Review: Quills (dir. by Philip Kaufmann)

Posted on February 18, 2026 by Arleigh

“In order to know virtue, we must acquaint ourselves with vice. Only then can we know the true measure of a man.” — Marquis de Sade

Quills, Philip Kaufman’s 2000 take on the infamous Marquis de Sade, dives headfirst into the messy clash between artistic freedom and societal repression. It’s a film that doesn’t shy away from the dark, provocative world of its subject, blending historical drama with a touch of theatrical flair. While it takes liberties with the facts, it captures the spirit of de Sade’s defiance in a way that’s both entertaining and thought-provoking.

Right from the start, Quills sets up its world inside the Charenton Asylum for the Insane, where the aging Marquis de Sade, played with gleeful abandon by Geoffrey Rush, is holed up under the watch of the kindly Abbé de Coulmier (Joaquin Phoenix). De Sade’s been churning out his scandalous writings—think Justine and other works that shocked 18th-century France—and smuggling them out via laundry baskets to a young laundress named Madeleine LeClerc (Kate Winslet). Napoleon’s regime isn’t thrilled, so they dispatch the stern Dr. Royer-Collard (Michael Caine) to tighten the screws and silence the madman once and for all. The stage is set for a battle of wills, with de Sade’s pen as his weapon against the forces of censorship.

Geoffrey Rush owns the screen as de Sade, turning what could have been a one-note villain into a complex, charismatic force of nature. He’s sly, unrepentant, and hilariously vulgar, spitting barbs that cut deep into hypocrisy and piety. Rush balances the man’s depravity with a genuine passion for expression, making you root for him even as his ideas repulse. It’s a performance that’s equal parts showman and philosopher, and it anchors the film’s energy. Joaquin Phoenix brings a quiet intensity to the Abbé, a man torn between his faith, his compassion, and the stirrings of forbidden desire—especially toward Madeleine. Phoenix nails the internal conflict, his wide eyes conveying a soul on the brink.

Kate Winslet shines as Madeleine, the innocent conduit for de Sade’s words, whose curiosity pulls her into his orbit. She’s got that Winslet spark—earnest yet fiery—and her scenes smuggling manuscripts or reading aloud add a layer of warmth to the asylum’s chill. Michael Caine, meanwhile, chews scenery as the pompous doctor, a hypocritical sadist in his own right, obsessed with his young bride Simone (Amelia Warner). Caine’s Royer-Collard is deliciously smarmy, a foil to de Sade who mirrors his cruelty under the guise of order. The ensemble clicks, with supporting turns like Tony Berthaud as the asylum’s rougemont adding comic relief amid the tension.

Kaufman’s direction keeps things visually striking without overwhelming the story. The asylum feels alive—claustrophobic cells contrast with grand halls where inmates stage de Sade’s plays under the Abbé’s misguided therapy. Cinematographer Rogier Stoffers bathes everything in earthy tones, with candlelit shadows that amp up the gothic vibe. The score by Angelo Badalamenti weaves eerie strings and harpsichord flourishes, underscoring the film’s blend of horror and humor. It’s not afraid to get graphic: scenes of self-mutilation and bodily fluids as writing tools push boundaries, but they’re more about desperation than shock value.

Thematically, Quills grapples with freedom of speech in a way that’s timeless. De Sade isn’t portrayed as a hero—his writings celebrate excess and cruelty—but as an indomitable spirit who won’t be silenced. Even stripped of paper, ink, clothes, and eventually his voice, he finds ways to provoke, dictating stories through inmates or scratching words into his skin. It’s a middle finger to censorship, questioning who the real monsters are: the libertine or the repressors enforcing “morality.” The Abbé represents liberal tolerance stretched to breaking, Royer-Collard conservative control gone tyrannical. Madeleine embodies the allure of forbidden ideas, her tragic arc highlighting how words can liberate or destroy.

That said, the film isn’t perfect—it’s a fictionalized riff on history, not a biopic. The real de Sade spent years at Charenton, but the timeline compresses events, amps up the drama, and softens his edges for modern tastes. He wasn’t quite the defiant artist Kaufman paints; his later years were more pathetic than poetic. Critics have noted it sanitizes Justine‘s true extremity—no orgies or murders here, just innuendo. Some see it as romanticizing a monster, turning him into a free-speech martyr rather than the predator he was. Fair point; the movie sympathizes more with his pen than his philosophy. Still, as entertainment, it works because it doesn’t pretend to be a documentary.

Humor peppers the darkness, keeping Quills from wallowing in gloom. De Sade’s quips land like punches—”There’s no sin in writing!”—and absurd moments, like inmates reenacting his tales or the doctor’s failed inventions, add levity. One standout sequence has de Sade dictating a racy novel through a chain of whispering patients, turning the asylum into a underground press. It’s One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest meets Dangerous Liaisons, with inmates running wild in a riot of liberation gone wrong. The film’s pace builds masterfully to its brutal climax, where de Sade’s final “victory” leaves you unsettled, pondering if ideas can truly be killed.

Performances aside, the script by Doug Wright (adapted from his play) crackles with wit and insight. Dialogue zings without feeling stagey, and it probes hypocrisy head-on: the pious Abbé lusting after Madeleine, Royer-Collard bedding his teen bride while torturing others. Christianity takes hits—de Sade devours a crucifix, mocks scripture—but it’s broad satire, not preachy atheism. The ending, with its ironic twist on legacy, sticks with you, echoing how de Sade’s name endures despite efforts to erase him.

For fans of period dramas with bite, Quills delivers. It’s provocative without being pornographic, smart without being stuffy. At 124 minutes, it never drags, balancing spectacle and substance. Sure, it glamorizes a controversial figure, and history buffs might nitpick inaccuracies—like the Abbé’s real-life tolerance or Charenton’s theater program. But Kaufman’s track record (The Right Stuff, The Unbearable Lightness of Being) shows he knows how to humanize extremes. Rated R for good reason—nudity, violence, profanity—it’s adult fare that rewards attention.

Visually, the costumes pop: de Sade’s velvet robes give way to rags, symbolizing his fall, while Madeleine’s simple smocks highlight her purity amid corruption. Production design nails early 19th-century France, from ornate asylum architecture to the doctor’s sterile gadgets. Badalamenti’s music swells during key confrontations, heightening emotional stakes without overpowering.

In the end, Quills asks tough questions about art’s power and limits. Does provocation justify excess? Can society silence dangerous minds without becoming monstrous itself? It doesn’t provide easy answers, which is its strength. Rush’s tour-de-force makes de Sade magnetic, flaws and all, while the supporting cast elevates the ensemble. Not for the faint-hearted, but if you appreciate bold cinema that stirs debate, it’s a gem. Rewatch value is high—themes resonate in our cancel-culture age. Philip Kaufman crafted a film that’s as unruly as its protagonist: unapologetic, alive, and impossible to ignore.

Review: Primate (dir. by Johannes Roberts)

Posted on February 10, 2026 by Arleigh

“There’s something wrong with Ben.” — Lucy Pinborough

Primate is the kind of nasty little horror movie that knows exactly what it is: a killer-chimp siege flick with a mean streak, a surprising amount of craft, and just enough emotional texture to keep it from feeling like pure junk food. It is also, very unapologetically, a January-release bloodbath built around one simple promise: you came to watch a chimp rip people apart, and the film is absolutely going to deliver on that.

Set on a remote, luxury house carved into a Hawaiian cliffside, Primate follows Lucy, a college student returning home to her deaf father Adam, younger sister Erin, and Ben—their adopted chimpanzee, who has been taught to communicate using a custom soundboard. The setup leans a bit into family melodrama and awkward-friends-on-vacation vibes: Lucy brings her buddies Kate and Nick, Kate drags along wildcard Hannah, and a pair of party bros, Drew and Brad, orbit the group on the way to a weekend of drinking by the infinity pool. Things tilt into horror when Ben is bitten by a rabid mongoose, starts behaving erratically, and eventually tears the face off the local vet before busting out of his enclosure and turning the house into a kill zone. From there, the movie pretty much drops the pretense of being about anything except survival, creative carnage, and the miserable logistics of trying to outrun a furious primate on a cliff.

Director Johannes Roberts, who previously did 47 Meters Down and The Strangers: Prey at Night, brings that same B-movie efficiency here—minimal fat, fast escalation, and a willingness to lean into the ridiculous without winking too hard. Once Ben escapes, the film basically becomes a series of tightly staged, high-tension set pieces: kids trapped in a pool while a chimp stalks the edge, frantic dashes through glass corridors, and messy, up-close attacks where you really feel the weight and speed of the animal. The pool sequence in particular is a great example of Roberts finding one strong visual idea—humans stranded in water because the predator can’t swim—and milking it for all the dread he can. It’s simple, almost old-fashioned monster-movie blocking, but it works because the geography is clear and the danger feels immediate rather than abstract.

Visually, the film is punching above what you might expect from “rabid chimp horror.” The cliffside house setting gives Roberts and his team a lot to play with: long glass walls, sharp drops, tight stairwells, and that infinity pool hanging over nothing. The camera favors clean, legible compositions instead of frantic shaky-cam, which means when the violence happens, you actually see it—and the movie is proud of that. There’s a grimy 80s-video-store energy to the way kills are framed and lingered on just long enough to be uncomfortable, but not so long that they turn into camp. Adrian Johnston’s synth-heavy score leans into that retro horror vibe too; it buzzes and screeches like someone let a demon loose on a cheap keyboard, and it matches the film’s mix of nasty and playful pretty well.

The real secret weapon here is Ben himself. Rather than going full CGI or trying to work with a real chimp, the production uses a combination of suit performance, animatronics, and careful staging, with Miguel Torres Umba giving the creature its physical personality. The result is surprisingly convincing; there are stretches where it feels like you’re watching a real animal charge people on stairs or slam into doors, which makes the violence land harder. You can tell the effects team put in serious work on the costume and facial mechanics—Ben’s expressions shift from confused, childlike attachment to full-on feral rage, and that emotional readability helps sell him as a character instead of just a prop. Importantly, the film avoids the “PS3 cutscene” problem of bad CG animals, which would have killed the tension immediately.

Performance-wise, this is very much “do your job and don’t get in the way” acting, and that’s mostly a compliment. Johnny Sequoyah makes Lucy feel grounded enough that you buy her as both final girl and guilty older sister who’s been away too long. Troy Kotsur, as Adam, is probably the standout human presence; his scenes use sign language not as a gimmick, but as part of how the family actually lives, and his mixture of vulnerability and stubbornness gives the movie a little heart. The rest of the cast—Jessica Alexander, Victoria Wyant, Gia Hunter, Benjamin Cheng, and the cannon-fodder guys—do what’s asked: they feel like actual young adults rather than complete idiots, which helps when the film needs you to invest in whether they make it out. Nobody is delivering awards-caliber work, but nobody is embarrassing themselves either, and in a film where a chimp tears someone’s jaw off, that’s honestly the sweet spot.

Tonally, Primate walks a line between brutal and darkly funny, and your mileage will depend on how much you enjoy mean-spirited genre films. This is not a movie that’s precious about its characters; the script makes it clear that almost anyone can get obliterated at any moment, and the kill scenes are loud, wet, and often abrupt. There’s a streak of black comedy in how casually some of the deaths happen—a rock to the head here, a shovel to the face there—but Roberts never tips fully into self-parody. At the same time, the film does gesture at something sadder in the idea of a beloved family member suddenly turning dangerous because of a disease, and in the way Lucy has to reconcile her childhood bond with Ben with the reality of what he’s become. The movie doesn’t dig into that theme deeply, but it’s present enough to keep things from feeling completely hollow.

Where Primate stumbles is mostly in its limitations, and whether those feel like flaws or just genre boundaries will depend on what you’re looking for. The script is extremely straightforward: characters have clear, basic motivations, relationships are sketched in a few lines, and then everyone gets funneled into the survival engine. If you want layered character work, subtext about animal ethics, or a big commentary on captivity and communication, this is not that movie, even though the setup with a sign-literate chimp and a linguist mother hints at richer territory. The film also indulges in the usual horror conveniences—texts ignored, warnings missed, people splitting up when they probably shouldn’t—though to its credit, the characters generally behave less stupidly once they understand the situation. And as gnarly as the gore is, the movie’s reliance on shock and escalation can make the back half feel a bit repetitive: Ben appears, someone gets mauled, survivors scramble, repeat.

From an honesty standpoint, Primate is absolutely worth watching if you have a soft spot for creature-features, killer-animal movies, or throwback 80s-style horror that doesn’t pretend to be more than a vicious good time. It’s tightly paced, well shot, and anchored by a genuinely impressive creature performance that justifies the whole exercise. If you’re squeamish about animal violence, or you want your horror to come with metaphor, political commentary, or emotional catharsis, you’ll probably bounce off this pretty quickly. But if you can meet it on its own trashy, committed wavelength, there’s something satisfying about watching a studio-backed film go this hard, this graphically, on such a simple premise. It feels like the kind of bloody, fast-moving B-movie you’d have rented on VHS for a sleepover, only now it’s playing in theaters with a slicker finish and a killer chimp named Ben waiting to wreck your night.

Guilty Pleasure No. 103: Private Lessons (dir. by Alan Myerson)

Posted on February 3, 2026 by Arleigh

Private Lessons is that kind of early ’80s sex comedy that feels like a time capsule from when movies could get away with stuff that would never fly today. It’s got this awkward charm mixed with some seriously questionable choices, centering on a horny teenager named Philly who gets schooled in the ways of love by his family’s sultry French housekeeper. The film tries to play it all for laughs and titillation, but it lands somewhere between guilty pleasure and uncomfortable relic.

Philly, played by Eric Brown, is your classic 15-year-old rich kid left home alone for the summer in a sprawling Albuquerque mansion while his dad jets off on business. Dad hires Nicole, this alluring European housekeeper portrayed by Sylvia Kristel—yeah, the Emmanuelle star herself—to keep an eye on things, along with the sleazy chauffeur Lester, brought to life by Howard Hesseman in full sleazeball mode. From the jump, Philly’s got a massive crush on Nicole; he’s peeping through keyholes and fumbling over his words whenever she’s around. It’s all very American Pie before American Pie existed, but with a Euro-sex vibe courtesy of Kristel’s effortless sensuality. She catches him spying one night, strips down without a care, and invites him to touch—Philly bolts like his pants are on fire. You can’t help but chuckle at his panic; Brown’s wide-eyed innocence sells it without overplaying the hand.

The setup builds slowly, which is both a strength and a drag. Philly spills the beans to his buddy Sherman, played with manic energy by Patrick Piccininni, who turns every conversation into a roast session about Philly’s virginity. Their banter is some of the film’s highlights—raw, boyish ribbing that feels authentic to awkward teen friendships. Nicole keeps pushing the envelope: a steamy makeout in a dark movie theater, a goodnight kiss that nearly melts the screen, and finally, a fancy French dinner date where they seal the deal back home. Kristel owns these scenes; her Nicole isn’t just a seductress, she’s got this playful confidence that makes the slow seduction believable. The sex scene itself is tame by today’s standards—soft-focus, lots of sighs—but it’s handled with a wink, pretending to be shocking while delivering the era’s softcore goods.

But here’s where Private Lessons swerves into darker territory and kinda loses its footing. Midway through their romp, Nicole fakes a heart attack and “dies” right on top of Philly. Freaked out, he confesses to Lester, who smells opportunity. Turns out, the chauffeur’s been blackmailing Nicole over her immigration status and hatches a scheme to pin her “murder” on Philly, forcing the kid to cough up a chunk of his trust fund to cover it up. They bury a dummy in the desert, and Lester plays the concerned adult while pocketing the cash. It’s a twist that amps up the stakes, but it also shifts the tone from fluffy comedy to something creepier, leaning hard into moral panic territory. Hesseman chews the scenery as Lester, all smarmy grins and side-eye; he’s the perfect villain you love to hate, but the plot machinations feel forced, like the writers ran out of seduction gags and needed conflict.

Nicole, developing real feelings for Philly amid the con, has a change of heart and spills the truth. Together, they rope in Philly’s tennis coach—Ed Begley Jr. in a quick but fun bit—to impersonate a cop and scare Lester straight. The bad guy panics, gets nabbed trying to flee with the money, and everyone agrees to a truce: no one rats anyone out. Nicole’s “child molestation” (the film’s own loaded term for her role in seducing a minor) and immigration issues stay buried, Lester technically keeps his job, and Nicole splits before Dad returns. It’s a tidy wrap-up that dodges real consequences, which fits the film’s escapist fantasy but leaves a sour taste ethically. The romance fizzles without much payoff; you half-expect a heartfelt goodbye, but it’s more pragmatic than emotional.

Tonally, Private Lessons is all over the map. The first half thrives on its lighthearted horniness—Philly’s fumbling advances, Nicole’s teasing allure, and a very of-its-time soundtrack that pumps up the montages. It’s got that innocent raunchiness of films like Porky’s, where sex is the big mystery and everyone’s in on the joke. Brown holds his own as the lead; at 15, he’s convincingly flustered yet game, making Philly relatable rather than cartoonish. Kristel brings actual star power, turning what could be a one-note vixen into someone with hints of depth—her chemistry with Brown sparks genuine warmth amid the sleaze. Hesseman leans into Lester’s slimeball energy, turning every scene with him into a mix of funny and gross.

That said, the film’s not without flaws, and they’re glaring by modern eyes. The premise is straight-up predatory: a grown woman systematically grooming an underage boy, played for comedy without much self-awareness. It’s the male version of Lolita, but without any critique—instead of examining the situation, it just sort of grins and shrugs. The blackmail plot tries to add intrigue but mostly undermines the fun, turning Nicole from free spirit to reluctant crook. Pacing drags in spots; the relatively short runtime still feels stretched when the seduction stalls so the script can set up the con. And the ending? It papers over everything with a shrug, letting all parties walk free like it’s no big deal. The whole thing feels very much like a product of a moment when taboo could be turned into box-office bait without much pushback.

Visually, it’s a product of its time: glossy ’80s cinematography, plenty of skin but no hardcore edge, and that mansion setting screaming wealth fantasy. Director Alan Myerson keeps it breezy, never letting the comedy get too mean-spirited until Lester’s scheme really kicks in. The score and song choices nail the vibe—upbeat for the flirtations, a bit more tense for the con, always keeping things light even when the story goes to shadier places. It very much feels like something that would play late at night on cable and stick in your memory more as a vibe than as a fully coherent film.

Does it hold up? Kind of, if you’re in a nostalgic mood or digging for ’80s cheese. It’s honest about teen lust without being judgmental, and the performances carry the silly plot. But the power imbalance and the underage angle make it tough to fully endorse—watch with that lens, and it’s more cringe than chuckle. Still, for what it is—a raunchy romp with a surprisingly soft center—Private Lessons delivers just enough to warrant a spin on a bored night. Eric Brown and Sylvia Kristel do a lot of heavy lifting; without their chemistry, this would be forgettable smut instead of a strangely endearing, if deeply problematic, relic. If you’re into retro sex comedies like My Tutor or Zapped!, this one sits comfortably in that same dusty corner of the genre, flaws and all, as a snapshot of looser times that’s best taken with a big grain of salt.

Previous Guilty Pleasures

Review: Kate & Leopold (dir. by James Mangold)

Posted on February 2, 2026 by Arleigh

“What has happened to the world? You have every convenience and comfort, yet no time for integrity.” — Leopold

Kate & Leopold is one of those romantic comedies that sneaks up on you with its old-school charm, even if it doesn’t always stick the landing. Released in 2001, it catches Hugh Jackman right after his breakout as Wolverine in the first X-Men film, during that early stretch of hits leading toward epics like The Fountain, giving him a chance to shine in pure rom-com mode before the superhero world fully claimed him. It’s a time-travel tale starring Jackman as a 19th-century duke and Meg Ryan as a modern-day exec, and while it’s predictable in spots, it delivers some genuinely sweet moments amid the silliness, boosted by his fresh, pre-typecast appeal.

The setup is pure fantasy fodder. Leopold, the third Duke of Albany, lives in 1876 New York, tinkering with an elevator prototype that accidentally rips a hole in time. His descendant Stuart, a bumbling scientist played by Liev Schreiber, drags him to the present day. Leopold lands in modern Manhattan, bewildered by cars, skyscrapers, and people who don’t stand when a lady enters the room. Enter Kate McKay, Meg Ryan in full quirky career-woman mode, who’s too busy chasing a promotion to notice the fish-out-of-water nobleman crashing at her place. Her roommate Charlie, a slacker pianist, thinks Leopold’s a method actor at first, leading to some fun roommate hijinks.

What works best is Hugh Jackman’s effortless charisma as Leopold. He nails the role with wide-eyed wonder and impeccable manners, riding a horse through Central Park to chase a mugger, whipping up gourmet meals from sparse ingredients, and delivering lines about life’s simple pleasures—like how food must taste good to nourish the soul—with total sincerity. It’s disarming. Leopold isn’t just a pretty face; he’s a walking critique of 21st-century rudeness. When he calls out advertisers for peddling tasteless margarine or marvels at how folks wolf down burgers without savoring them, you can’t help but chuckle. His old-world chivalry clashes hilariously with New York’s hustle, like when he stands every time Kate leaves the table, leaving her exasperated but secretly charmed.

Meg Ryan holds up her end too, bringing that familiar rom-com energy she perfected in the ’90s. Kate’s a high-powered market researcher obsessed with a big pitch for some farmer’s butter spread—ironic, given Leopold’s later meltdown on set. She’s jaded from a recent breakup with Stuart, prioritizing work over everything, but Leopold slowly cracks her shell. Their first real connection comes over a picnic where he waltzes her around a rooftop to a hired violinist, and yeah, it’s corny, but Jackman sells it. Ryan’s got great chemistry with him; you buy their spark even when the script strains. Liev Schreiber steals scenes as Stuart, evolving from jealous ex to unlikely matchmaker, while Breckin Meyer adds comic relief as Charlie, who learns to woo his crush by channeling Leopold’s authenticity.

The fish-out-of-water gags land most of the laughs. Leopold navigating subways, elevators (his invention, after all), and TV commercials feels fresh enough, especially since the movie leans into his culture shock without overdoing slapstick. There’s a memorable bit where he tours modern New York, gaping at the Brooklyn Bridge and declaring it a marvel, only to learn it’s named after his investment. Director James Mangold keeps things light, blending screwball elements with a touch of Somewhere in Time nostalgia. The score swells romantically, and the production design pops—Leopold’s Victorian tux against neon signs is a nice visual contrast. Early 2000s rom-coms loved these fish-out-of-water tales—like The Holiday or Two Weeks Notice—but this one stands out for its sincere take on manners as a cure for modern cynicism.

But let’s be honest: Kate & Leopold has flaws that keep it from greatness. The time-travel rules are fuzzy at best. Leopold has to return to 1876 or the timeline implodes—elevators stop working, chaos ensues—but it’s hand-waved with vague portal talk. Stuart’s asylum stint feels mean-spirited, and the third act rushes into melodrama. Some supporting bits drag, like the endless ad pitch subplot, and the pacing dips mid-film when everyone’s just hanging out. The plot’s contrived overall, with that bridge-jump climax feeling abrupt, but the earnest vibe carries through.

Still, the romance earns its payoff. Kate and Leopold aren’t insta-lovers; they bicker over integrity versus ambition, with Leopold pushing her to taste life fully and Kate grounding his idealism. Their Central Park chase and final ball scene in 1876 deliver genuine swoon factor. It’s not subversive—Kate ditches her career for corsets, after all—but it celebrates courtesy and heart in a cynical world. Compared to edgier rom-coms like When Harry Met Sally, this one’s softer, more fairy tale than reality check. Ryan’s quirky energy bounces off Jackman’s poise, creating sparks that feel earned, even if the career sacrifice lands a bit dated now.

For a 2001 release, it holds up surprisingly well. No cell phones dominate every scene, letting face-to-face charm shine. Jackman’s glow makes Leopold believable as a duke who’d invent the elevator, and Ryan reminds us why she was America’s sweetheart. It’s PG-13 for mild language and innuendo—nothing racy, safe for date night or family viewing. Critics were mixed; some praised the manners humor but called the plot preposterous, which nails it. Watch it today, and it’s a charming time capsule, as out-of-step as Leopold in a subway.

Review: Send Help (dir. by Sam Raimi)

Posted on February 2, 2026 by Arleigh

“We’re not in the office anymore, Bradley.” — Linda Liddle

Sam Raimi’s Send Help is a nasty, funny, and surprisingly romantic little pressure cooker that strands two archetypes—the mousy doormat and the smug rich kid—on a desert island and then slowly turns the screws until the film’s “eat the rich” satire curdles into genuine horror. It is neither the triumphant, all‑timer comeback some fans might crave nor a lazy retread, but a confident mid‑budget horror‑comedy from a director who still knows exactly how to make an audience wince and cackle in the same breath.

Raimi and writers Damian Shannon and Mark Swift build Send Help on a simple but potent premise: Linda Liddle (Rachel McAdams), a meek corporate strategist and survival‑show obsessive, has been promised a promotion by her former boss, only for the new CEO—his son Bradley Preston (Dylan O’Brien)—to hand the job to his frat‑bro buddy Donovan and try to shuffle Linda into a dead‑end role. He finds her embarrassing and even comments on her smell; she swallows the humiliation until a company plane trip to a business summit ends in a violent crash, leaving Linda and Bradley as the only known survivors on a remote island in the Gulf of Thailand. Out here, Linda’s years of reality‑TV survival fandom and wilderness prepper skills suddenly matter, while Bradley’s only proven talents—golf, networking, and cruelty—are exposed as useless.

The first act, set in the office and on the doomed flight, plays as Raimi’s version of workplace horror, pitched somewhere between Drag Me to Hell’s moral fable and a nastier episode of The Office. McAdams leans into Linda’s awkwardness without turning her into a caricature, sketching a woman who has internalized decades of minor humiliations and found solace in parasocial survival fantasies. O’Brien, meanwhile, riffs on the archetype of the tech‑adjacent finance bro, weaponizing charm into something brittle and mean so that every “joke” lands like a micro‑aggression. Raimi shoots these early scenes with brisk, unfussy energy, reserving his more flamboyant camera moves for moments when Linda’s resentment starts to spike; the tonal hint is clear that the island will be where his signature style truly erupts.

Once the plane goes down, Send Help shifts into a survival thriller that gradually becomes a duel, and this is where the film finds its most compelling rhythm. Linda wakes up, builds a shelter, secures water, and—crucially—chooses to help the injured Bradley despite every reason not to, only to be met with the same entitled barking as in the office. She abandons him for days to bake in the sun and dehydrate, only to return at the brink and ration out water on her terms, turning what could have been a straightforward revenge fantasy into a looping series of power reversals. Raimi milks the island setting for physical comedy—failed fire‑starting, slapstick injuries, disgusting food gags—before undercutting the laughs with sudden spikes of cruelty and violence that remind you someone could easily die out here.

Raimi’s direction is where Send Help most clearly announces itself as his homecoming to horror. Even without demons or supernatural curses, he brings back the aggressive visual language: lunging crash zooms, canted angles that seem to tilt with Linda’s shifting moral compass, and kinetic tracking shots that whip around the camp as arguments turn into physical scuffles. The gore is heightened but not constant—geysers of blood appear at key turning points, functioning as exclamation marks on the escalating class war rather than wall‑to‑wall splatter. You can still feel the Three Stooges in the staging; even the nastiest beats often end on a punchline built around bodily fluids, improvised weapons, or the absurd indignity of almost dying because you slipped on a fish.

Tonally, the film walks a provocative tightrope between screwball rom‑com and survival horror, and your mileage will depend on how much whiplash you are willing to embrace. There are scenes that play almost like a twisted date movie—Linda cooking up makeshift dinners, trying to build a semblance of “home,” Bradley begrudgingly softening—only for the dynamic to swerve back into emotional manipulation or outright brutality. The film clearly flirts with the tradition of 1930s battle‑of‑the‑sexes comedies, but here the gender and class politics are sharper, and the potential for lethal violence never disappears. For some viewers, this constant oscillation will feel thrillingly unstable; for others, it may make the film’s ultimate stance on these characters’ relationship and culpability feel muddier than intended.

Narratively, Send Help borrows its class‑flipped survival template from the kind of satirical, wealth‑skewering stories where workers suddenly control the only skills that matter. The formerly “lowly” employee—in this case Linda rather than a bathroom janitor or ship’s cleaner—suddenly dictates the terms of existence, upending the old hierarchy once the corporate infrastructure is gone. Where broader ensemble satires linger on systemic critique, Raimi narrows the focus to a two‑hander and uses genre excess to explore how vengeance, desire, and survival blur together when the rules are erased. This narrower scope sometimes makes the class commentary feel schematic—you can spot each new reversal coming like a story beat in a screenwriting manual—but it also gives McAdams and O’Brien ample room to shade their roles.

Performance‑wise, McAdams is the film’s anchor and secret weapon. She charts Linda’s evolution from shy, apologetic office drone to ruthless island operator without losing sight of the character’s essential decency, so that her darker choices land as both cathartic and unsettling. O’Brien has the flashier arc in some ways, modulating Bradley from cartoonish jerk to scared, dependent man‑child and, eventually, something more morally ambiguous as he learns how to play the island power game himself. Their chemistry thrives on friction; the film is at its best when it lets them volley insults, bargains, and threats in long, increasingly twisted negotiations over food, shelter, and the possibility of rescue.

Where Send Help falters is largely in its final stretch, where Raimi has to decide just how far he’s willing to push the “eat the rich” fantasy and what that means for Linda’s soul. Without spoiling specifics, the climax leans into brutal spectacle and a last‑minute moral turn that some may read as a cop‑out and others as a necessary corrective to pure revenge porn. The thematic through‑line—that capitalism warps everyone it touches and that power corrupts even the formerly powerless—is coherent enough, but a few late plot contrivances and cameo‑style appearances from supporting players feel more functional than organic.

Ultimately, Send Help plays like a spiritual cousin to Drag Me to Hell: a small, mean moral tale about how a single workplace injustice can metastasize into something monstrous once the trappings of civilization fall away. It may not reinvent survival horror or class satire, and viewers hoping for the wild supernatural invention of Evil Dead II or the operatic sweep of Spider‑Man 2 might find it comparatively contained. But as a brisk, roughly 100‑minute showcase for Raimi’s enduring flair, anchored by a terrific McAdams performance and a gleefully ugly sense of humor, it is a welcome return to the genre that made his name—and a reminder that sometimes the scariest demons are just your coworkers, stripped of HR and given a machete.

Review: Sneakers (dir. by Phil Alden Robinson)

Posted on January 30, 2026 by Arleigh

“The world isn’t run by weapons anymore, or energy, or money. It’s run by little ones and zeroes, little bits of data. It’s all just electrons.” — Cosmo

Sneakers is one of those early-’90s studio thrillers that feels oddly cozy for a movie about global surveillance and information control. It plays like a hangout movie that just happens to revolve around a world-breaking black box, and whether that balance works for you will pretty much decide how much you click with it.

Set in San Francisco, Sneakers follows Martin Bishop (Robert Redford), a one-time radical hacker now leading a boutique team that gets paid to break into banks and corporations to test their security. When a pair of supposed NSA agents lean on him about a skeleton in his past, they strong-arm him into stealing a mysterious “black box” from a mathematician, which turns out to be a codebreaker capable of cracking pretty much any system on Earth. From there, the crew gets pulled into a bigger conspiracy involving shady figures and high stakes, with Martin confronting echoes from his activist days.

The first thing that jumps out about Sneakers is the cast, which is frankly stacked even by modern standards. Redford brings an easy, weathered charm to Bishop; there’s a low-key joke baked into the movie that this legendary leading man is now playing a guy who looks like he spends more time worrying about his back pain than saving the world, and it works. He’s surrounded by a motley crew: Sidney Poitier’s ex-CIA operative Crease, Dan Aykroyd’s conspiracy-addled tech nut Mother, David Strathairn’s blind audio savant Whistler, and River Phoenix’s eager young hacker Carl. Mary McDonnell rounds things out as Liz, Martin’s ex, who gets roped back into his orbit and ends up doing some of the film’s most memorable social-engineering work.

What makes this lineup click—and really shine—is how effortlessly the ensemble works together, especially with Robert Redford and Sidney Poitier anchoring it as the team’s leaders. Redford’s Bishop is the steady, pragmatic brain, always one step ahead but grounded by his regrets, while Poitier’s Crease brings that sharp-edged authority from his CIA days, barking orders with a mix of gruffness and loyalty that keeps everyone in line. Their dynamic is electric: you get these moments where Bishop’s quiet scheming bounces off Crease’s no-nonsense intensity, like when they’re coordinating a break-in and trading barbs mid-scheme, and it sells the years of trust they’ve built. It elevates the whole group, giving the younger or quirkier members—Mother’s wild theories, Whistler’s uncanny ears, Carl’s fresh energy—a solid foundation to riff off, turning what could be chaos into a tight, believable unit. Phil Alden Robinson directs the film almost like an ensemble comedy interrupted by bursts of espionage, so the banter and the little grace notes between jobs end up being as memorable as the heists themselves. There’s a looseness to the way the team bickers, teases, and riffs on each other that sells the idea they’ve been doing this for years, long before the plot kicked in. You feel that especially in scenes where they’re all huddled around some piece of tech or puzzling out a clue; the script allows them to overlap, crack side jokes, and be fallible instead of treating them like slick super-spies who never misstep.

Tonally, the movie walks an interesting line. On one hand, this is very much a tech thriller about the power of information, with the ominous “Setec Astronomy” anagram (“too many secrets”) tying it all together. On the other, this is a film where an extended sequence revolves around tricking a socially awkward engineer on a date so they can steal his voice patterns and credentials, and the whole thing plays like a romantic caper more than anything. Robinson leans hard into suspense in key stretches—most notably toward the end, where tension builds through clever set pieces involving motion sensors, improvised skills, and closing threats—but even then the movie never loses its sense of mischief.

That playfulness can be both a strength and a limitation. The upside is obvious: Sneakers is fun. It’s easy to watch, easy to rewatch, and it rarely drowns you in jargon for the sake of sounding smart. Instead, it abstracts the tech into clear stakes—this box breaks codes, this system controls money and power—so you always understand the “why” behind every scheme even if you don’t follow every “how.” The downside is that, for a movie nominally about the terrifying implications of a universal decryption key, it doesn’t dig as deeply into the horror of that idea as it could. It gestures at themes of privacy, state overreach, and the weaponization of data, but it’s more interested in using those ideas as a playground than as something to rigorously interrogate.

Viewed from 2026, the tech is obviously dated—landlines, old terminals, magnetic cards—but that almost works in the film’s favor now. There’s a retro-futurist charm to seeing characters talk about “ones and zeroes” and the power of information as if they’re whispering forbidden knowledge, when today that conversation is basically the nightly news. At the time, the film was praised for being ahead of the curve on the idea that whoever controls data controls everything, and you can still feel that prescience. The irony is that what was once cutting-edge has softened into a kind of warm nostalgia, which might be why the movie has quietly settled into cult-favorite status rather than staying in the mainstream conversation.

On a craft level, the movie is sturdy across the board. John Lindley’s cinematography keeps things bright and clean rather than shadow-saturated, which reinforces that lighter tone; San Francisco looks lived-in and slightly mundane, not like a glossy cyber-noir playground. James Horner’s score is a big asset: a jazz-inflected, airy sound that gives scenes a sense of cool rather than danger, which again nudges things toward caper more than hard thriller. It’s the kind of soundtrack that sneaks into your head and quietly sets the mood without demanding too much attention, and a lot of fans single it out as one of his more underappreciated efforts.

If there’s a major weak spot, it’s probably in how the film handles its big ideas and antagonists. The central conflict draws on ideological clashes from the characters’ pasts, but it mostly serves as a charismatic foil rather than a fully fleshed-out debate. The story doesn’t push too hard on challenging cautious pragmatism versus radical change, or probe deeply into who benefits from the status quo. For a tale built on “too many secrets,” the moral landing feels predictable rather than revelatory.

The film also shows its age in how it uses certain characters, especially Liz and Carl. McDonnell gets moments to shine—her date with Werner Brandes is a highlight—but Liz is often pushed to the side once the plot machinery gets going, which is a shame given the sparks between her and Redford. River Phoenix’s Carl is similarly underused; he’s the young blood in a team of older pros, and you can see hints of a more emotionally grounded arc there, but the film keeps him mostly in comic-relief mode. It doesn’t derail the movie, but it does contribute to the sense that Sneakers is more interested in being a breezy ensemble hang than in fully developing everyone it introduces.

Still, it’s hard to deny the movie’s overall charm. The central heist beats are cleanly staged, the reversals are satisfying without being overcomplicated, and the script gives almost every member of the team at least one clutch contribution so it feels like a true group effort. The later stretches cleverly tie together the tech setup and character dynamics, ending on a light coda that underscores the film’s affection for its quirky crew over global intrigue.

As for how it holds up, Sneakers isn’t an untouchable classic, but it’s a very easy film to recommend if you have any affection for ’90s thrillers, ensemble casts, or tech-adjacent stories that don’t drown you in circuitry diagrams. Some of its politics feel glib, some of its gadgets are charmingly antique, and its big questions about Information Age ethics are more backdrop than deep dive. But the film’s mix of laid-back humor, light suspense, and grounded, slightly rumpled characters gives it a distinct flavor that a lot of modern, hyper-slick hacker movies lack.

If you go in wanting a serious, hard-edged exploration of cyber-warfare and state power, Sneakers will probably feel like it’s only skimming the surface. If you’re in the mood for a smart, lightly twisty caper that lets you spend two hours with a killer cast tossing around clever dialogue amid escalating capers, it’s still a very satisfying watch.

Review: No Other Choice (dir. by Park Chan-wook)

Posted on January 26, 2026 by Arleigh

“I have no other choice.” — Yoo Man-su

No Other Choice grabs you right away with its wild premise—a loyal company man gets canned and decides to literally eliminate his job competition to claw his way back up. It’s one of the standout international films from last year, popping up on countless top films of 2025 lists for its gutsy mix of workplace rage and murderous absurdity. Park Chan-wook delivers a dark, twisty ride blending sharp satire with outright farce, and while it doesn’t always stick the landing perfectly, that bold energy and uncomfortable laughs make it a must-watch.

The story kicks off in a picture-perfect suburban home where Man-su, a longtime paper factory manager played by Lee Byung-hun, basks in the comforts of a solid middle-class life. He’s got the big house, loving wife Mi-ri, two kids, and even those flashy dogs that scream success. Everything feels polished and stable, almost too good to be true, which is exactly the point. Then the axe falls—layoffs hit, and suddenly Man-su’s years of service mean nothing in a brutal job market stacked against him. Every opening has a ranked list of candidates, and he’s always near the bottom. Desperation sets in, and he hatches a grim plan: take out the guys ahead of him one by one.

What makes this setup pop is how Park turns a simple “what if” into a mirror for real-world frustrations. Man-su’s logic spirals from understandable rage to unhinged obsession, repeating his mantra of having “no other choice” like it’s gospel. Each target he stalks feels like a warped reflection of himself—aging has-beens clinging to relevance or eager young hotshots with families of their own. It’s not just about the kills; it’s the quiet horror of seeing your own fears staring back. The film nails that sinking feeling of obsolescence, where loyalty gets you nowhere and the system chews people up without a second thought.

The action sequences are where Park’s signature style shines brightest. That first murder attempt is a masterclass in chaos—a shaky standoff with an antique pistol turns into a frantic, slapstick melee in some oversized wooden house. Blood flies, furniture shatters, and it’s all choreographed with such precision it borders on balletic. He mixes genuine tension with cartoonish escalation, making you laugh even as things get gruesome. It’s the kind of over-the-top violence that recalls his classics like Oldboy, but lighter, almost playful in its excess. You never know if the next swing will end it or devolve into more absurdity, and that unpredictability keeps the pulse racing.

At home, though, the real damage unfolds. Mi-ri, brought to life by Son Ye-jin in a quietly devastating turn, starts as the supportive spouse but cracks under the strain. They cut back on luxuries like tennis lessons and fancy music classes, but it’s the growing paranoia that poisons everything. Snide arguments erupt, kids get tangled in cover stories for the police, and the once-idyllic house feels like a pressure cooker. Park smartly shifts focus here, showing how one man’s breakdown ripples out to fracture his family. Mi-ri’s mix of worry, resentment, and tough love grounds the madness, reminding us this isn’t just a lone wolf tale—it’s about collateral damage in the pursuit of “normalcy.”

As a jab at corporate culture, the movie lands some solid punches. Those sterile job interviews and endless applicant lists capture the dehumanizing grind perfectly, where workers are just numbers on a spreadsheet. Man-su’s humiliation builds layer by layer, from polite rejections to outright indifference, culminating in a factory scene that’s equal parts poetic and punishing. He ends up as the last human holdout amid a sea of machines, a stark symbol of misplaced faith in the grind. Park doesn’t pretend to offer solutions, but he forces you to confront how capitalism turns colleagues into rivals and dignity into a luxury good.

That said, the film isn’t content to just indict the system—it digs into Man-su’s flaws too. He’s no innocent victim; he’s vain, stubborn, and blinded by pride. Moments of potential redemption pop up—a heartfelt chat with a fellow job-seeker, a glimpse of empathy for a rival dad—but he barrels past them every time. This refusal to pivot makes him compellingly human, a portrait of wounded ego that stops short of full villainy. Lee Byung-hun sells it all with subtle shifts: the forced smile in interviews, the twitchy hands during stakeouts, the hollow justifications whispered to himself. He’s magnetic, drawing sympathy even as you root for his comeuppance.

Visually, Park pulls out all the stops. Bold camera moves, clever framing, and those vintage thriller tricks—fancy dissolves, sharp cuts—give it a retro flair amid modern polish. Conversations crackle with visual wit, turning mundane chats into tense standoffs. The color palette swings from warm domestic glows to cold, shadowy nights, mirroring Man-su’s slide. It’s indulgent stuff, the kind of filmmaking that demands a big screen, though it occasionally tips into showiness when the plot needs room to breathe.

The supporting cast fleshes out the world nicely. Victims aren’t faceless; each gets a quick, vivid sketch that humanizes the body count. Detectives poke around with dry humor, adding a procedural edge without stealing focus. Son Ye-jin steals scenes effortlessly, her Mi-ri evolving from enabler to antagonist in the subtlest ways— a raised eyebrow here, a weary sigh there. It’s ensemble work that elevates the whole, making the satire feel lived-in rather than preachy.

Where it stumbles is in the pacing and bloat. The cat-and-mouse games repeat a bit too faithfully—stalk, scheme, screw-up, repeat—and by the third or fourth loop, the formula shows. Subplots with cops and side characters tangle up the momentum, diluting the core spiral. Park juggles a lot: farce, thriller beats, family drama, economic allegory. It mostly coheres, but you sense he’s wrestling to tie it all together. The ending, while punchy, leans hard on irony, which might leave some wanting deeper catharsis or ambiguity.

Still, flaws and all, No Other Choice pulses with invention and earned its spot as one of 2025’s best international gems, racking up mentions across year-end top lists from critics worldwide. It’s a timely gut-punch for anyone who’s felt the job market’s cruelty, wrapped in enough dark humor and style to linger. Not Park’s tightest, but his wildest in years—a messy, mean-spirited blast that dares you to laugh at the abyss. If you’re up for a thriller that treats resumes like kill lists and HR as the true horror, dive in. Just don’t expect tidy morals or easy outs; this one’s as complicated as real desperation gets.

Review: The Dirty Dozen (dir. by Robert Aldrich)

Posted on January 22, 2026 by Arleigh

“And kill any officer in sight. Ours or theirs?” — Victor Franko

The Dirty Dozen is one of those war movies that feels like it was built in a lab for maximum “guys-on-a-mission” entertainment: big stars, a pulpy premise, plenty of attitude, and a third act that goes full-tilt brutal. It is also, even by 1967 standards, a pretty gnarly piece of work, and how well it plays today depends a lot on how comfortable you are with its mix of macho camaraderie, anti-authoritarian swagger, and disturbingly gleeful violence.

Directed by Robert Aldrich and released in 1967, The Dirty Dozen is set in 1944 and follows Major John Reisman (Lee Marvin), a rebellious U.S. Army officer assigned to turn a group of twelve military convicts into a commando unit for a suicide mission behind enemy lines just before D-Day. The deal is simple and grim: survive the mission to assassinate a gathering of German high command at a chateau, and your death sentence or long prison stretch gets commuted; fail, and you die as planned, just a little earlier and with more explosions. It is a high concept that plays almost like a war-movie prototype of the “villains forced to do hero work” formula that modern blockbusters keep revisiting.

The film’s biggest asset is its cast, stacked with personalities who bring a rough, lived-in charm to what could have been a lineup of interchangeable tough guys. Lee Marvin’s Reisman is the glue: a cynical, gravel-voiced officer who clearly hates bureaucratic brass almost as much as the criminals he is supposed to whip into shape, and Marvin plays him with a dry, weary sarcasm that avoids hero worship even as the film asks you to root for him. Around him, you get Charles Bronson as Wladislaw, a capable former officer with a chip on his shoulder; John Cassavetes as Franko, the volatile, insubordinate troublemaker; Jim Brown as Jefferson, whose physical presence and final-act heroics leave a strong impression; and Telly Savalas as Archer J. Maggott, a violently racist, fanatically religious, and almost certainly deranged soldier sentenced to death for raping and beating a woman to death. Savalas never softens that portrait, playing Maggott with a creepy combination of sing-song piety and sudden bursts of viciousness that makes him deeply uncomfortable to watch and the one member of the Dozen who feels like an outright monster even compared to the other killers. He sells Maggott’s self-justifying religiosity—quoting scripture, talking about being “called on” by the Lord—as both delusional and dangerous, so every time he starts sermonizing, it feels like a warning siren that things are about to go bad, and that pays off in the finale where his obsession with “sinful” women sabotages the mission. Even smaller roles from Donald Sutherland, Clint Walker, and others get memorable beats, which helps the ensemble feel like an actual crew rather than background noise.

For much of its runtime, the film plays like a rough-and-rowdy training camp movie, and that middle stretch is where a lot of its charm sits. Reisman’s solution to building teamwork is basically to grind the men down, deny them basic comforts, and force them to build their own camp, leading to the nickname “the Dirty Dozen” when their shaving kits are confiscated and they slip into permanent grime. The squad slowly gels through a mix of forced labor, competitive drills, and a memorable war-games exercise where they outsmart a rival, straight-laced unit led by Colonel Breed (Robert Ryan), which lets the film indulge in its anti-authority streak by making the rule-breakers look smarter than the regulation-obsessed brass. Savalas’s Maggott adds a constant sense of volatility to these scenes, his presence giving the group dynamic a genuine horror edge that keeps the movie from becoming a simple “lovable rogues” fantasy and making viewers eager to see him punished.

That anti-establishment energy is one of the reasons The Dirty Dozen hit so hard with audiences in the late 1960s, especially as public attitudes toward war and authority were shifting in the shadow of Vietnam. The movie clearly enjoys showing higher-ranking officers as petty, hypocritical, or out of touch, while Reisman and his misfit killers get framed as the ones who actually understand how war really works: dirty, improvisational, and morally compromised. Critics at the time noted that this defiant attitude, coupled with the convicts’ transformation into rough heroes, gave the film a rebellious appeal that helped it become a box office smash even as traditional war films were losing their shine.

Where the film becomes more divisive is in its moral perspective, or arguably its lack of one. From the start, these are not misunderstood saints: several of the men are condemned to death for murder, others for violent crimes and serious offenses, and the script never really suggests they were framed or unfairly treated. Yet once they are pointed at Nazis, the movie largely invites you to cheer them on, leaning into the idea that in war, the ugliest tools might be the most effective, and that conventional standards of justice and morality can be suspended if the target is the enemy. Maggott stands apart here as the line the film refuses to cross into sympathy, with Savalas’s committed and unsettling performance underlining how poisonous he is even to other criminals.

The climax at the chateau is where this tension really spikes. The mission involves infiltrating a mansion where German officers and their companions are gathering, rigging the place with explosives, and driving the survivors into an underground shelter that is then sealed and turned into a mass deathtrap with gasoline and grenades. It is a sequence staged with brutal efficiency and undeniable suspense, but it is also deeply unsettling, essentially pushing the protagonists into orchestrating a massacre that includes unarmed officers and civilians in evening wear, and the film offers minimal reflection on that horror beyond the visceral thrills. Maggott’s instability forces the team to react mid-mission, heightening the jagged tonal mix of rousing action and casual atrocity.

This blend of rousing action and casual atrocity did not sit well with many critics in 1967. Contemporary reviews complained that the film glorified sadism, blurred the line between wartime necessity and psychopathic cruelty, and practically bathed its criminals “in a heroic light,” encouraging what one critic called a “spirit of hooliganism” that was socially corrosive. Others, however, praised Aldrich for making a tough, uncompromising adventure picture that pushed back against sanitized war clichés, arguing that the cruelty and amorality felt like a more honest reflection of war’s ugliness, even if the film coated it in action-movie swagger and gallows humor. Savalas’s Maggott amplifies this debate, singled out by fans as a great, memorable character who adds real repulsion without turning into a cartoon.

From a modern perspective, the violence itself remains intense but not especially graphic by contemporary standards; what lingers is the attitude around it. The movie’s glee in letting some of these characters off the moral hook, contrasted with the genuinely disturbing behavior of someone like Maggott, creates that jagged tonal mix: part old-school “men on a mission” yarn, part cynical commentary on the kind of men war turns into tools. Depending on your tolerance, that mix either gives the film an edge that keeps it from feeling like simple nostalgia, or it plays as carelessly flippant about atrocities that deserve more introspection than a last-minute body count and a fade-out.

On a craft level, though, The Dirty Dozen still works surprisingly well. Aldrich keeps the film moving across a long runtime by building distinct phases: the recruitment and introduction of each convict, the training and bonding section with its rough humor and humiliation, and the final mission that shifts into suspense and near-horror. The action is clear and muscular, the editing sharp enough that you rarely lose track of who is where, and the sound design—even recognized with an Academy Award for Best Sound Effects—helps the chaos of the finale land with blunt impact.

At the same time, the structure exposes a few weaknesses. The early sections do such a good job of sketching out personalities that some characters feel underused or abruptly sidelined once the bullets start flying, and the film’s length can make parts of the training montage drag, especially if you are less enamored with its barracks humor and macho posturing. The writing also leans on broad types—psychopath, wisecracking crook, stoic professional—which the cast elevates, but the script rarely pushes them into truly surprising territory, beyond a few late-movie acts of sacrifice.

Still, as a piece of war-movie history, The Dirty Dozen earns its reputation. It helped popularize the template of the misfit team thrown into an impossible mission, a structure that later shows up everywhere from ensemble war pictures to superhero teams and modern “suicide squad” stories. Its mix of black humor, anti-authoritarian streak, and violent catharsis captures a specific late-1960s mood, even as its politics and ethics remain muddy enough to spark debate decades later. Savalas’s turn as Maggott ensures that edge never dulls, keeping the film’s thrills packaged with a moral outlook as messy and conflicted as the men it sends to kill.

For someone coming to it fresh now, the film plays as a rough, sometimes exhilarating, sometimes queasy ride: entertaining as pulp, compelling as an ensemble showcase, and troubling in the way it treats brutality as both a necessary evil and a spectator sport. If you are interested in the evolution of war cinema or the origins of the “ragtag squad on a suicide mission” trope, The Dirty Dozen is absolutely worth watching, with the understanding that its strengths—like Savalas’s chilling Maggott—come wrapped in those ethical ambiguities.

28 Years Later: The Bone Temple (dir. by Nia DaCosta) Review

Posted on January 17, 2026 by Arleigh

“Every skull is a set of thoughts. These sockets saw and these jaws spoke and swallowed. This is a monument to them. A temple.” — Dr. Ian Kelson

28 Years Later: The Bone Temple crashes into 2026 with the force of a Rage-infected sprint, claiming its spot as one of the year’s top films right out of the gate, flaws and all. Directed by Nia DaCosta, the film continues to showcase her evolving command as a filmmaker, building directly on the promise of her 2025 character study Hedda, where she dissected emotional isolation with surgical precision and atmospheric tension. Where The Marvels in 2023 felt like a worthy attempt hampered by a screenplay that couldn’t decide on a tone—swinging between quippy banter and high-stakes drama while beholden to the cinematic universe’s endless interconnections—The Bone Temple unleashes DaCosta at full throttle, free from franchise baggage to craft a horror epic that’s visually poetic, thematically fearless, and rhythmically assured.

Yeah, it revels in bleakness that can border on exhausting, and its structure wanders more than it charges forward, but those imperfections only underscore how fiercely original and alive it feels compared to the rote horror sequels we’re usually fed. Decades past the initial outbreak that defined 28 Days Later and 28 Weeks Later, the apocalypse here isn’t a fresh crisis anymore—it’s infrastructure, a grim new normal etched into the landscape. Survivors haven’t rebuilt so much as repurposed the ruins, carving out rituals and monuments that say as much about lingering trauma as they do about adaptation. The Rage virus still turns people into feral killers, ripping through flesh in those signature bursts of speed and savagery, but the infected have evolved in intriguing ways that deepen the world’s mythology without overshadowing the human core. The spotlight swings to human extremes: towering bone architectures raised as memorials, nomadic gangs treating murder like liturgy, and lone figures wrestling with whether dignity even matters when bodies pile up unmarked. This pivot lets the film breathe in ways the earlier entries couldn’t, expanding a zombie-adjacent thriller into something folk-horrific and introspective.

Dr. Ian Kelson embodies that shift, and Ralph Fiennes delivers what might be his meatiest role in years—a reclusive physician-architect whose Bone Temple dominates the story like a character itself, adding a profound level of tragic humanity that stands in stark, poignant contrast to the nihilistic worldview of Sir Lord Jimmy Crystal and his blindly devoted followers. Picture spires of meticulously arranged skulls and femurs, bleached white against misty Scottish skies, lit at night like profane altars: it’s production design that hits you visually first, then sinks in thematically as Kelson’s obsession with cataloging the dead. Fiennes plays him not as a villain or eccentric, but as a man fraying at the edges—tender when easing a dying woman’s passage (Spike’s mother, in a flashback that sets the whole narrative in motion), ruthless in his logic about preserving memory over sentiment. “Every skull is a set of thoughts,” he murmurs in one standout line, sockets staring empty, jaws frozen mid-word—a perfect encapsulation of the film’s meditation on legacy amid oblivion. Those quiet scenes, where Kelson debates ethics with survivors or observes the infected Samson with clinical curiosity shading into something paternal, ground the movie’s wilder swings and prove Fiennes can carry horror on sheer presence alone.

Spike, our entry point into this madness, carries scars from that childhood brush with the Temple and his mother’s end, propelling him toward Jimmy Crystal’s orbit like fate’s cruel magnet. He’s no square-jawed lead; he’s reactive, watchful, hardening through trials that test his humanity without fully erasing it. That arc collides with Jimmy’s cult—a roving pack of devotees renamed his “seven fingers,” all aping the leader’s bleach-blond hair, loud tracksuits, and flashy trinkets in a uniformity that’s both comic and chilling. Jack O’Connell chews the scenery as Jimmy, a pint-sized prophet whose charisma masks profound damage: twitchy grins, boyish rants blending kids’ TV catchphrases with fire-and-brimstone, devotion to his “Old Nick” devil figure turning every kill into theater. The Savile visual parallels—those garish outfits evoking the real-life abuser’s predatory fame—add a layer of cultural poison, implying charisma survives apocalypse by mutating into something even uglier, with institutions gone but the hunger for idols intact. O’Connell makes Jimmy magnetic and monstrous, a performance that elevates the cult from trope to tragedy.

If the film’s greatness shines through performances and visuals, its violence tests that shine—deliberately, one suspects. Infected attacks deliver franchise-expected chaos: heads torn free, eyes clawed out, bodies pulped in handheld frenzy. But Jimmy’s rituals amp the sadism—knife duels extended into endurance ordeals, flayings half-glimpsed but fully heard, victims’ pleas dragging until empathy fatigues. It’s grueling, sometimes overlong, risking audience burnout, yet it serves the theme: in a Rage world, human-inflicted torment outlasts viral rage because it feeds on belief. DaCosta pulls punches visually (smart cuts, shadows over gore) but lingers on emotional fallout, making cruelty feel earned rather than exploited— a maturation from The Marvels‘ tonal whiplash into controlled, purposeful discomfort. Counterpoints pierce through: Jimmy Ink’s furtive kindnesses toward Spike, Ian and Samson’s drug-hazy field dances blurring monster and man, fragments of backstory humanizing even Jimmy’s frenzy. These glimmers don’t redeem the world—they make its harshness sting deeper, proving flickers of connection persist as defiant accidents.

Technically, the film flexes non-stop, with DaCosta’s post-Hedda assurance evident in every frame. Anthony Dod Mantle’s cinematography weds gritty digital shakes to sweeping drone shots, turning Highlands into deceptive idylls ruptured by whip-pans and flame flares. Sound design hums with menace—whistling winds masking howls, train rumbles underscoring rituals, screams echoing into silence for maximum unease. Editing mirrors the narrative’s spiral: episodic loops around Spike’s hardening, Ian’s doubt, Jimmy’s collapse, eschewing linear escalation for dream-logic dread that suits a “settled” apocalypse. The Temple centerpiece ritual explodes into metal-thrash worship, cultists moshing amid pyres—a grotesque stadium parody where faith meets fandom in blood-soaked ecstasy. Even the score pulses with restraint, letting ambient horror fill gaps better than bombast ever could.

Tonally, it juggles masterfully: tender Kelson vignettes abut cult carnage, philosophical riffs on atheism versus delusion frame gore-fests, folk-horror monuments clash with infection thriller roots. Themes of faith-as-coping, grief-as-art, ideology’s pitfalls land without preaching—Kelson’s secular duty versus Jimmy’s ecstatic nihilism debates through action, not monologue. The ending circles back to series emotional cores (survival’s cost, hope’s fragility) while forging ahead, teasing Spike’s grim purpose without cheap uplift.

Flaws? The runtime sags in cult stretches, bleakness borders masochistic, sprawl might frustrate plot-chasers. But these are risks of ambition, not laziness—choices that make triumphs (Fiennes’ gravitas, O’Connell’s feral spark, visuals’ poetry) land harder, all under DaCosta’s steady hand that Hedda honed and The Marvels tested. In January 2026, amid safe genre retreads, The Bone Temple towers: a sequel philosophically dense, actor-propelled, unafraid to wound deeply then whisper mercy. It hurts because it sees us clearly—craving structure in chaos, building temples from bones, real or imagined. One of the year’s best, period, for daring to evolve rather than echo.

Review: Greenland 2 – Migration (dir. by Ric Roman Waugh)

Posted on January 13, 2026 by Arleigh

Greenland 2: Migration is a sequel that mostly leans into “if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it,” for better and for worse. It delivers sturdy spectacle, a committed Gerard Butler, and a tense family-through-hell journey, but it also rehashes a lot of the first film’s beats and pushes the plausibility envelope more often this time around. If you were on board with Greenland as a grounded, human-scale disaster movie, this one feels like the more bombastic, road-movie expansion pack rather than a full evolution.

Set about five years after the comet strike that wiped out most of civilization, Greenland 2: Migration finds the Garrity family still holed up in the Greenland bunker complex, part of a fragile community waiting for the surface to become livable again. John (Gerard Butler) now works as a scout/engineer, Allison (Morena Baccarin) has stepped into more of a leadership role within the bunker, and their son Nathan is older, restless, and itching to prove himself outside the relative safety of underground life. When escalating quakes, electromagnetic storms, and general planetary chaos literally collapse the bunker around them, the film quickly turns into a survival trek across a devastated Europe toward the Clarke impact crater in southern France, rumored to be the one spot on Earth that has actually healed.

As a premise, the film works; it gives the story a clear A-to-B structure and justifies the shift from the contained panic of the first movie to a post-apocalyptic road odyssey. The script keeps the stakes straightforward: reach the crater region or die trying, while dodging unpredictable weather events, territorial military forces, and desperate survivors who are just as dangerous as the environment. There is something appealingly old‑school about how it plays as a throwback survival picture—less interested in intricate worldbuilding and more in reaction, improvisation, and narrow escapes.

The downside is that you can feel the film constantly echoing Greenland’s structure: another long, peril-filled journey, another series of escalating close calls, another parade of briefly sketched side characters who exist to either help or threaten the Garritys for a single sequence. The first film had novelty on its side and a sharper sense of dread as the comet approached; here, the formula is familiar enough that you can often tell who will live, who will die, and roughly when another set piece is about to kick off. That predictability doesn’t kill the tension outright, but it does flatten the emotional peaks, especially if you walked in hoping for a genuinely new angle on this world.

Gerard Butler remains the anchor, and this is squarely in his comfort zone. He plays John as perpetually exhausted yet stubbornly practical, the kind of guy who will grumble his way through heroism, and there’s an easy, weathered charm to that. Morena Baccarin gets a bit more agency this time, with Allison often driving decisions instead of just reacting to them, though the movie still stops short of really turning her into a co-lead with equal interiority. Roman Griffin Davis steps in as the older Nathan, and he brings a nervous, teenage energy that fits the “kid who grew up in a bunker and wants to see the world” vibe, even if the character’s arc hits pretty familiar notes about bravery and responsibility.

The script does flirt with heavier themes: the psychological toll of surviving the end of the world, the guilt of those who made it into the bunkers versus those left outside, and the question of what “home” even means when the planet itself has effectively turned against you. There are moments—like the chaotic clashes around remaining bunkers or the wary interactions with other survivor groups—that suggest a more morally murky, Children of Men‑style story lurking underneath. But the movie rarely lingers on these ideas; it tends to touch them, nod, and then hurry back to the next escape sequence or visual spectacle.

Visually, though, Greenland 2: Migration is where the sequel justifies its existence. Director Ric Roman Waugh and the crew make great use of European locations and Icelandic landscapes to sell a world that has been carved up by tectonic violence and choked with ash, but is slowly, unevenly rebuilding. The dried-out English Channel, the ravaged coastlines, and the eerie, storm‑lit skies give the film a distinct apocalyptic texture that feels different enough from the North American focus of the first movie. While some of the physics and survival odds strain credibility—especially as the Garritys walk away from setpiece after setpiece—there’s no denying the spectacle is engaging on a big screen.

The pacing is generally brisk; at around an hour and a half, the film doesn’t overstay its welcome, and it’s usually onto the next problem before you have time to overthink the last one. That said, the middle stretch starts to feel a little modular, like a video game where each region is an encounter: Liverpool bunker standoff, English Channel crossing, roadside bandits, insurgent ambush, and so on. Each of these sequences is competently staged, but because the emotional throughline is fairly simple—protect the family, get to the crater—the movie risks becoming a string of obstacle courses rather than a journey that deepens the characters in meaningful ways.

Where the film does land emotionally is in its treatment of sacrifice and the long-term cost of survival. John’s cumulative radiation exposure, picked up over years of scouting the hazardous surface, is a smart, quietly tragic detail, and the way the story gradually brings that to the forefront gives the third act a genuine sense of finality. The losses along the way, including allies who join the trek and do not make it, often feel a bit telegraphed, but they at least reinforce the idea that survival in this world comes with a steep bill that keeps coming due. The film’s ending, at the Clarke crater, delivers a cautiously hopeful image without completely sugarcoating what it took to get there, and that balance of bleakness and optimism fits the series well.

On the more mechanical side, the editing and sound design do a lot of heavy lifting. The cross‑cutting in the disaster scenes keeps geography mostly clear, and the low, grinding rumble of shifting earth and sudden storms adds tension even when the visuals are mostly people running or driving. The score is functional rather than memorable, but it meshes with the film’s focus on constant forward momentum instead of big thematic musical statements. It’s the kind of craft that doesn’t call attention to itself, which suits a movie that wants to feel like a direct, unpretentious survival yarn.

In terms of how it stacks up to the original, Greenland 2: Migration is solid but clearly a step less distinctive. The first film surprised people by grounding its spectacle in everyday logistics—pharmacy runs, traffic jams, family arguments—and by keeping the camera mostly at human scale during an extinction‑level event. The sequel, by comparison, nudges closer to standard disaster‑franchise territory: bigger vistas, more action, and a stronger sense of franchise‑building, but less of that “this could be you and your neighbors” feeling that made Greenland stand out. Depending on what you want from a sequel, that may be a selling point or a letdown.

Overall, Greenland 2: Migration is a competent, occasionally affecting continuation that doesn’t embarrass the original but also doesn’t redefine it. If all you’re looking for is another round of grounded‑ish apocalypse survival with Gerard Butler grimly shepherding his family through increasingly wild scenarios, this delivers exactly that, with a few striking images and some sincere emotional beats along the way. If you were hoping for a more daring thematic leap or a significantly different narrative shape, this will probably feel like a polished retread with a new coat of ash and ice. Either way, it’s an easy recommendation for fans of the first film and a decent mid‑winter disaster flick for anyone in the mood to watch people crawl through the end of the world one more time.