Review: Sicario (dir. by Denis Villeneuve)

Posted on February 23, 2026 by Arleigh

“You should move to a small town where the rule of law still exists. You will not survive here. You are not a wolf. And this is the land of wolves now.” — Alejandro

Sicario is one of those thrillers that doesn’t just try to get your pulse up; it wants to leave you sitting there afterward, uncomfortable and a little hollowed out. Set in the murky world of the U.S.–Mexico drug war, it follows an idealistic FBI agent pulled into a “by any means necessary” operation and slowly realizing she’s basically a pawn in a much bigger, much uglier game. It’s not a movie about slick heroes taking down bad guys so much as a slow, grim spiral into the realization that the system is rigged on every level, and that’s where the film is both at its most impressive and its most uncompromising. Overall, it leans heavily positive as a piece of craft—beautifully shot, superbly acted, tightly directed—and its refusal to blink at where its story logically leads is a big part of what gives it power.

The basic setup is simple enough: Kate Macer, played by Emily Blunt, is an FBI agent used to doing things by the book, raiding cartel safe houses in Arizona with her partner Reggie. After a grisly opening operation that turns up corpses hidden in the walls and a deadly booby trap, she’s recruited into a joint task force helmed by Josh Brolin’s Matt Graver, a flip‑flop‑wearing CIA type who treats international borders and legal constraints as suggestions. The team’s official mission is to go after a cartel lieutenant, Manuel Díaz, but very quickly Kate realizes she’s only being told a fraction of what’s really going on. The more she pushes for answers, the more obvious it becomes that Matt and his mysterious associate Alejandro (Benicio Del Toro) are running their own agenda and using her badge and presence as cover.

From the start, Denis Villeneuve frames this story as a descent, and he does it by locking us into Kate’s perspective for most of the film. We’re as confused and kept in the dark as she is: we don’t fully know why the team is crossing into Juárez, why everyone is so tense at the border, or what the deeper objective is besides “disrupt the cartel.” That choice pays off in a huge way during the film’s standout sequences, whether it’s the convoy inching through traffic surrounded by armed federales or the nighttime tunnel infiltration lit by thermal and night‑vision photography. Those scenes aren’t just “cool action beats”; they’re engineered to make you feel boxed in and outmatched, like violence could erupt at any second and no one really has control. Even when nothing is technically happening, you can feel the nerves jangling under the surface.

One of the most striking things about Sicario is how it weaponizes space. The way the film uses its wide, open desert vistas isn’t just pretty scenery—it adds this creeping, suffocating dread to everything, as if the characters are tiny figures swallowed up by forces they can’t hope to understand or control. Those long shots of trucks threading their way across the landscape, or helicopters gliding over seemingly endless scrub, make the world feel vast, ancient, and totally indifferent to whoever’s spilling blood on it today. In those moments, the movie almost channels a kind of Lovecraftian horror, the same cosmic, indifferent menace that Cormac McCarthy managed to weave through his Westerns, where the land itself feels old, hostile, and utterly unmoved by human morality or suffering. It’s not supernatural, but that sense of something bigger, colder, and permanent presses down on every decision these characters make.

Roger Deakins’ cinematography is a huge part of why that dread lands so well. The desert is captured in these wide, ominous skyline shots with tiny vehicles creeping along the horizon, giving Sicario a sense of menace that feels baked into the environment. Even the daylight scenes feel threatening, all washed‑out heat and harsh sun flattening everything into a kind of moral no‑man’s‑land. Then the movie flips into night, and suddenly you’re plunged into infrared and silhouettes, which fits perfectly with the story’s obsession with secrecy and invisible lines being crossed. This is one of those films where you could watch with the sound off and still feel the tension just from how the images are composed, but the use of space and light also nudges the movie into that McCarthy‑adjacent territory where the West is less a backdrop and more a silent, malevolent presence.

The performances match that level of craft. Emily Blunt plays Kate as tough and competent, but not in a superhero way—she’s brave, but she’s also human, constantly trying to reconcile what she’s seeing with what she believes law enforcement is supposed to be. You can see the frustration mounting as she keeps demanding clarity and hitting a wall of smirks, deflections, and “you’ll understand later.” Benicio Del Toro, meanwhile, walks off with the film as Alejandro, this quiet, haunted figure who initially seems like just another operative but reveals layers of trauma and ruthlessness as the story goes on. The script is smart about keeping his backstory mostly hinted at until late in the film, which makes it all the more chilling when you finally see what he’s really there to do. Josh Brolin is the third pillar, playing Matt as casually flippant on the surface but utterly cold about collateral damage, the kind of guy who laughs through briefings because he already knows the moral lines are going to be erased.

On a thematic level, Sicario is very much about complicity and the idea that in this particular “war,” there are no clean hands. Kate comes in thinking she’s going to help nail cartel leadership through some kind of legal, targeted operation; what she slowly figures out is that the task force is really trying to destabilize one cartel to empower another, consolidating power into a more “manageable” single organization. That logic—“create one devil we can deal with instead of many we can’t”—is chilling, and the movie doesn’t really offer a comforting counterargument. Instead of pulling back or softening that stance, it commits to showing what that philosophy looks like in practice, all the way to the bitter end. By the time Alejandro reaches his personal endgame and we see what “justice” looks like in this world, any illusions about moral clarity are gone, and the film refuses to apologize for following that line through.

Where some films might hedge their bets or try to inject a last‑minute note of optimism, Sicario is deliberately straight‑backed about where its story logically leads. The CIA needs Kate’s FBI status to legitimize their operation on U.S. soil, but they don’t actually want her input; she’s there to sign off and be lied to, not to shape policy. Every time she pushes back—like when she tries to build a traditional case after the task force raids a cartel‑connected bank—she’s shut down because “that’s not what this mission is.” Even the brief subplot with the corrupt local cop Silvio is there to underline how the drug war trickles down: this isn’t just cartel bosses and shadowy agents, it’s working‑class people pulling double duty as mules because they’re desperate, and they end up as expendable as anyone else. Rather than treating that as background noise, the movie leans into the bleak implications and lets them sit with you.

The same goes for Kate’s arc. Some viewers see the film as sidelining its female lead in the third act, shifting the narrative fully over to Alejandro just when things are coming to a head. Structurally, that is what happens: the viewpoint tilts from Kate’s confused horror to Alejandro’s mission, and she becomes more of a witness than an active participant. But that shift feels of a piece with the movie’s overall approach—she has been outmaneuvered and used from the start, and Sicario isn’t interested in pretending otherwise just to deliver a more empowering or conventionally satisfying ending. There’s something bracing about the way the film sticks to its guns here; it says, “this is the world we’ve shown you for two hours, and this is how someone like Kate gets treated in it,” and then follows through.

All of this could have tipped into empty cynicism if the film didn’t feel so precise and purposeful. Jóhann Jóhannsson’s score, all pounding, low‑end rumble and ominous strings, practically turns the highway scenes into horror set‑pieces; it feels like the sound of something massive grinding forward that you can’t stop. Villeneuve keeps the pacing deliberate but never sluggish, using long stretches of quiet to make the explosions of violence feel random and brutal instead of exciting. Even small scenes, like Kate’s attempted hookup with a local cop who turns out to be on the cartel payroll, are staged to underline how deeply compromised everything is. There’s no safe space, no “off the clock” moment where the larger conflict doesn’t intrude, and the movie doesn’t pretend there is just to make you feel better walking out.

If you go into Sicario looking for a clean, cathartic crime thriller where the good guys outsmart the bad guys, you’ll probably come away irritated or even angry. The movie’s whole point is that those categories don’t really apply in this corner of the world, and it’s committed enough to that idea that it never gives you an easy out. But if you’re up for something more sobering—an incredibly well‑crafted, morally grim look at the drug war with standout work from Blunt, Del Toro, Brolin, Deakins, and Villeneuve—it’s a pretty exceptional ride. Its worldview is harsh, but it’s also coherent and honestly pursued, and that level of conviction is a big part of why the film lingers. It may not be the kind of movie you “enjoy” in a traditional sense, but it’s one that sticks with you, and in this genre, that counts for a lot.

Review: The Monster Squad (dir. by Fred Dekker)

Posted on February 21, 2026 by Arleigh

“Creature stole my Twinkie.” – Eugene

Released in 1987, The Monster Squad has lived one of those strange afterlives that cult films sometimes enjoy—ignored or even ridiculed upon release, only to become a beloved artifact for the generation that found it later on VHS. Directed by Fred Dekker and co-written with Shane Black, the movie occupies an awkward but endearing space between horror, comedy, and kids’ adventure. It never fully settles into one tone, and that’s part of both its charm and its problem. Watching it today, the film feels like The Goonies took a detour through a drive-in double feature of Dracula and The Wolf Man. It’s clunky, funny, occasionally mean-spirited, and loaded with enthusiasm—qualities that make it a thoroughly guilty pleasure for fans of ’80s genre mashups.

The story wastes no time getting into its madcap premise. A group of suburban preteens calling themselves “The Monster Squad” find that the classic Universal-style monsters are real, and worse, they’ve come to town. Count Dracula has a plan to plunge the world into darkness using an ancient amulet, and to succeed he enlists a roster of familiar faces: Frankenstein’s Monster, the Mummy, the Gill-Man, and the Wolf Man. This roster is fan-service before fan-service was a marketing term—a kid’s monster toybox brought to life. The squad, of course, must stop them, armed with comic-book knowledge, wooden stakes, and a blend of reckless courage and youthful sarcasm.

Dekker’s direction and tone play like a movie made for kids but smuggled in some heavy teenage energy. There’s violence, crude jokes, and occasional language that Hollywood would never let slip into a PG-friendly franchise today. Yet that rough edge is part of why The Monster Squad aged into cult status. It’s unapologetically of its time, operating on the belief that kids can handle scares as long as they’re fun and that suburban fantasy can, for a while at least, coexist with real danger. The movie’s depiction of childhood feels filtered through a stack of comic books and Creepshow issues—hyper absurd but still emotionally grounded in a way only ’80s adventure films seemed to pull off.

The kids themselves are a mixed bunch of believable archetypes. There’s Sean (André Gower), the de facto leader with a bedroom plastered in monster movie posters; Patrick (Robby Kiger), his wisecracking sidekick; Rudy (Ryan Lambert), the too-cool-for-school older kid who smokes, rides a bike, and somehow becomes the squad’s weapons specialist; and Eugene (Michael Faustino), the youngest, who still sleeps with his dog and writes letters to the Army for backup. They’re joined by Horace, nicknamed “Fat Kid,” played with surprising vulnerability by Brent Chalem. Each character is drawn broadly but memorably, and even when the dialogue veers into dated humor, there’s an underlying sincerity. You can tell Dekker and Black really liked these kids. They might use slingshots and one-liners, but what unites them is their intense sense of loyalty to one another—the kind of friendship that survives both bullies and broomstick-wielding vampires.

If there’s an emotional anchor, oddly enough, it’s the relationship between the squad and Frankenstein’s Monster, played by Tom Noonan in an unexpectedly gentle performance. When the creature befriends the kids, particularly little Phoebe (Ashley Bank), the film shifts momentarily from wisecracks to something close to tenderness. Noonan gives the character a shy uncertainty, a weary loneliness that offsets the visual absurdity of the rubbery monsters around him. There’s even a tinge of tragedy in his final act, which echoes Frankenstein’s literary roots—a moment of real feeling buried inside an otherwise loud and gleefully messy creature romp.

The monsters themselves, created by legendary effects artist Stan Winston, are among the film’s biggest draws. Each design feels like a loving upgrade to the old Universal look—recognizable but more feral, angular, and rooted in late-’80s aesthetics. The Wolf Man, for example, looks simultaneously comic and menacing, while the Gill-Man costume still impresses for its texture and movement decades later. The decision not to rely on stop motion or heavy opticals gives the monsters a tactile presence that CGI could never capture. There’s something about watching full-bodied suits and prosthetics move in real space that makes the threats feel tangible even when the stakes are goofy. These creatures are fun to look at, even when the script doesn’t give them much to do beyond roar and stalk across smoke-filled sets.

Shane Black’s fingerprints are all over the dialogue—the sardonic banter, the genre in-jokes, the affection for both pulp tropes and subverting them. But perhaps because the film was marketed partly as family adventure and partly as horror spoof, it often can’t decide whether to play sincere or ironic. Some scenes lean heavily on nostalgic affection for monster movies, while others feel almost mean in their mockery of small-town innocence. The tone whiplash means The Monster Squad doesn’t build much consistent momentum; one minute it’s heartfelt, the next it’s a barrage of sarcastic one-liners. Still, its rough tonal juggling has a ragtag energy that keeps it lively, and the sheer commitment to blending genres is endearing.

When it comes to pacing, the movie flies by in under 80 minutes, which turns out to be both blessing and curse. On one hand, there’s no filler—every scene moves briskly to the next piece of monster mayhem. On the other, the movie’s emotional beats and mythology barely have time to breathe. We get glimmers of backstory (like Dracula’s cryptic hunt for the amulet and Van Helsing’s prologue battle) that hint at a larger world that the film never really explores. You sense that Dekker and Black were operating under the fantasy logic of childlike storytelling: don’t explain too much, just move fast enough that no one questions it. It works, more or less, because of the film’s sheer enthusiasm, but it leaves you imagining a richer version of this story that never quite made it onscreen.

Looking back from today’s lens, some parts of The Monster Squad show their age more harshly. Certain lines and stereotypes that went unnoticed in the ’80s now feel jarring, even uncomfortable, and the film’s cavalier tone sometimes undercuts moments that should feel more innocent. Yet despite that, most viewers who revisit it with awareness of its era find themselves disarmed by its sense of fun. There’s no cynicism driving it—it’s pure genre love, messy and sincere, like a handmade Halloween costume that’s somehow cooler precisely because it’s imperfect. The film represents a time when kids’ movies were allowed to have teeth, blood, and a few scary moments, trusting that a young audience could handle being spooked without needing everything smoothed over.

For many fans, The Monster Squad works less as a polished film and more as an experience—a flashback to VHS sleepovers, bad pizza, and rewinding favorite scenes. The movie’s newfound appreciation, fueled by screenings and documentaries like Wolfman’s Got Nards, speaks to that nostalgic bond. It’s less about objective greatness and more about the feeling it preserves. Sure, some of the jokes fall flat, and the plot functions mostly as connective tissue between monster gags, but few movies embody the gleeful chaos of late-’80s pop horror as affectionately as this one does.

The Monster Squad earns its title. It’s not a flawless film, nor even a particularly coherent one, but it’s deeply fun, carried by the conviction that monsters—real or imaginary—are made to be fought with courage, humor, and friends who have your back. Watching it now is like flipping through an old comic book you used to love: you can see every crease and faded color, but that doesn’t make it any less special. And in a cinematic era saturated with irony and nostalgia pastiche, The Monster Squad still feels refreshingly earnest about its own weirdness. Maybe that’s its secret power.

Review: The Devils (dir. by Ken Russell)

Posted on February 20, 2026 by Arleigh

“I have been a man. I have loved women. I have enjoyed power.” — Father Urbain Grandier

Ken Russell’s The Devils (1971) stands as one of the most provocative and polarizing films in cinema history, a visceral plunge into the hysteria of religious fanaticism and political intrigue set against the backdrop of 17th-century France. Adapted loosely from Aldous Huxley’s historical account The Devils of Loudun and John Whiting’s play The Devils, the film dramatizes the real-life case of Father Urbain Grandier, a charismatic priest accused of witchcraft amid a scandal of supposed demonic possessions at a Loudun convent. Directed with unbridled fervor by Russell, who infuses every frame with operatic excess, the movie challenges viewers to confront the grotesque intersections of faith, sexuality, power, and repression. While its boldness earns admiration for unflinching social commentary, its stylistic indulgences can overwhelm, making it a work that demands both endurance and reflection.

The story unfolds in the walled city of Loudun, a Protestant stronghold under threat from Catholic forces led by the cunning Cardinal Richelieu. Oliver Reed delivers a towering performance as Grandier, portraying him not as a saintly martyr but as a flawed, hedonistic figure—a womanizer who preaches liberty while bedding Madeleine (Gemma Jones), a young Protestant whose quiet devotion contrasts sharply with the surrounding debauchery. Grandier’s defiance of Richelieu’s edict to demolish the city’s walls marks him as a target, but his downfall accelerates through the hysterical claims of Sister Jeanne (Vanessa Redgrave), the hunchbacked prioress of the Ursuline convent. Twisted by unrequited lust for Grandier, Jeanne accuses him of sorcery, sparking a wave of mass possession among the nuns that spirals into public spectacle. Russell draws from historical records to depict these events, emphasizing how personal pathologies fueled institutional corruption.

Visually, The Devils is a tour de force of baroque horror, with production designer Derek Jarman crafting sets that evoke a pristine white monastery defiled by filth and frenzy. Cinematographer David Watkin employs distorted wide-angle lenses and frenetic camera movements to mirror the characters’ unraveling psyches, turning sacred spaces into nightmarish arenas. The infamous “nunsploitation” sequences—where possessed sisters writhe in orgiastic fits, desecrate crucifixes, and simulate blasphemous acts—remain shocking even today, not merely for their explicitness but for their raw psychological intensity. These scenes serve Russell’s thesis: repressed desires, when twisted by authority figures like the witch-hunting Father Barre and Father Mignon, erupt into collective madness. Fairly assessed, these choices underscore Russell’s intent: to expose how power structures weaponize female hysteria, a theme resonant in historical witch hunts and modern reckonings with abuse.

Russell’s direction amplifies this through rhythmic editing and a pounding score by Peter Maxwell Davies, which blends liturgical chants with dissonant percussion to evoke a descent into hell. The film’s opening, with its ritualistic execution of a wise woman amid fireworks and folk rituals, sets a tone of pagan vitality clashing against ecclesiastical oppression. Midway, hallucinatory visions plague Grandier, blurring reality and delusion in a style reminiscent of Russell’s later explorations of ecstatic breakdown. The film unflinchingly depicts torture scenes—a burning at the stake, an afternoon in the rack, headscrews, a douche with boiling water—highlighting its raw confrontation with human cruelty. However, this excess risks tipping into self-parody; moments like the nuns’ simulated levitations or Jeanne’s contortions can strain credulity, prompting questions of balance between provocation and restraint.

Performances anchor the chaos, with Reed’s Grandier embodying defiant charisma undercut by hubris. His courtroom defiance and final quartering—nailed alive to a burning cross—culminate in a crucifixion scene of harrowing power, rivaling traditional passion narratives in emotional weight. Redgrave’s Jeanne is a revelation, her physical deformity symbolizing inner torment; she veers from pitiable to monstrous without caricature. Supporting turns shine too: Dudley Sutton as the impish Baron de Laubardemont, scheming for Richelieu; Max Adrian as the syphilitic priest whose decaying face mirrors moral rot; and Christopher Logue as the predatory Cardinal, whose urbane cruelty chills. The ensemble’s conviction elevates the material, ensuring characters feel flesh-and-blood rather than allegorical pawns.

Thematically, The Devils indicts institutional religion not as anti-faith but as a critique of its perversion by human ambition. Russell draws parallels to scandals where church power intertwines with politics, arguing that true devilry lies in hypocrisy. The film posits sexuality as a battleground: Grandier’s libertinism versus Jeanne’s repression, with the church exploiting both for control. This aligns with Huxley’s original thesis, expanded by Russell into a broader assault on authoritarianism. Politically, it skewers absolutism; Richelieu’s agents manipulate “possessions” for territorial gain, much as witchfinders historically profited from purges. Balanced against this, the film acknowledges Grandier’s flaws—he fathers a child out of wedlock and mocks piety—preventing hagiography. Upon release, it faced cuts in various countries, its controversial rating reflecting discomfort with its uncompromised vision.

Stylistically, Russell risks the “ridiculous” for the sublime. The white-tiled convent, pristine yet prone to vomit and excrement, symbolizes false purity; smashing it in the finale cathartically liberates Loudun from fanaticism. Influences from montage masters appear in crowd scenes, synthesized into a singular fever dream. Pacing falters in the trial’s verbosity, and some anachronistic flourishes—like Louis XIII’s cross-dressing ballet—inject campy levity, diluting gravity at times. Yet these quirks humanize the director’s bombast, reminding us of cinema’s power to provoke laughter amid horror. Compared to Russell’s Women in Love or Tommy, The Devils stands as his most structurally coherent assault on repression.

Historically contextualized, the Loudun possessions of 1634 involved Urbain Grandier, executed for allegedly bewitching Ursuline nuns via a pact with Satan. Huxley documented the hysteria, linking it to political machinations under Richelieu, who sought to crush Huguenot resistance. Russell amplifies the carnality for dramatic effect, prioritizing emotional truth over literalism. Restored versions reveal its full ferocity, influencing not just cinema but broader media, including comics like Argentinian artist Ignacio Noé’s The Convent of Hell, which echoes its themes of convent-based depravity and demonic intrigue in vivid, explicit sequential art.

Ultimately, The Devils endures as a lightning rod: a moral film cloaked in immorality, pro-religion by exposing its distortions. Its ugliness—filth-smeared faces, ruptured bodies—serves illumination, urging viewers toward wisdom. For every viewer repulsed by its excesses, another finds genius in its candor. Russell’s gamble pays off; in risking the absurd, he achieves a sublime confrontation with our shadowed souls. At around 109 minutes in its uncut form, it repays multiple viewings, rewarding the brave with insights into faith’s fragility and power’s perils. Not flawless—its hysteria occasionally exhausts—yet undeniably vital, The Devils remains essential cinema, a shattered lens on humanity’s eternal dance with darkness.

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.