Review: Ballerina (dir. by Len Wiseman)

Posted on March 3, 2026 by Arleigh

“You don’t choose to be a killer, you are chosen.” — The Chancellor

Ballerina lands in theaters feeling like someone finally turned the volume up on the quieter, more balletic side of the John Wick universe. Anchored by Ana de Armas’s poised, ferocious turn, the film doesn’t reinvent the neon‑lit, bullet‑cartoon rules of the franchise so much as rearrange them into a new rhythm. It’s still a very familiar kind of action movie—assassins, codes, bodies on the floor—but it carves out its own niche by centering a woman who’s not just another lethal accessory to John’s world, but someone the world has already trained into a weapon.

At the same time, Ballerina leans hard on the style and flourish of the later John Wick films, and that’s both its main selling point and its biggest limitation. The way shots linger on gun grips, the way the camera circles around bodies mid‑spin, the way every hallway fight feels like stage choreography—it’s all very familiar, very polished, and very much a continuation of the franchise’s visual language. That’s great if you’re here for the aesthetic, but it also means the film sometimes feels more like an extension of the Wick universe’s attitude than a story that confidently stands on its own two feet.

Ana de Armas plays Eve Macarro, a young assassin who grew up in the shadow of the Ruska Roma and the Continental, groomed to kill long before she fully understood what she was doing. The story unfolds in a loose “between films” slot in the Wick timeline, so fans who care about franchise continuity will get their little Easter eggs and cameos, but the film smartly never gets completely bogged down in explaining how this fits into every rulebook. Instead, it leans into the idea that the John Wick universe is big enough that other hunters can walk around in it, following their own grudges and grief. Eve’s motive is straightforward: she wants to track down the people she believes killed her father when she was a child, and along the way she has to square off against both the old guard of her upbringing and the cult‑like killers who seem to operate just outside the established order.

Like a lot of John Wick entries, though, Ballerina is ultimately more interested in expanding the world and reinforcing its rules than drilling deep into its own plot. Eve’s revenge‑driven quest gives the film its spine, but the mechanics of that revenge are often secondary to the chance to show off another assassin enclave, another weird code, or another showdown that feels like a set‑piece first and a character beat second. You can feel the priorities: where she travels, who she bumps into, and how this underworld operates often matter more than whether her arc is especially surprising or emotionally rich. The plotting starts to feel like connective tissue between bigger, more stylized sequences, and that’s where the reliance on franchise style starts to hurt more than help.

The film’s greatest strength is how it employs the language of ballet and violence in the same breath. The title Ballerina might make you expect a lot of literal tutus and pirouettes, and there’s a bit of that in the opening stretches, but the real choreography is in the fight scenes. Eve’s movement is light‑on‑her‑feet one moment—a few spins, a quick sidestep—and then suddenly brutal, close‑quarters savagery the next. The camera doesn’t just document her skills; it dances with them, letting wide‑angle shots show off the architecture of a fight before snapping into tight, impact‑heavy close‑ups. It’s unmistakably a Wick‑style approach, only dialed into a slightly more feminine, almost theatrical register.

De Armas deserves a lot of credit for making Eve feel like a real person, not just a killing machine with a pretty face. She’s cold, yes, but there’s weariness under the surface, the kind that comes from being raised in a world where emotions are a liability. The script doesn’t drown her in backstory; it just lets small moments—a hesitation, a glance at a photo, the way she holds a gun—do the work. When she finally loses her composure and starts to scream, grunt, and visibly struggle during later fights, the effect is more powerful than if she’d been effortlessly killing everyone from minute one. She sweats, she bleeds, she gets thrown around, and that makes her victories feel earned, not just cool.

Stylistically, Ballerina is very much in line with the rest of the franchise: glossy, slightly over‑the‑top, and hyper‑aware of its own aesthetic. The camera work is sleek, the color grading pops, and the score leans into synth textures that feel like a slightly more elegant cousin of the usual Wick pulse. There are also some deliberately playful musical choices—bits of Tchaikovsky and other classical motifs that echo in the background during key scenes—which tie the idea of ballet back to the film’s emotional core. The setting shifts from the familiar New York–style Continental spaces to a quieter, almost fairy‑tale European village that houses a different kind of assassins’ retirement community. It’s a neat trick: the filmmakers give us something that still feels like the same universe but just enough of a different flavor that it doesn’t feel like a rerun.

But that lush style also underlines how much the film is prioritizing world‑building over a tight narrative. Conversations about the Ruska Roma, the Continental, and the cult‑like assassins’ outpost are there less to advance Eve’s inner journey and more to remind us that the John Wick universe is vast, layered, and full of hierarchies. Fans who love the lore will probably eat that up, but if you’re hoping for a more self‑contained narrative, it can start to feel like you’re watching a very expensive lore compendium. The emotional core is there—it just has to fight for space amidst all the visual flexing and mythology maintenance.

Where Ballerina becomes a bit uneven is in its plotting. The basic “one girl, one very long night of revenge” template is solid, but the script doesn’t always give it enough depth or surprise. There are too many conversations where characters explain the rules of the world to each other, or recap what’s already been established, rather than using those moments to add nuance to the characters or relationships. The side figures—like various crime bosses, elders, and reluctant allies—do their jobs entertainingly enough, but they don’t all get the same level of interior life that Eve has. Some of the supporting performances are strong across the board, but the material doesn’t always push them to do anything more than punctuate the action beats.

Keanu Reeves drops in briefly as John Wick, and the cameo is handled with the kind of restraint that makes it feel like a favor rather than a stunt. He doesn’t hang around; he makes a sharp, efficient entrance, has a few quiet exchanges, and then exits, leaving the movie firmly in Eve’s hands. That’s crucial, because one of the criticisms of earlier spin‑off ideas was that they’d feel like vanity detours or glorified cameos. Here, John’s presence actually reinforces the idea that this is someone else’s story now, and that he’s just another player in a much larger ecosystem of killers.

The film’s worst moments are also some of its most visually striking: the bigger, more outlandish set‑pieces that lean fully into the franchise’s “go‑no‑go” action logic. The final third, in particular, is one long, almost goofy crescendo of fights, stunts, and absurdly lethal props. It’s a lot of fun in the moment, but it also underlines how thin the actual plotting can be. When the camera is spinning around a flamethrower‑wielding Eve or a hallway of assassins dropping in from the ceiling, the movie doesn’t always give us enough emotional context to care about who’s living or dying beyond the immediate spectacle. It’s the kind of sequence that will make fans cheer in the theater, but might look a bit clumsier on a second viewing.

One area where Ballerina arguably improves on the core series is its handling of gender dynamics. Eve isn’t fetishized; she’s allowed to be both emotionally grounded and physically dominant without being framed as some kind of fantasy object. The film nods to the idea of “girl power” in the assassin world, but it also lets the character operate within familiar constraints—tradition, hierarchy, and expectation—instead of pretending she’s a one‑woman revolution. She’s tough, but she’s also vulnerable, and that balance keeps the tone from tipping entirely into empty empowerment sloganeering. The way the movie treats her relationships—with her father’s memory, with her mentors, and with the people she’s ordered to kill—adds a layer of emotional sophistication that earlier entries in the franchise often glossed over for the sake of pure momentum.

If you’re coming into Ballerina expecting a radical reinvention of the series, you’ll probably leave a little underwhelmed. It doesn’t rip up the rulebook or deliver a huge thematic twist on what we already know about this universe. Instead, it refocuses the camera on a different kind of protagonist, lets the familiar style breathe a little differently, and proves that the world of John Wick is big enough to house more than just one lone wolf. It’s a stylish, violent, occasionally silly, definitely pulpy action film that knows exactly what it wants to be: a long, bloody ballet in which the lead is a woman who’s finally ready to dance on her own terms—even if the choreography sometimes matters more than the story it’s supposedly telling.

John Wick Franchise (spinoffs)

John Wick: Chapter 4 (dir. by Chad Stahelski) Review

Posted on March 2, 2026 by Arleigh

“Those who cling to death; live. Those who cling to life; die.” – Caine

John Wick: Chapter 4 is the kind of action movie that doesn’t just lean into the spotlight—it steps into it, throws a flak vest over its suit, and then spends the next three hours filleting an entire world of assassins with brutal, balletic precision. At this point in the franchise, you’re either all‑in on the rules of the High Table, the Continental, and Wick’s endless mourning for his wife Helen, or you’re just here for the sheer spectacle of seeing Keanu Reeves beat up a continent’s worth of bad guys. The film not only respects that split audience, it tries really hard to satisfy both with a mix of operatic emotion, globe‑trotting locations, and a ridiculous amount of meticulously choreographed carnage.

One of the first things that stands out in John Wick: Chapter 4 is how much the world has expanded since the first film. The script doesn’t reinvent the core idea—Wick wants out, the system wants him broken, and the only way he can be free is by killing his way to the top—but it does layer on new zones, new factions, and a whole supporting cast of assassins who feel like they’re pulled out of their own B‑movies. From Morocco to Berlin, from New York to Paris, the film leans into a kind of hyper‑theatrical world‑building where every hotel lobby, nightclub, and underground fighting arena looks like it was designed by a comic‑book artist with a fetish for brutalism and neon lighting. That’s not a bad thing; it makes the universe feel lived‑in, even if it occasionally borders on self‑parody. The film also shuffles in a few fresh faces that give the usual assassin lineup some new flavors, including Donnie Yen as Caine, the stoic, blind assassin who carries both lethal efficiency and a quiet moral weight; Hiroyuki Sanada as the disciplined Shimazu, whose traditional demeanor and craftsmanship with a sword add a very grounded, almost old‑world element to the chaos; and Rina Sawayama as the high‑ranking assassin Akira, whose presence brings a mix of ruthless professionalism and a genuinely intriguing emotional arc that doesn’t feel like an afterthought.

There’s also Scott Adkins playing against his usual type as Killa Harkan, the head of the German Branch of the High Table, showing up in a surprisingly decent‑looking fat suit that gives him a grotesquely imposing presence while still hinting at the physicality audiences know from his other action roles. The character leans into the film’s tendency toward the theatrical, but he’s not just a walking gag; he fits into the world as one of the more visually exaggerated enforcers of the High Table’s rule. Alongside him, Shamier Anderson brings a lean, relentless energy as the Tracker, Wick’s shadowy, almost dog‑like pursuer whose loyalty to the system makes him more than just another interchangeable goon, while Marko Zaror crops up in the Berlin arena sequences as a brutal, wiry fighter whose style adds yet another distinct flavor to the movie’s unusually diverse fight roster. Taken together, these additions don’t just pad the body count; they give the film a sense that the John Wick universe is big enough to host everyone from classical swordsmen to modern martial‑arts specialists and even a few horror‑movie‑style fanatics, all orbiting the same doomed man.

The villain this time around is the Marquis Vincent Bisset de Gramont, played by Bill Skarsgård, and he’s the kind of High Table emissary who exists purely to make John’s life harder while reminding the audience that the system is more bureaucratic than it is mysterious. He’s got the cold, manipulative air of a corporate executive who’s never actually touched a gun but still has the power to ruin people’s lives on paper. His presence allows the film to spend more time on the politics of the assassin underground, which in turn forces John to pull in a wider network of allies, return favors, and, in a few cases, rebuild old friendships that were already on thin ice. That network includes the Bowery King, Caine, and the rest of the new cast, all of whom add texture to the usual slug‑fest even if the plot’s core emotional arc is still very much about a man who keeps remembering the wife he can’t get back.

Where Chapter 4 really flexes its muscles is in the action, and nowhere is that more obvious than in the extended Paris set‑piece that basically becomes the film’s centerpiece. It starts on the open city streets at night, with Wick already on the move, guns blazing and bodies piling up as the camera weaves through car‑chase energy and close‑quarters shoving. The chaos then escalates when the sequence shifts to the Arc de Triomphe roundabout, where the circular layout turns the whole area into a spinning, three‑dimensional shooting gallery. Cars whip around the monument, bullets ricochet off stone and metal, and the sheer spatial awareness of the choreography makes it feel like you’re watching a real‑time videogame map being systematically cleared in concentric circles, except the “map” is an iconic piece of Parisian infrastructure.

The escalation doesn’t stop there. The action migrates into a mostly empty, half‑abandoned apartment complex that feels like a brutalist concrete maze, each floor and hallway turning into a new arena for sprinting, reloading, and last‑minute dodges. The geography of the building becomes a character of its own, with shots that snake down stairwells, peer through doorways, and frame John as a lone figure ducking and weaving through a vertical death‑trap. It’s inside this apartment complex that the film drops one of its most memorable visual flourishes: a frenetic, prolonged shootout using dragon’s breath shotgun shells—incendiary rounds that send flaming pellets spraying outward—captured from an isometric, top‑down angle that directly evokes the look of indie action‑game favorites like The Hong Kong Massacre. The camera rides high above each room as Wick storms through, watching clusters of fire and bullets explode outward in geometric patterns, turning the interior layout into a living level map. It’s a moment that feels less like traditional cinema and more like a loving, hyper‑stylized homage to the way videogames can turn gunplay into a choreographed light show.

The final stretch of this extended Paris gauntlet is the brutal climb up the Rue Foyatier stairway to the Sacré‑Cœur steps, where the film’s choreographic and camera work reach their most expressionistic peak. The wide shots of Paris looming below, the narrowing of the stairway itself, and the way the camera sometimes drifts into an almost dreamlike, slightly elevated angle all combine to make the sequence feel like an endurance ritual rather than just another fight. By the time Wick reaches the top—after being hurled back down and forced to claw his way up again—the audience feels just as exhausted as he looks, which is exactly the point.

That’s part of what makes the film work when it isn’t just going hand‑to‑hand with you for nearly three hours. Beneath all the shooting and stabbing, John Wick: Chapter 4 is also quietly insistent on the idea that this is a tragedy. John Wick isn’t just a guy who happened to fall into a secret society of killers; he’s a man who has been reshaped by grief, loss, and the realization that every compromise he’s made along the way has only made his cage tighter. The film doesn’t over‑explain this; instead, it lets you watch him limp, cough up blood, and drag his battered frame through one more ambush, as if his body is the only thing strong enough to keep him breathing. The supporting characters—especially those tied to the High Table or to his past, including the newer faces like Caine, Shimazu, Akira, Killa Harkan, the Tracker, and the arena fighters—get a few moments to show that they’re not just cannon fodder, either. They have responsibilities, hierarchies, and codes that clash with the arbitrary cruelty of the Table, even if most of them still end up in the path of Wick’s bullets.

On the flip side, the movie is also unapologetically aware of how silly it is. There’s a knowing winking about the dialogue, the neon‑lit set designs, and the way lines like “You have until sunrise” are delivered with the gravity of a Shakespearean prophecy. The film doesn’t try to make you forget that this is ultimately a high‑end first‑person‑shooter turned into a live‑action ballet. It leans into the absurdity of escalating stakes, the way the world keeps conspiring to throw more and more assassins at John, and the fact that even when he’s bleeding out, he still insists on finishing a fight with a signature flourish. For some viewers, that will feel like a strength, a kind of self‑aware celebration of the genre. For others, it’ll feel like the moment the franchise tips from cool to camp, especially when the pacing starts to drag a bit in the middle section and the mix of formal duels, fat‑suited branch leaders, and endless negotiations begins to feel a little overstuffed.

The film’s length is its biggest liability. At around 169 minutes, John Wick: Chapter 4 is not shy about giving you more than enough time to live inside its world, but it also doesn’t always feel like it needs every last minute. The middle act, in particular, spends a lot of time on formalities, treaties, duels, and metaphysical negotiations with the High Table, which can slow the momentum when what you really want is for John to do another hallway‑fight or another truck‑pile‑up. There are times when the script feels like it’s stretching itself out to keep the spectacle going rather than tightening the storytelling, and that’s when the silliness of it all—like the deliberately over‑the‑top presence of Killa Harkan and the packed gallery of new faces—can start to work against the emotional weight the film is trying to build. A leaner, more ruthless edit would probably make the overall experience feel sharper and more focused.

Still, there’s a lot to admire in what the film manages to pull off. The sound design, the camera work, and the way the choreography is almost always shot in wide, relatively clear takes all combine to make the action feel substantial rather than edited into incomprehensible chaos. The supporting cast—Donnie Yen, Hiroyuki Sanada, Rina Sawayama, Scott Adkins, Shamier Anderson, Marko Zaror, and others—add texture and personality to a world that could otherwise feel like a series of interchangeable goons. They’re not just there to get shot; they’re there to give the film a sense of a larger, more complicated ecosystem of killers, each with their own rules and reasons.

In the end, John Wick: Chapter 4 is less a strict narrative continuation and more of a cinematic endurance event. It doesn’t reinvent the franchise, but it pushes the Wick formula into more extreme, more theatrical, and more emotionally committed territory. It’s messy in places, overstuffed in others, but it also has a few moments of pure, jaw‑dropping action that will probably end up in “best of the decade” lists among genre fans, especially that Paris mega‑set‑piece that starts on open streets, spirals through the Arc de Triomphe, invades an empty apartment complex for that dragon’s‑breath top‑down firefight, and climaxes on the Rue Foyatier stairs. If you’re someone who cares about emotional coherence and tight plotting, the film will probably test your patience. If you’re someone who’s here for the ballet of bullets, the operatic bloodshed, the eccentric new cast, and the sight of Keanu Reeves refusing to stay down no matter how many times the universe tries to kill him, then John Wick: Chapter 4 is a pretty satisfying send‑off—or at least a very loud, very stylish stop on the way there.

Weapons used by John Wick throughout the film

Glock 34 (TTI Combat Master Package) – His primary pistol early on, including the Morocco sequence against the new Elder and during the Osaka Continental battle.
Agency Arms Glock 17 – Used by Wick during the garden fight at the Osaka Continental after he takes it off a High Table enforcer.
TTI Pit Viper – The “hero gun” of the movie, custom‑built for Chapter 4, used heavily in the Paris staircase and duel lead‑up sequences.
Thompson Center Arms Encore pistol – custom-made single-shot pistols created specifically for the Sacre-Couer duel.
TTI Dracarys Gen‑12 – The dragon’s‑breath shotgun he grabs during the Paris apartment sequence, used in the isometric top‑down “videogame” style scene.
Spike’s Tactical Compressor carbine – Used by Wick after he takes it from High Table enforcers during the Osaka Continental fight.

John Wick Franchise (spinoffs)

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: 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.

Review: Silent Night (dir. by John Woo)

Posted on November 23, 2025 by Arleigh

“I can’t speak, but I’ll make them listen.” — Brian Godlock

Silent Night (2023) finds John Woo making his first American action film in two decades, since the disappointing Paycheck in 2003. While it’s definitely a step up from that sci-fi thriller misfire, Silent Night still doesn’t quite reach the heights of Woo’s Hong Kong classics or even his best Western productions like Face/Off. This latest outing is a lean, mostly dialogue-free revenge thriller that has Woo’s fingerprints all over it—a mix of balletic violence and emotional anguish—but it also shows the limitations of trying to recapture that old Woo magic in a very different cinematic landscape.

The story is simple: Joel Kinnaman plays Brian Godlock, an electrician whose son is killed in a gang shootout on Christmas Eve, and he himself is shot in the throat, losing his voice. The film then follows Brian’s quiet but brutal quest for revenge a year later. The choice to tell this nearly wordless story is a bold gamble, and for much of the film, the absence of dialogue adds power to the emotions and the tension. Kinnaman’s physical performance carries most of the weight—his grief, anger, and determination are all conveyed through body language and expression. This is one of the biggest strengths of Silent Night: Woo’s ability to communicate story and feeling visually, which harkens back to the silent films of early cinema, blending with his signature poetic violence.

That said, the silence also highlights the script’s thinness. The supporting characters, including Brian’s wife (Catalina Sandino Moreno) and a sympathetic detective (Kid Cudi), feel underdeveloped, serving more as plot functions than full people. This narrow focus on Brian’s pain and revenge means the film sometimes feels emotionally shallow beyond the core trauma. Compared to Woo’s earlier work, where secondary characters and relationships added layers of complexity and intensity, Silent Night is more singular and direct, for better and worse.

When it comes to action, Woo shows he still has the chops. The gunfights and hand-to-hand scenes are meticulously choreographed, emphasizing realism with a solid dose of stylized flair. It’s a return to the grounded grit Woo displayed in some of his earlier Hong Kong films, leaving behind some of the higher-octane operatic excess of his best-known Hollywood hits. The violence feels impactful and earned, avoiding cheap spectacle for a more tactile, bone-crunching effect.

Still, Silent Night doesn’t quite have the scope and scale of Face/Off or The Killer. It lacks the grandeur and intricate storytelling that made those films iconic. Instead, it’s a tighter, moodier experience that prioritizes emotional atmosphere over plot complexity. This stripped-down approach is refreshing to a degree, but it can also become monotonous—especially since the lack of dialogue and limited character development demand more patience from the viewer.

Comparing it directly to Paycheck, Silent Night is a clear improvement. Paycheck was widely regarded as a forgettable action film that failed to capitalize on Woo’s talents, stuck with a muddled sci-fi plot and lacking the emotional firepower Woo excels at. Silent Night ditches the high-concept sci-fi for a more grounded, personal revenge story, allowing Woo to bring more of his hallmarks to bear—the intense physical performances, a palpable sense of loss, and carefully crafted action sequences.

However, it’s important to temper enthusiasm with the fact that Silent Night is not a full return to Woo’s prime Hong Kong cinema or his best Hollywood days. It’s missing some of the poetry, charm, and iconic bravado of movies like Hard Boiled or Face/Off, where Woo’s characters felt larger than life and the action was operatic and unforgettable. Here, the film often feels restrained, even muted, perhaps reflecting a director adapting to new cinematic expectations but also struggling to fully bring himself back to the forefront in the American industry.

Silent Night is a worthwhile viewing for fans of John Woo and action cinema looking for something different—one part homage to classic revenge tales, one part experiment in silent storytelling. It’s emotionally raw, visually precise, and markedly better than Paycheck, but it also lacks the fire and inventiveness that made Woo a legend. It’s a step forward and a reminder that even the greatest filmmakers can evolve and sometimes falter. If Woo is finding his voice again, it’s decidedly quieter but still unmistakably his own.