral conflict, but their professional instinct is to document first, analyze later, and that’s the lens the film adopts as well. You see how the job warps them: Lee’s exhaustion, Jessie’s desensitization, Joel’s thrill-seeking, Sammy’s weary sense of duty. In that sense, Civil War feels as much like an ode and a critique of war journalism as it does a warning about domestic collapse.
That said, the character work will not land equally for everyone. The emphasis on spectacle and raw incident sometimes leaves less room for layered personal depth, with figures beyond the leads feeling more archetypal than fully fleshed out. Even Lee and Jessie are shaped primarily by their roles in the chaos rather than extensive personal histories, which suits Garland’s lean, immersive style but might leave some wanting more nuance.
The last act, set during the assault on Washington and the White House, is where the film fully commits to being a war movie rather than a political allegory. The battle is staged with a mix of big, chaotic action and small, intimate beats: journalists diving behind columns, soldiers shouting directions, Jessie pushing closer to get the shot even as bullets hit inches away. It’s brutal and propulsive, driving home the film’s bleak thesis: once violence is normalized, legitimacy and process vanish, replaced by whoever has the most guns in the room.
Is Civil War perfect? No. It is at times overdetermined in its imagery and underdetermined in its world-building, and the decision to keep the “why” of the war so foggy will absolutely alienate viewers who wanted a sharper, more pointed statement about the current American moment. But it is also undeniably gripping, technically impressive, and thematically rich enough to spark real conversation about violence, media, and how far a society can bend before it breaks. As a piece of speculative near-future filmmaking, it lands somewhere between warning and reflection: not saying “this will happen,” but asking whether a country this polarized and numb to cruelty should be so confident that it won’t.
I’ve now played through and finished Sandfall Interactive’s Clair Obscur: Expedition 33, and it stands out as a captivating entry in the JRPG space, blending a deeply melancholic storyline with eye-catching visuals and a combat setup that mixes thoughtful planning with split-second decisions, all within a richly detailed world evoking a fading era of grandeur. At its heart lies the chilling concept of the Paintress, a mysterious entity who annually inscribes a number across the heavens, causing all who reach that age to fade from existence without fanfare or trace. The game’s protagonists band together for a high-stakes voyage aimed at scaling her towering domain and halting this grim tradition before it strikes Year 33, transforming a familiar quest motif into an extended reflection on life’s brevity, rebellion against destiny, and the customs societies invent to endure tragedy. The tone stays approachable, laced with sharp-witted exchanges amid the gloom, while gameplay keeps players actively involved, and echoes of iconic JRPG influences from Hironobu Sakaguchi—like the sweeping epics of Final Fantasy and the poignant depth of Lost Odyssey—shine through in its design choices.
The plot progresses as a gripping blend of escalating peril and introspective pauses, opening in communities that have woven the Paintress’s decree into their daily fabric. Local celebrations honor remaining time, households tally days with subdued anxiety, and affluent districts ponder existence over lavish artworks meant to defy forgetting. Your team gathers from those scarred by previous culls—bereaved kin, displaced souls, wanderers—infusing the group with individual wounds that amplify the shared plight. The path forward involves sidetracks through abandoned sites, fraught dealings with devotees viewing the Paintress as a benevolent force, and ethical dilemmas such as granting mercy to those facing obliteration. Closer to the summit, layers of lore unfold, suggesting the Paintress could stem from a misguided origin or embodied sorrow, prompting the crew to debate whether victory redeems or merely reshuffles catastrophe.
This storytelling prowess draws clear lines to Hironobu Sakaguchi’s legacy, the visionary behind early Final Fantasy triumphs and the overlooked masterpiece Lost Odyssey. The grand-scale conflicts and heartfelt interpersonal ties of Final Fantasy resonate in how Clair Obscur intertwines global peril with private sorrows. Yet Lost Odyssey provides the closest parallel, with its focus on ageless wanderers burdened by sorrow—mirrored here by time-bound lives—employing ethereal sequences and subdued musings to delve into mourning’s toll. The short, evocative tales in Lost Odyssey‘s “Thousand Years of Dreams” parallel the game’s archival entries and memory glimpses, which breathe life into vanished souls: versifiers halted in flow, tinkerers forsaking unfinished marvels, youths denied basic legacies. Studio insights highlight Sakaguchi’s skill in rendering eternal burdens profoundly mortal as a guiding light for crafting the party’s resilient yet fractured ideals.
Central motifs pit surrender to fate against willful resistance, threading seamlessly through dialogues at rest stops and chance meetings to avoid heavy-handedness. Communal resignation appears as sensible resilience rather than weakness—resisting an annual wave proves futile, so adaptation prevails. The travelers represent the flip side: audacious optimism teetering on folly, fueled by unyielding curiosity, akin to Lost Odyssey‘s undying figures rediscovering purpose amid oblivion’s threat. A comrade might grip a memento from a lost relative as rage’s spark; another embraces excess, seeking fleeting thrills since futures dissolve; yet another serves as ethical anchor, cautioning that unchecked revolt harms bystanders. These paths collide poignantly—fractures from panic, mends through peril’s forge, hushed admissions of battling for vitality over triumph, capturing Sakaguchi’s fusion of mythic scope and visceral feeling.
Sorrow and recollection anchor further layers, via retrospective visions and elective records that personalize the toll, nodding to Sakaguchi’s use of intimate narratives to anchor vast realms. This juxtaposes against vibrant holdouts—opulent dances beneath ominous vaults, buskers flaunting flames to taunt twilight—fueling an overarching idea of enactment drawn from his dramatic sensibilities. Existence morphs into a drama directed by the Paintress, participants ad-libbing parts: resolute captain veiling dread, comic veiling remorse in quips, thinker unraveling legends pre-finale. The script deftly merges genuineness and showmanship; raw outpourings yield to lush scores, probing if sentiments endure or merely peak performances—reminiscent of Lost Odyssey‘s detached eternals reenacting humanness.
Optimism faces scrutiny, portrayed with nuance rather than idealization, honoring Sakaguchi’s shift from Final Fantasy‘s luminous quests to Lost Odyssey‘s jaded realism. Initially a binding flame, it frays amid reversals—raids by adherents, glimpses of doomed prior ventures—exposing vulnerabilities. Does opposition uplift, or burden allies with delusion? Nuanced moments abound: euthanizing a settlement embracing mass erasure to spare agony ignites clashes mirroring life’s terminal choices, akin to Lost Odyssey‘s eternal-versus-finite contemplations. Kinship and affection weave closeness—a divided pair riven by self-offering, budding connection strained by farewell drafts—revolving around fleeting hours. Cling or release kin? Impact stems from narrative faith in interpretive space, shunning neat closures per Sakaguchi’s player-trusting ethos.
The orchestral soundtrack stands as one of the game’s true triumphs, composed by the talented Lorien Testard with contributions from a full symphony orchestra that captures the Belle Époque essence in every sweeping string section and haunting motif. Testard’s score masterfully shifts from delicate piano interludes during quiet camp reflections—evoking fragile hope amid numbered days—to thunderous brass crescendos during tower ascents and boss confrontations, perfectly syncing with the emotional highs of defiance and loss. Guest artists like Alice Duport-Percier on vocals add ethereal layers to key themes, such as the Paintress’s ritual melody, which recurs as a leitmotif tying personal grief to cosmic dread. Recorded live with meticulous attention to period instrumentation, including harps and woodwinds for that ornate, fading-elegance vibe, the music doesn’t just accompany; it immerses, turning traversal into symphonic poetry and battles into operatic clashes that linger long after the controller’s down.
Performances soar across the board, with standout work from Charlie Cox as the determined Gustave, bringing a grounded intensity to the engineer’s final-year desperation, and Ben Starr as the enigmatic Verso, delivering a layered mix of menace and vulnerability that keeps you guessing. Jennifer English shines as the fiery Maelle with raw emotional power, while Shala Nyx’s calm yet fierce Sciel adds a steady anchor amid chaos. These voices, alongside gravel-voiced wisdom akin to Andy Serkis and resilient fire reminiscent of others in the cast, lend real heft to reflections on purpose in a counted world, elevating every dialogue into something memorable.
The opulent, twilight-era backdrop enriches motifs, merging Sakaguchi-esque fantasy with continental lavishness for novelty. Elaborate towers rend misty expanses, attire upholds decorum in wreckage, vessels glide as innovation’s specters—all painting a realm in refined decline, staging poise toward closure. Playful quirks—a trader morphing beasts for barter scraps, an aeronaut spouting verse aloft—highlight stubborn spirit, easing gravity sans dilution. Runtime hits 20 hours core, concise yet hinting at untapped depths—like genesis tales or foe quests—primed for expansions, echoing Sakaguchi’s potent brevity.
Gameplay propels via evolved hybrid vigor, building on Sakaguchi-defined norms: menu selections via vibrant dial (strikes, resource skills for ruptures/chains, targeted blasts, aids) merge with instant retorts through evades, counters, leaps versus foe cues, like Lost Odyssey‘s strategy plus timing. Flawless guards restore fuel for climaxes, crafting battles as hazard-harmony flows syncing with tale strains. Traversing covers sparse hubs with patrolling threats in flexible areas—bypass for pace, engage for growth—stats tilt to quickness/endurance edges, execution overriding setups. Initial timing hurdles test, end patterns exact, glitches annoy, yet synergy evokes tale revolt and Sakaguchi innovation.
Aesthetics dazzle: interfaces flare in spectacle—delays, bursts—rendering wins grand, saluting Final Fantasy pomp. Taken as a whole, Sandfall Interactive’s Clair Obscur: Expedition 33 takes a well-established brand of RPG mechanics and storytelling, polishes it with modern hybrid twists, introspective depth, that masterful orchestral score, and stellar voice work, modernizing it into one of the best games of recent years—a somber treasure where fate-drama depths, keen casts, and dynamic clashes in compact form outshine sheer scale, flaunting its Sakaguchi nods boldly while standing tall on its own. Shortfalls in ancillary tales and timing tilt persist, yet for evocative RPGs melding soul and vigor, it endures memorably—affirming grace persists, counted or not.
Through the Shattered Lens 