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Park Chan-wook is widely regarded as one of the finest filmmakers working today. A versatile multi-talent, he has dabbled in a variety of genres, while leaving his own unmistakable authorial stamp on each. From the operatic revenge of 'Oldboy' and the rest of the so-called Vengeance Trilogy, to the melancholic machinations of 'Decision to Leave', and even the off-kilter eroticism of 'Thirst,' his films are united by an enduring fascination with obsession, violence and moral rot.

'No Other Choice' is another powerful entry in Park's ongoing exploration of human darkness. Based on Donald E. Westlake's 1997 novel 'The Ax,' it follows Man-Su, a manager at a paper company whose cushy life is abruptly derailed by unexpected unemployment. As months pass and job prospects evaporate, desperation curdles into a grim logic, leading him to conclude that eliminating his rivals may be the only way back to stability.

There is something of Ted Kotcheff's 'Fun with Dick and Jane' in the film's DNA, as Park leans into the dark comedy of middle-class collapse. Like Kotcheff's film, 'No Other Choice' treats unemployment as a destabilising force, with Park drawing considerable humour from the indignities that follow. The difference is that- where the Hollywood comedy offers catharsis- Park lets his jokes accumulate into something far more corrosive.

Violent without being gratuitous, funny without being forced, it is a masterclass in narrative writing. Some critics may point out obvious similarities to Bong Joon-ho's 'Parasite,' but the resemblance is largely superficial. Where Bong's film sprawled into a broad, allegorical portrait of class conflict, Park's is colder and more procedural, concerned less with spectacle than the methodical erosion of moral boundaries.

It is about a desperate man forced to commit acts he does not wish to commit, who sacrifices his morality for his family at a time where economic uncertainty reigns. A study in compromise, Man-Su's descent is neither sudden nor sensational; it is the product of incremental pressure, each small decision rationalised as necessary, each act pushing him further into a moral grey zone. Park traces this erosion of ethics with precision, showing how desperation can warp even ordinary, law-abiding people into committing acts they would once have found unthinkable.

Subtle physical motifs mirror this inner struggle. Man-Su's attempts to bend the trees in his greenhouse reflect his desire to control his fate, while his persistent tooth pain- echoing the bodily articulation of moral and psychological strain felt by Nick Nolte's character in Paul Schrader's 'Affliction'- gives tangible form to his mounting anxiety. Through these details, Park illustrates how pressure can corrode ethics, translating inner turmoil into a gripping, lived experience.

The film is also a sharp critique of middle-class precarity. Through Man-Su's struggle, Park highlights the cruelty of economic competition, where structural pressures leave individuals feeling there is no alternative but transgression. Crucially, Man-Su is seeking work in the declining paper industry, turning his job hunt into a grim exercise in scarcity rather than opportunity. As in Kiyoshi Kurosawa's 'Tokyo Sonata', the film exposes the quiet humiliations and psychological toll of searching for work in a competitive economy that has little left to offer.

Yet, these grim themes are never divorced from humour. The narrative intertwines dark comedy with moral tension, drawing laughter from the indignities Man-Su suffers and the increasingly elaborate lengths he goes to preserve his livelihood. The humour does not release the tension; it amplifies it, making each act of violent desperation feel simultaneously absurd and horrifying.

This incremental escalation- the chain of decisions that lead from minor ethical lapses to serious criminality- is central to the narrative's tension. Park's story is procedural in nature, demonstrating that moral collapse is not an abstract concept but a methodical process. By letting the audience inhabit Man-Su's thought process, the film creates a subtle complicity: we understand his logic even as we recoil from the consequences, making the narrative as intellectually gripping as it is viscerally unsettling.

Behind the camera, director of photography Kim Woo-hyung brings a strikingly naturalistic beauty to proceedings, using space and architecture to visualise Man-Su's growing alienation. Frequently stunning, the cinematography is patient and observant, allowing environments to speak as loudly as dialogue. Modern office blocks, factories and industrial sites are framed with crisp clarity, their glass and concrete surfaces reflecting a world of efficiency and progress that has quietly discarded those who can no longer keep pace.

Kim makes particularly effective use of light, as well as spatial contrast, frequently juxtaposing rigid, contemporary structures with pockets of nature. Parks, woodlands and plants intrude upon the film's urban environments, not as places of refuge, but as reminders of a slower, vanishing world that sits uneasily alongside modern economic life. This tension between nature and modernity mirrors Man-Su's internal conflict: a man shaped by older ideals of loyalty, stability and hard work, now stranded in a system that no longer rewards them.

The visual attention to space carries through into Ryu Seong-hie's meticulous production design. Man-Su's house, in particular, becomes a crucial extension of the same visual logic and narrative themes- a place that should signify comfort and stability, instead symbolising the quiet strain beneath the surface of middle-class security. Neat, outwardly respectable and surrounded by plants, the home reflects an older promise of permanence, one increasingly out of step with the encroaching economic reality.

Further, Cho Young-wuk's score is sparse and judicious, underscoring Man-Su's mounting unease, while also amplifying its comedic edge (a scene in which three characters scuffle to booming music is a particular highlight). Kim Ho-bin and Kim Sang-beom's editing is similarly precise, favouring clarity and rhythm over urgency. Yet they still allow room for artful transitions that quietly bridge time and space. These moments of artistic elegance prevent the film from ever feeling mechanical.

Lee Byung-hun stars as Man-Su, conveying his desperation, moral compromise and simmering anxiety with remarkable restraint. Lee never overdoes it, allowing small gestures, measured expressions and even silence to carry enormous weight. Physical details- the way he flinches, tenses or nurses his persistent tooth pain- become expressive markers of his inner turmoil. Always a commanding presence on screen, he is once again superb, effortlessly anchoring the film with a performance that is as subtle as it is compelling.

Son Ye-jin does similarly fine work as Man-Su's wife, Miri. Their relationship forms the emotional heart of the film, grounded in genuine affection and mutual care. Miri is far from a passive figure; she is independent and capable, finding work long before Man-Su does and demonstrating agency within their lives. However, her instincts and choices also align with her husband's, reflecting a shared pragmatism and prioritisation of family. The chemistry between Son and Lee is undeniable, making their domestic life feel lived-in and real. Son plays her to a tee, conveying warmth, intelligence and quiet strength with effortless naturalism.

Their supporting cast do not let them down. Kim Seung Woo and So Yul Choi, as their children Si-one and Ri-one, respectively, both impress, demonstrating an emotional intelligence beyond their years. Yeom Hye-ran is hilarious as the disappointed wife of one of Man-Su's targets, while Park Hee-soon delights as an insidiously smug influencer. In addition, in the smaller role of Man-Su's second target, Cha Seung-won is quietly heartbreaking, bringing depth and nuance even with limited screen time.

Darkly comic, tense and engaging, Park Chan-wook's 'No Other Choice' is a masterclass in narrative precision. Meticulous cinematography, elegant production design and a stirring score mirror the incremental erosion of morality at the film's heart. Anchored by superb performances from Lee Byung-hun and Son Ye-jin, and buoyed by a sharp, versatile supporting cast, every element works in concert to illuminate desperation, compromise and the suffocating cruelty of modern life. In short, it's irresistible- you really have no other choice but to watch it.

Joachim Trier's films concern themselves with the quiet crises that shape a life. His work is marked by an unusual balance of intellectual rigor and emotional generosity: formally precise yet deeply humane, ironic without cynicism and always attentive to the small, decisive moments where lives tilt almost imperceptibly. Throughout his career, he has shown a deep attunement to the ways people try to make sense of themselves amid the shifting currents of memory and expectation.

His newest, 'Sentimental Value', sits comfortably within this body of work. Nuanced and touching, it follows film director Gustav Borg's relationship with his estranged daughters Nora and Agnes. After their mother's funeral brings the fractured family back together, old wounds, unspoken resentments and lingering affections resurface.

It is a subtle drama, saying a great deal without ever labouring its point. Trier uses the narrative to engage with a range of themes, not least the messy dynamics of familial life, generational and inherited trauma and the tension between creative ambition and emotional truth. As ever, he is less interested in resolution than in the uneasy processes by which people attempt to understand one another and themselves.

Trier's narrative, written alongside Eskil Vogt, favours conversation over confrontation, finding its drama in half spoken grievances, withheld affection and the uneasy rhythms of family interaction. Beneath these exchanges lies the quieter legacy of the past: the emotional patterns shaped by Gustav's own childhood losses and the subtle ways those patterns have drifted into the lives of his daughters.

Trier is also alert to the tensions between art and intimacy. A film Gustav is trying to make alongside Nora becomes a kind of emotional fault line, a reminder of how creativity can both illuminate and distort personal relationships. For Nora and, to a lesser extent, Agnes, participating in his work offers the possibility of connection, but also the risk of being drawn back into patterns they have spent years trying to escape. Trier treats these dynamics with characteristic delicacy, allowing the contradictions to sit side by side rather than forcing them into neat thematic conclusions.

Kasper Tuxen's cinematography extends this delicacy into the film's visual language. His images are characteristically unshowy, favouring natural light, soft contrasts and a gentle, observational camera that seems to hover at the edges of conversations rather than impose itself on them. Close ups arrive sparingly but with purpose, catching the flicker of doubt or longing that passes across a face before a character can suppress it.

Interiors are framed with a quiet warmth, while outdoor scenes carry a faint, melancholy openness, as if the landscape itself were absorbing the family's unresolved tensions. The family house itself becomes a living canvas; the beating heart of Trier's narrative. Tuxen's work never strains for symbolism; instead, it creates a visual atmosphere in which the film's emotional undercurrents can surface without fanfare (barring one moment, an unnecessary, overt nod to Ingmar Bergman's 'Persona').

Further, Jorgen Stangebye Larsen's production design reflects the film's emotional subtlety, favouring lived in spaces shaped by accumulated habits rather than overt aesthetic choices. Although some scenes seem to drag, Olivier Bugge Coutte's editing generally comes as a boon to proceedings, letting scenes breathe and conversations unfold with natural hesitations, while transitions slip by with the quiet logic of memory. In addition, Hania Rani's score, alongside an eclectic soundtrack, adds a restrained emotional undertow without ever overwhelming the drama.

The performances are uniformly strong, anchored by Stellan Skarsgard's layered and disarmingly vulnerable turn as Gustav. He plays the character not as a tyrant or a martyr, but as a man who has learned to rely on charm and avoidance, carrying old wounds he has never fully examined, with flickers of vulnerability surfacing only when he's too tired to suppress them. Renate Reinsve delivers an acting masterclass, bringing a taut, restless energy to Nora, capturing both her longing for connection and her instinctive recoil from the emotional traps she recognises all too well.

Inga Ibsdotter Lilleaas, meanwhile, offers a more understated but no less affecting performance as Agnes, whose calm exterior is less a sign of certainty than a way of keeping her own doubts at bay. Together, they create a believable dynamic, each performance attuned to the film's delicate balance of affection, frustration and tragic history. In addition, Elle Fanning and Anders Danielsen Lie, in smaller roles, round out the ensemble with a quiet assurance, adding texture without ever drawing focus from the central trio.

Joachim Trier's 'Sentimental Value' is a beautifully observed drama that reaffirms his place as a sensitive chronicler of human connection. Strongly acted and beautifully shot, the film is hard to fault. Attentive to the small, often uncomfortable moments through which people attempt to reconcile with the baggage they carry, it is measured, humane and quietly affecting; never sentimental, yet rich in value.

Comedian and writer Neal Brennan once remarked "there's nothing worse than trying to be funny and not being funny." Countless supposed comedies have tried too hard and failed even harder, aberrations like the disastrous spy spoof 'Leonard Part 6,' 'Son of the Mask' and the irredeemable 'Movie 43.' Torments to sit through, they stand as monuments to the painful truth that laughter cannot be forced.

Christopher Cain's 1997 effort 'Gone Fishin' is one such disaster; a generic comedy so unfunny it's a wonder it made it past the first table read. It follows bumbling buddies Joe and Gus, fishing enthusiasts who embark on their dream trip to Florida. On the way, they run afoul of a charming conman, befriend two feisty young ladies and leave a trail of chaos in their wake. However, instead of reeling in laughs, the film hooks nothing but groans and awkward silences.

A comedic calamity, the narrative contains no surprises; nothing builds and nothing lands. Instead of crafting humour from character or situation, screenwriters J. J. Abrams and Jill Mazursky rely on tired shtick that was outdated in the 1950's. It's astonishing how much talent is squandered here- Abrams, Academy Award winning cinematographer Dean Semler, producer Roger Birnbaum- yet the finished product is so flat and lifeless it seems like no one involved particularly cared.

Playing like a Three Stooges knock-off, the film has no momentum whatsoever. Lazily edited and burdened with an irritatingly upbeat score from Randy Edelman, it offers only clumsy gags and dead air. You feel every second of its 94-minute runtime. Even Semler's cinematography, which brought such grandeur to 'Dances with Wolves', is utterly uninspired, reducing Florida's landscapes to dull backdrops, as lifeless as a faded postcard.

Limping from one predictable pratfall to the next, the film leaves its talented cast stranded in material that is as uninspired as it is unfunny. One can only wonder what Joe Pesci, Danny Glover, Rosanna Arquette and Willie Nelson were thinking when they signed on. What on earth could possibly have seemed appealing about this trainwreck of a project?

Originally intended as a vehicle for the late, great John Candy and Rick Moranis, one can almost picture the two of them elevating the material with their natural chemistry, superb improvisation and impeccable comic timing. Candy's warmth and chaos, paired with Moranis's neurotic wit, might have given the story some spark, some charm; something that 'Gone Fishin' completely fails to deliver.

Joe Pesci is a dab hand at comedy. From 'My Cousin Vinny' to 'Home Alone', he effortlessly blends manic energy with precise timing, turning even the simplest line into something memorable. However, as Joe, he misfires, overacting wildly like a cartoon character stranded in a live-action world. Danny Glover fares no better in the role of Gus, reduced to reacting to slapstick setups with the kind of forced expressions that make you wince rather than laugh.

Their supporting cast makes little to no impression whatsoever, drifting through the film like ghosts in a sandstorm. As the free-spirited girls the two meet along the way, Rosanna Arquette and Lynn Whitfield barely register, while Nick Brimble's conman is about as menacing as a sleeping duckling. Gary Grubbs tries to inject some energy into proceedings as a slimy boat salesman, as does Maury Chaykin as an over-friendly waiter; but their efforts are in vain.

Bizarrely, Oscar winner Louise Fletcher turns up for all of two seconds as a waitress, getting nothing to do, seeming disappointed and going uncredited. Further, practically defining a "blink-and-you'll-miss-it" cameo, is Willie Nelson, delivering his lines with the dazed detachment of a man who's enjoyed a little too much of Willie's Reserve.

In his review of the Joan Rivers helmed flop 'Rabbit Test', Roger Ebert noted that "before anything else, movie comedy has to feel funny; we should sense from the screen that the filmmakers themselves are laughing. We don't this time." Such is the case with Christopher Cain's 'Gone Fishin'. Every gag feels staged, every pratfall forced. The result is a flat, joyless comedy that not only fails to amuse but also misses the most basic requirement of its genre: to make the viewer laugh. In the end, in trying so hard to be funny, 'Gone Fishin' flounders.

In a July 2025 article for The New York Times, Carlos Aguilar stated that director Kiyoshi Kurosawa "is to psychological fright what David Cronenberg is to body horror." Indeed, over the last 30 years, Kurosawa has become a master at weaving sinister, slow-creeping dread into the everyday- elevating the mundane into something almost imperceptibly menacing. However, he has not been constricted to the realm of the macabre. From dramatic comedies like 'Licence to Live,' to sci-fi and espionage flicks like 'Before We Vanish' and 'Wife of a Spy,' Kurosawa has shown himself to be a stylistic shapeshifter, crafting films that transcend the boundaries of genre.

This versatility finds one of its most poignant expressions in 'Tokyo Sonata', where Kurosawa turns his eye from the supernatural to the everyday disquiet of family life. It follows the Sasaki family after the father, Ryuhei, loses his job, hiding the truth from his wife, Megumi, and children, Kenji and Takashi. As each family member begins concealing their own desires and frustrations, the household's fragile harmony unravels, exposing the subtle unease beneath ordinary life. Here, the spectre is not a ghost or a curse, but the erosion of equilibrium- both economic and emotional.

It is a powerful drama, anchored by believable characters whose struggles feel both intimate and universal. Ryuhei's pride and secrecy, Megumi's quiet yearning for freedom, Kenji's defiance through music and Takashi's impulsive search for purpose, all unfold with understated precision. Kurosawa's dialogue is spare yet piercing, allowing silence and gesture to carry as much weight as words. In this restraint lies the film's strength: the ordinary rhythms of family life become charged with tension, revealing how repression and concealment corrode trust.

Beyond its domestic focus, the film examines broader themes of economic precarity, generational conflict and the fragility of identity in modern Japan. The collapse of Ryuhei's career mirrors a society grappling with instability, while Kenji's piano lessons symbolize the possibility of self-expression amid constraint. It could be said that Kurosawa is suggesting that true horror lies not in supernatural forces but in the unravelling of stability, leaving individuals isolated even within the family unit.

Kurosawa's craft amplifies these themes with quiet precision. Akiko Ashizawa's cinematography favours static, wide frames that emphasize distance and alienation within the family home, turning ordinary interiors into landscapes of unease. Koichi Takahashi's editing is restrained, with long takes allowing silence to stretch into tension, making the inevitable eruptions of conflict therein feel all the more startling.

Further, Masayuki Iwakura's sound design heightens the atmosphere by amplifying everyday noises- doors closing, footsteps, the hum of appliances and crinkling of crisp packets- while dialogue remains spare. Against this muted soundscape, a beautiful sequence of Kenji playing piano stands out as a moment of catharsis, where music becomes a fragile counterpoint to repression and collapse. Additionally, Claude Debussy's 'Clair de Lune' has rarely been used to such effect.

All in the cast deliver powerhouse performances. Teruyuki Kagawa subtly displays Ryuhei's frustration and emotional turmoil, while Kyoko Koizumi's Megumi is a heart-rending masterclass in moderation. As their son Kenji- and in his big-screen debut- Kai Inowaki delivers a remarkably nuanced performance, while supporting players Haruka Igawa, Kanji Tsuda and the great Koji Yakusho contribute brilliantly to the ensemble.

Kiyoshi Kurosawa's 'Tokyo Sonata' is a quietly devastating work. By stripping away the supernatural and focusing instead on the fractures within an ordinary household, he reveals that the most unsettling spectres are those born of everyday pressures- economic uncertainty, emotional repression and the slow erosion of trust. With its composed craft, nuanced performances and thematic resonance, the film demonstrates Kurosawa's ability to transcend genre and speak to universal human anxieties. In short, 'Tokyo Sonata' hits all the right notes.

In an era where cinema often gravitates toward polished narratives and predictable arcs, some filmmakers still try to wield the camera as a weapon of truth- or at least provocation. Like the pioneers of cinéma vérité and the political provocateurs of the 1960's New Wave, they strive to strip away artifice, exposing the raw nerves of human experience. Yet the paradox remains: the moment a lens is trained on reality, reality shifts. True vérité may be unattainable, but the pursuit itself can become a radical act- one that interrogates not just the subject, but the viewer's complicity.

This is the purported aim of underground filmmaker Guerrilla Metropolitana, who claims to be trying to use the medium of film to disturb, ignite debate and fracture the boundaries between observation and intrusion. In his newest work, 'The Benefactress (an Exposure of Cinematic Freedom),' a self-styled philanthropist agrees to finance Metropolitana's next project, on the condition that she be in it. So begins a descent into a labyrinth of voyeurism, manipulation and moral decay that can only end messily.

Currently out on global distribution through Blood Pact Films, and available via streaming services, Metropolitana's film is a caustic exercise in viewer alienation. Its mostly improvised narrative is sparse, repetitive and full of uncomfortable scenes. Like Tamakichi Anaru's infamous (and more accomplished) 'Tumbling Doll of Flesh', it aims not to tell a conventional story, but to unsettle. Generally, there are two ways to approach a film like this. One is to dissect its surface, which in this case generates more fatigue than feeling: the imagery is confrontational, the plot minimal and the dialogue and characterisation practically non-existent.

The other is to consider what these choices reveal about the filmmaker's intent: a rejection of narrative comfort and a desire to provoke reflection rather than deliver resolution or conform to cinematic conventions. If one wishes to take that approach, Metropolitana's film could be positioned as a grand experiment, of sorts, pushing the boundaries of what can be considered cinema.

Stylistically, the film is visceral and confrontational. Abuse and sexual content- much of which is apparently unsimulated- appears throughout, presented with a cold, voyeuristic detachment. However, these sequences lack the grisly, macabre precision of Anaru's work, and feel somewhat amateurish by comparison. Further, although the cast appear committed, their performances ultimately feel as hollow as the parts they play, undermined by Metropolitana's scant characterisation.

Visually, the film is striking, shot partially in high-contrast black and white and partially in the desaturated hues of a 70's porn flick. Reliant on handheld camerawork amidst claustrophobic interiors, Metropolitana rejects aesthetic polish in favour of gritty immediacy. The sound design leans into discomfort, favouring eerie melodies and sharp bursts of dissonance, creating a discordant sonic landscape heightening the film's abrasive tone. While these stylistic choices generate a dark, uneasy mood, they are arguably overused, quickly becoming exhausting.

It may certainly be more rewarding to attempt to contextualize 'The Benefactress (an Exposure of Cinematic Freedom)' as a conceptual provocation rather than a coherent piece of storytelling. Viewed this way, its sexually charged imagery and emotional detachment can be seen as part of a larger statement about the limits of cinematic language. This approach demands a great deal of effort, however.

Much like the aforementioned Anaru effort, or Sade Satô's equally disturbing 'Mai-Chan's Daily Life,' Metropolitana's film purposefully offers very little in the way of character development, resonance or momentum. For many, it will feel like a sick endurance test- challenging not only one's patience, but one's natural desire for meaning. Whether that challenge is worthwhile depends entirely on the viewers' appetite for discomfort.

To frame all this as artistic intent may be giving Metropolitana too much credit- a concern that echoes the controversy surrounding the similarly seedy 'A Serbian Film', whose creators claimed it was an allegory for Serbia's post-war trauma. That justification, for many, rang exceedingly hollow- a retroactive excuse for gratuitous excess rather than a genuine artistic motive. 'The Benefactress (an Exposure of Cinematic Freedom)' invites similar scrutiny.

Are its repetitively pornographic scenes a deliberate challenge to cinematic norms, or merely a convenient shield for incoherence and shock? Is the absence of a conventional storyline really a philosophical stance, or simply self-indulgence masquerading as depth? More broadly, what even constitutes cinema- a coherent narrative, an emotional arc or simply the act of provocation? These questions linger long after the credits roll on Guerrilla Metropolitana's 'The Benefactress (an Exposure of Cinematic Freedom)', and, frankly, are more compelling than the film itself.

Few directors have so consistently blurred the line between agony and ecstasy as Shin'ya Tsukamoto. Ever since 1989's 'Tetsuo: The Iron Man' fused flesh and metal into a shrieking, psychosexual nightmare, Tsukamoto has been both a chronicler and an architect of urban alienation- a filmmaker obsessed with the violence of existence in an indifferent world. His jagged, intimate films pulse with bodily horror and emotional extremity, but beneath the rust and blood there's always a yearning for connection.

That yearning takes a harrowing new shape in his 2011 offering 'Kotoko', where Tsukamoto turns his lens inward. Gone is the clash of man and machine; in its place, a quieter but no less brutal war- between mind and body, sanity and survival. The film follows the titular Kotoko, a single mother whose grip on reality is fraying. She suffers from a rare psychological condition that causes her to see double, perceiving people as both kind and cruel, safe and threatening, often simultaneously. This duality plunges her into a state of constant fear and confusion, where even the most mundane interactions become battlegrounds for her sanity.

It's a fascinating premise, and one that makes for an unflinching film. 'Kotoko' doesn't follow a conventional dramatic arc, instead unfolding like a fever dream. Fragmented and elliptical, Tsukamoto's narrative structure mirrors the disintegration of its central character's psyche. The story is intimate to the point of claustrophobia, often trapping one in Kotoko's perspective as reality warps around her. This approach can be disorienting, but it's also deeply immersive, forcing one to experience her confusion, terror and longing, firsthand.

Tsukamoto's characterisation is nuanced and unsparing, while his film has much to say about mental illness, albeit without any easy answers. There's no romanticism, no tidy diagnosis- just the lived experience of a mind in freefall. The narrative eschews resolution in favour of revelation, peeling back layers of trauma, fear and fractured love until all that remains is a raw nerve. It's a harrowing portrait of psychological collapse, and a haunting meditation on what fragments of humanity might still be salvaged from the wreckage.

Still, the film isn't without issue. A few sequences- particularly those involving singing- linger longer than necessary. While clearly well-intentioned and thematically resonant, their extended duration has a tendency to dull their emotional impact. What begins as poignancy risks tipping into indulgence, slightly undermining the immediacy the film otherwise maintains. While these moments don't break its spell, they do strain its impact somewhat- a reminder that even the most affecting motifs benefit from restraint (and a tighter hand in the editing booth).

Visually, 'Kotoko' is as restless as its protagonist. Tsukamoto's cinematography leans heavily on handheld, shaky camera work, amplifying the film's tension. Jittery framing mirrors Kotoko's unstable mental state, pulling one into her disorientation and dread. At its best, this technique is visceral and effective, heightening the emotional stakes with raw urgency. However, its overuse can become wearying, occasionally distracting from the emotional core rather than enhancing it.

The sound design is sparse but razor-sharp, punctuating moments of silence with sudden bursts of noise that jolt the viewer into Kotoko's fractured headspace. The score- minimal, often built around the haunting vocals of star Cocco- functions as an extension of Kotoko's psyche, oscillating between lullaby and lament. Meanwhile, the production design is stripped-down and intimate, favouring cramped interiors and bare, weathered spaces. There's a palpable tactility to the environments- scuffed floors, peeling walls, dim lighting- grounding the film's more hallucinatory flourishes in a grim, tangible reality.

Cocco, best known as a singer-songwriter, delivers a startling turn in the title role. Her portrayal of Kotoko is unflinching- a painfully authentic fusion of fragility and fury. Fully inhabiting the character, she channels her anguish in a most affecting way. Tsukamoto, in a supporting role, offers a quiet counterpoint: his presence is restrained, almost spectral, allowing Cocco's emotional volatility to dominate proceedings. Although dialogue is relatively sparse, their physical, emotive performances speak volumes without the need for words. Further, their supporting cast's understated contributions add texture to the film's emotional landscape.

Shin'ya Tsukamoto's 'Kotoko' is not an easy watch, nor is it meant to be. It's a film that demands emotional surrender, confronting the viewer with the unfiltered reality of psychological collapse. Though not without its faults, it finds a strange kind of grace in its unrelenting intensity. Tsukamoto's vision is uncompromising, and Cocco's performance unforgettable. Together, they craft a work as bruising as it is beautiful: a howl from the depths, a wounded plea for connection in an uncaring world.

Ever since bursting onto the scene with 1998's raucous 'The Quiet Family', Kim Jee-woon has been one of the most exciting filmmakers around. From the hilarity of 2000's 'The Foul King,' to the psychological horror of 'A Tale of Two Sisters,' as well as the pulse-pounding thrills of 'A Bittersweet Life' and 'I Saw the Devil,' Kim has crafted a string of stylish, electrifying thrill-rides one would be hard pressed to forget.

Among his best is 2008's 'The Good, The Bad, The Weird', one of the wildest westerns ever made. Described by Kim as a "kimchi western", the film unfolds in Manchuria, circa 1939, and follows the titular three as they battle over a mysterious map, with the Japanese Army and a gang of bandits on their tail. There can only be one winner, and in a world that wild, every hand's a loser.

A gleefully chaotic send-up and reimagining of the western genre, it's a thoroughly entertaining romp from start to finish. While clearly indebted to Sergio Leone, the film never settles for parody or imitation; instead, Kim channels the spirit of the spaghetti Western through his own kinetic, distinctly Korean lens; creating something truly special in the process.

Set in 1930s Manchuria- a region caught in the crosshairs of Japanese imperial ambition, Chinese resistance and Korean displacement- the film uses its historical backdrop less as a lecture and more as a launchpad for chaos. The map at the centre of the plot is a MacGuffin of mythic proportions, but it's the chase that matters, not the treasure. Kim doesn't dwell on the politics; he isn't here to teach us a history class, he's here to blow the doors off it.

On paper, the plot is simple: three men chasing a treasure map, each with their own motives; none of whom are particularly trustworthy. However, the execution is anything but ordinary. The film moves with the velocity of a runaway train- quite literally at times- and never lets up. It's a chase movie, a shootout movie, a comedy and a western all rolled into one, stitched together with Kim's signature flair.

It works brilliantly on every level, thanks in large part to Kim's sharp, character-driven writing. Each of the leads is distinctly drawn and, crucially, immensely likable. You genuinely enjoy spending time with them- from The Weird, whose bumbling, chaotic energy keeps the story unpredictable and fun, to The Good, whose quiet resolve anchors the madness, and The Bad, whose suave swagger makes him inarguably one of the coolest figures to grace the screen in years.

Moreover, Kim's dialogue is as sharp and witty as his narrative. His sense of humour is palpable in every frame, woven cleverly into the fabric of the film. Whether it's a deadpan retort mid-shootout or a perfectly timed visual gag, the comedy emerges organically from the characters and their world. It never undercuts the stakes, rather it enhances them, keeping the momentum alive with clever shifts and tonal variety.

Visually, the film is a feast for the eyes. Cinematographer Lee Mo-gae, a frequent collaborator of Kim's, captures the sprawling deserts of Manchuria with sweeping grandeur and precision. The camera rarely sits still- it races, dives and glides through the chaos, mirroring the film's relentless energy. Wide shots evoke classic western iconography, while tight close-ups heighten tension and character interplay.

There's a painterly quality to the compositions, even amid the madness. Dust clouds, gun smoke and sun-bleached landscapes are framed with an eye for both beauty and brutality. The film's colour palette- earthy browns, faded reds, bursts of metallic grit- reinforces its genre roots while giving it a distinctly Korean flavour.

Further, every frame feels lived in and layered, thanks to the meticulous production design of Cho Hwa-sung. The dusty towns, ramshackle outposts and sprawling desertscapes evoke the lawless spirit of the Wild West, while remaining East Asian in origin. The attention to detail is staggering. From the ornate costumes- blending Oriental and Western influences- to the cluttered interiors of black-market dens and bandit hideouts, the whole world feels disordered, yet deliberate. A train heist sequence alone is a masterclass in set design: cramped corridors, lavish compartments and explosive exits all stitched together with precision and flair.

What's perhaps most impressive is how the design supports the story. It's playful without being cartoonish, gritty without losing its sense of fun. Moreover, the environments serve as extensions of the characters themselves. The Weird's cluttered hideout, The Bad's sleek wardrobe, The Good's utilitarian gear- all speak volumes without a word of dialogue.

What also sets 'The Good, The Bad, The Weird' apart from others of its ilk, is the action. Sprawling, relentless and choreographed with breathtaking precision, it is a non-stop barrage of brilliance. Throughout its runtime- which flies by like a speeding bullet thanks to Nam Na-young's expert editing- the film delivers set pieces that feel both operatic and visceral.

Kim's stuntpeople and choreographers orchestrate chaos like conductors with machine guns. From a rooftop chase through a market, blending parkour-like agility with slapstick timing, to a lengthy desert pursuit-cum-battle, every scene becomes a kinetic ballet of destruction. Endlessly thrilling and exhilarating, yet remarkably coherent, 'The Good, The Bad, The Weird' is a triumph of spatial awareness and momentum.

The film's sonic landscape is similarly bold. Dalpalan and Jang Young-gyu's eclectic score fuses twangy Western riffs with Korean folk textures, creating a sound both familiar and refreshingly offbeat. Galloping alongside the action, it punctuates shootouts with swagger and chase scenes with adrenaline. Meanwhile, the sound design is razor-sharp- gunfire cracks, engines roar, every explosion lands with earthshattering impact.

The three leads deliver pitch-perfect performances, each bringing a distinct energy to proceedings. Kim's frequent collaborator Song Kang-ho is magnetic as The Weird, his comic timing, physicality and unpredictable charm make him the film's beating heart. Resourceful, layered and oddly heroic; he's hard not to root for. Kim's other frequent collaborator Lee Byung-hun, as The Bad, oozes menace and style, delivering a performance that's equal parts icy and irresistible. His every smirk feels like a threat, and every movement, calculated cool.

Jung Woo-sung, as The Good, plays the straight man with stoic grace, grounding the madness around him with quiet intensity. Together, they form a triangle of tension and charisma, each actor fully inhabiting their role while playing off the others with electric chemistry. Their supporting players are similarly great: from Yun Je-mun as a bumbling bandit to Ryu Seung-su as The Weird's accomplice, no-one can be faulted.

In conclusion, few films fire on all cylinders like Kim Jee-woon's 'The Good, The Bad, The Weird'. It's a bullet-riddled, genre-bending spectacle that reimagines the western with wit, swagger and boundless energy. Boasting jaw-dropping fight choreography and razor-sharp editing, the film hits like a shot of adrenaline. With stunning cinematography, meticulous production design and terrific performances from a great cast, it's not just a wild ride- it's a cinematic stampede. Hold on tight.

By 1977, Stephen King was rapidly becoming a household name, with the best sellers 'Carrie', 'Salem's Lot' and 'The Shining' making him one of the horror genre's rising stars. Success, however, brought limitations. At the time, publishers believed the public wouldn't accept more than one book a year from a single author, and King's output far outpaced that rule. To sidestep it- and to see whether his popularity came from genuine talent or just luck- he adopted the pseudonym, Richard Bachman. Bachman became both an experiment and an outlet, a shadow identity that allowed King to publish more freely without diluting the value of his established brand.

Bachman's second novel, 'The Long Walk,' was first published in 1979, though written years earlier while King was a freshman at the University of Maine. Set in a near-future America, it follows a group of young men competing in a brutal annual contest where they must keep walking above a set pace- or face execution.

A kind of science-fiction allegory for the Vietnam War draft, it resists being pinned down to a single reading, and has long tempted filmmakers. George A. Romero was first attached to direct in the late 1980s, but the project never materialized. Years later, Frank Darabont- who successfully adapted King's 'The Shawshank Redemption,' 'The Green Mile' and 'The Mist'- also took a crack at developing it, though his version likewise stalled in development. Finally, in late 2023, it was announced that Francis Lawrence had assumed directorial duties, working from a screenplay by JT Mollner.

Lawrence's film is a strong, faithful adaptation of the source material, capturing both its relentless tension and thematic depth. Although somewhat mischaracterized as a horror, the film is consistently unsettling, immersing viewers in a dystopian world where brutality and violence are commonplace. Much like the novel, it aims to explore themes of conscription, authoritarian control and the expendability of youth, while also serving as a pointed critique of capitalism and the societal pressures that pit individuals against one another.

However, while 'The Long Walk' gestures toward these themes, Lawrence rarely probes them with the depth they deserve, presenting them more as background texture than as active philosophical inquiry. For instance, the spectacle of the Walk itself is ripe for commentary on media voyeurism and desensitization, yet the film stops short of interrogating the audience's complicity or the system's mechanisms of control. It's evocative, but not especially reflective.

Moreover, Mollner's dialogue is occasionally clunky, leaning heavily on overwrought emotional beats. Characters speak less as people and more as thematic signposts, particularly in moments of tension where nuance is sacrificed to reiterate stakes we already understand. Further, the characters themselves are largely archetypal. While this mirrors King's tendency to populate his stories with familiar types, the film does little to complicate or humanize them. Motivations are thinly sketched, emotional arcs predictable. As a result, the titular walk feels less like a descent into psychological horror and more like a grim endurance test with interchangeable figures.

Beyond its narrative strengths and weaknesses, 'The Long Walk' excels in its technical execution, helping to sustain tension and immerse viewers in its dystopian world. Director of photography Jo Willems captures the relentless monotony and oppressive heat of the journey with a stark, unflinching eye. He utilises a muted colour palette- dominated by greys, browns, and washed-out greens- reinforcing the bleakness and brutality of the film's world.

Complementing the cinematography is Nicolas Lepage's minimalist, atmospheric production design. Rather than overbuilding the dystopia, he and his team suggest decay through subtle cues: crumbling buildings, cracked sidewalks, rusted metalwork. The roadside becomes a purgatory, with sparse signage and empty towns evoking both Americana and abandonment. It's not flashy, but its restraint serves the story- though some might wish for a more vivid sense of the society watching from the sidelines.

In addition, Mark Yoshikawa's editing is tight and purposeful, maintaining a steady rhythm mirroring the walk's relentless pace. Most of the film unfolds in linear fashion, enhancing the narrative's sense of inevitability- an endless march toward a conclusion that can only be grim. Jeremiah Fraites' score is subtly atmospheric, simmering beneath the surface like a pulse.

Although saddled with somewhat one-note characters, most of the cast perform admirably. Cooper Hoffman and David Jonsson, as the leading lads Ray Garraty and Peter McVries, carry the weight of the story with impressive intensity, conveying the physical strain and psychological tension of the walk with nuance. Ben Wang steals every scene he's in, while Charlie Plummer makes for an effective young psychopath. Further, Mark Hamill is a gruff delight as the constant-sunglass-sporting Major, who runs the show; someone you'll really love to hate.

In conclusion, while Francis Lawrence's 'The Long Walk' doesn't fully capitalize on the philosophical weight of its premise, it remains a gripping adaptation of one of Stephen King's most haunting early works. Lawrence's direction, paired with strong technical craftsmanship and committed performances, ensures the film leaves a lasting impression- even if it strolls past some of its deeper questions. It's a bleak, relentless journey that, despite its flaws, is a step ahead of many other King adaptations.

Although considered horror royalty, Stephen King has never been pigeonholed to the genre. From 'Rita Hayworth and Shawshank Redemption' and 'The Body,' to 'The Running Man' (the latter released under the pseudonym Richard Bachman), King has consistently shown a knack for stepping beyond the supernatural to explore the deeply human. In those stories, filmmakers have found some of the richest material to bring to the screen.

Unfortunately, Mike Flanagan's 'The Life of Chuck', based on the novella of the same name, is not another standout entry in the King adaptation canon. A drama with science-fiction and fantasy elements told in reverse chronological order, it details three chapters in the life of a seemingly ordinary man named Charles Krantz, from his youth to his death.

Billed as heart-warming, it's so saccharinely schmaltzy it'll leave you reaching for the antacid. Flanagan's third King adaptation, and easily his worst, the narrative is profoundly unengaging and banal. Although the first chapter shows some promise, it all comes to nothing. The subsequent acts are as underwhelming as a half-inflated balloon. Tonally scattershot, the film is so full of cliches and devoid of life it's genuinely puzzling how it has garnered so much praise.

Just what is the point of 'The Life of Chuck'? What's its purpose? Some reviewers have claimed it speaks volumes about the human condition. It doesn't. Others tout it as a feel-good miracle that might restore faith in humanity. It won't. It's dull, clunky and poorly scripted. Flanagan's dialogue is of the expository variety, when it isn't cliched nonsense.

Additionally, proceedings are saddled with intrusive narration, spelling out the easily inferred themes and emotions, thereby undercutting any chance of subtlety. Further, Flanagan's characterisation is slim to non-existent. Why should we care about Chuck or want to hear about his life? He has all the personality and charm of a snail without a shell.

Throughout his paltry excuse for a narrative, Flanagan seems to be striving for meditations on mortality, memory and the fleeting nature of life. Yet these themes never land, buried beneath heavy-handed exposition, shallow characterisation and sentimental overkill. The film aims to reflect life's truths, but instead feels empty and contrived.

Visually, it is more of an accomplished affair, even if it has that Netflixy sheen, making everything on screen look overly polished and sterile. Director of photography Eben Bolter does manage to evoke some interesting imagery, however, especially in the first chapter. Yet, while his cinematography, the production design and lighting are all competent, they can't compensate for the story's emptiness or lack of emotional engagement.

Unfortunately, the film struggles to find a consistent flow. The first chapter moves at a deliberate, measured pace that works, but the remaining two drag, even though the second is actually quite short. The Newton Brothers' score is unremarkable, failing to enhance any of the emotional beats, while the dance sequences- featured heavily in the second and third chapters- though admittedly well-performed- feel interminably gratuitous.

Tom Hiddleston, first billed and featuring prominently in the marketing, stars as Chuck, though isn't in the film for long. In fact, he's only really in the second chapter. Although he dances well, he fails to create a character of interest in the face of Flanagan's scant characterisation. Anyone could have been as effective in the role with a little bit of dance practice, one fears.

By contrast, Chiwetel Ejiofor does far superior work as a weary teacher, while Karen Gillan brings nuance as his nurse ex-wife, both managing to elevate their thinly written roles. Matthew Lillard and David Dastmalchian also drop in for a scene apiece, damn near stealing the show. Mia Sara and Mark Hamill, meanwhile, shine in the third chapter, as Chuck's grandparents. In addition, Nick Offerman provides the narration, and while his delivery is perfectly serviceable, it ultimately highlights just how unnecessary the device is in the first place.

In short, Mike Flanagan's 'The Life of Chuck' is a misfire of the highest order- dreary, saccharine and devoid of the vitality that makes Stephen King's better non-horror tales endure. Despite flashes of competent craft and a handful of strong supporting turns, it collapses under the weight of its own sentimentality. What might have been a poignant meditation on life instead feels like an overlong eulogy for a man viewers never had a reason to care about. In the end, the only real question left is: who gives a Chuck?

When real-life couples star together, the resulting film can take on a fascinating meta-layer. Although their offscreen bond doesn't necessarily blur into their characters, it inevitably hovers in the background. Mike Nichols' 'Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?' wasn't simply a searing portrait of marital warfare; it was also Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton, cinema's most famous spouses, sparring with a ferocity that audiences couldn't help but connect to their tempestuous private lives.

Likewise, Stanley Kubrick's 'Eyes Wide Shut' wasn't just a puzzle about desire and fidelity. Echoed against the backdrop of Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman's highly publicized marriage, the couple's casting lent an extra layer of voyeuristic intrigue to the film. That extra-textual dimension doesn't alter the story, but it makes the fiction feel charged in ways it otherwise wouldn't.

This is also the case with Michael Shanks' 'Together,' starring the real-life couple Dave Franco and Alison Brie. A body-horror à la Coralie Fargeat's 'The Substance,' the film follows long-time partners Tim and Millie, who have been drifting apart. After relocating to the countryside, they encounter a mysterious force that starts to reshape their lives, forcing them closer than ever. Soon, their romance becomes a macabre affair, as the boundaries between co-dependence and monstrosity irrevocably blur.

Atmospheric, visceral and laced with dark humour, Shanks' film grips from start to finish. Essentially a Cronenbergian romantic comedy, it's bloody good fun, with some thematic weight. Shanks' narrative cleverly uses the language of body-horror to externalize the often-unspoken dynamics undermining relationships. More than an external threat, the disgusting entity that binds Tim and Millie embodies their neediness for, and resentment towards, one another.

Horror has always excelled at making the abstract tangible- whether it be desire as parasite, or intimacy as contagion- and Shanks leans into that tradition with gory relish. In 'Together', the spectacle of skin and sinew isn't there for shock alone, but as a metaphor for how love can devour, how co-dependence can trap partners in a suffocating cycle of intimacy. As proceedings intensify, the couple's bond is forced into a crucible, revealing both the strength and fragility of their connection.

Shanks' strong characterisation emphasises this point, especially when it comes to Tim. He is far from a traditional macho protagonist, being a vulnerable, tentative man marked by trauma. He can't work a compass or start a fire, and relies heavily on Millie in everyday situations. His hesitancy and fragility ground the film, making the couple's descent into grotesquerie more affecting than it otherwise might be.

Millie, too, is drawn with nuance; a smart young teacher who loves Tim and wants the best for him, but whose patience sometimes frays under the weight of his insecurities. Together, they feel less like genre archetypes and more a realistic couple. Their exchanges throughout are natural, laced with a dry wit that feels true to life. At its core, the film is a love story, which works because one believes in Tim and Millie's bond- the tenderness beneath the terror.

Visually, the film is as striking as it is unsettling. Germain McMicking's cinematography cloaks the rural setting in a pall of damp greys and muted greens, evoking both isolation and decay. Further, Nicholas Dare's production design makes the world feel intimate yet suffocating, deeply alive- disquietingly breathing.

In addition, the effects work is impressively tactile, leaning on practical gore and prosthetics rather than CGI, giving things a raw, clammy immediacy. Shanks doesn't flinch from grotesque detail, yet the imagery never tips into gratuity. Just as crucial are the sound design and score: the former wringing dread from creaks, squelches and silences, the latter pulsing uneasily beneath the action without overwhelming it. Further, Sean Lahiff's editing is sharp and economical, ensuring every shock lands with precision.

As Tim and Millie, Dave Franco and Alison Brie's real-life marriage lends their on-screen intimacy a raw authenticity, making Shanks' vision of closeness-turning-hideous even more disturbing. Both deliver powerhouse performances- Franco in particular, showing a vulnerability and range rarely glimpsed in his comedic work. Brie, meanwhile, plays Millie with a sharp mix of exasperation and tenderness, anchoring the film's emotional core. Damon Herriman also does fine work in a supporting role as Millie's work colleague Jamie, whose personable demeanour belies a hidden darkness.

In conclusion, Michael Shanks' 'Together' is bloody great: a grisly reflection of intimacy, co-dependence and the messy realities of love. Dave Franco and Alison Brie work wonderfully together, grounding Shanks' Cronenbergian vision in something startlingly human. With tactile effects, evocative cinematography and a keen ear for dread, the film shows how passion can curdle into possession, with devastating consequences. In short, in the realm of body-horror, 'Together' stands apart.

Parody is a delicate business. Done well, it dances the line between homage and mockery, sharp enough to skewer its target but light enough to make you laugh while it does. Films like Mel Brooks' 'Blazing Saddles', Robert Moore's 'Murder by Death' and Woody Allen's 'Love & Death' are precision-engineered chaos, made by people who deeply understood and admired not just the genres, but the conventions, clichés and cultural fixations they were lampooning.

Some of the very best came from the trio of Zucker, Abrahams and Zucker (or ZAZ), whose work helped defined the modern spoof. Their 'Airplane!' is madcap magic, while the short lived 'Police Squad!' distilled that same manic energy into television, only to be cancelled before its time. Later resurrected with 'The Naked Gun' films, they introduced the world to Detective Lieutenant Frank Drebin- played with deadpan genius by Leslie Nielsen- remaining to this day a joke-a-second riot.

They're brilliantly stupid films, and, as Steve Martin once remarked "stupid comedy is the hardest kind of comedy to do." The kind of spoof ZAZ perfected demands impeccable timing and intelligent gags, offering a delicate balance between silliness and sincerity, as well as a cast who can deliver absurd lines with total conviction- without tipping into unintentional farce. They're incredibly difficult to pull off; but the results can be gold.

However, somewhere along the line, spoof became a byword for cheap, crass comedy. In the wake of earlier greats came odious, unfunny husks like Ezio Greggio's 'The Silence of the Hams,' the increasingly worthless 'Scary Movie' flicks- three of which inexplicably involved David Zucker as either writer or director- and the irredeemable work of Jason Friedberg and Aaron Seltzer. Louder, cruder and ear-achingly dull, films like these confused volume for wit and reference for punchline, dragging a once-great genre into the gutter.

Can spoof make a comeback with Akiva Schaffer's rebooted 'The Naked Gun,' or is his film just another attempt to cash-in on a beloved IP? Written by Schaffer, Dan Gregor and Doug Mand, the film follows Frank Drebin Jr., who- just like his father before him- is a deadpan disaster magnet, whose loyalty to Police Squad is only matched by his talent for causing chaos. After foiling a bank robbery and meeting the sultry Beth Davenport, Drebin finds himself battling to save not just his beloved precinct from closure, but the human race itself.

Johnny Carson often said "it's more difficult to make somebody laugh than it is to make them think," and Schaffer struggles to do either. His film doesn't take itself seriously, revelling in silliness; though none of the gags reach the heights of the original Frank Drebin's exploits. There are a few genuine laugh-out-loud moments, but the whole affair lacks the intelligence, precision and breakneck comic momentum that made 'The Naked Gun' a classic. It's funny at times, yes- but never truly smart and never quite sharp enough to stick.

Schaffer's reboot often feels closer in spirit to the lesser spoofs Leslie Nielsen appeared in during his later career- films like '2001: A Space Travesty' or 'Spy Hard'- where humour leaned heavily on low-hanging fruit and gags overstayed their welcome. It shares that same scattergun approach, hurling jokes at the screen with such desperation that when one lands, it almost feels accidental. Too often, a decent comic setup is run into the ground, scenes dragging on well past their punchline, drained of any real impact.

Narratively, it's a serviceable but uninspired affair. The plot- involving a global threat, a ticking clock and a precinct on the brink of shutdown- feels like a generic framework stretched to accommodate a parade of gags, rather than a tightly structured story in its own right. Schaffer, Gregor and Mand clearly understand the formula, but the film lacks the zany unpredictability and momentum that once made Police Squad feel like it was perpetually on the verge of collapse- in the best way possible.

Anecdotally, in the screening this reviewer attended, a man in the audience laughed so hysterically one couldn't help but wonder about his mental state. For him, the film was clearly comedic gold, as it very well may be for many. However, for those familiar with the TV show that spawned the franchise (and the whip-smart lunacy of the original films) this reboot can't help but feel like a broad, loud imitation.

Production-wise, the film is slick, looking and sounding like a bona fide big-budget thriller, with the kind of polish that gives everything a professional sheen. Brandon Trost's cinematography occasionally flirts with noir- dramatic lighting, shadowy compositions- hinting at a visual intelligence the script doesn't always match. Furthermore, to its credit, the action is crisply choreographed, executed with real momentum, while Lorne Balfe's score is stirring. However, Brian Scott Olds' editing results in pacing issues. Some scenes overstay their welcome, milking gags long past their expiry date. In comedy, timing is everything- here, a tighter cut could've made all the difference.

Having said that, Liam Neeson is terrific as the deadpan Drebin Jr., perfectly capturing the straight-faced absurdity essential to the role. His comic timing is excellent, at times managing to evoke the spirit of Leslie Nielsen's iconic performance without resorting to mere imitation. Neeson is no stranger to comedy, excelling in 'Life's Too Short' and 'A Million Ways to Die in the West;' here, he carries the film with a steady mix of dry charm and deadpan wit, keeping it afloat amid the chaos.

Pamela Anderson is similarly great as Beth Davenport, Drebin's love interest. Breathless and sultry, she brings an earnestness to the part that makes her straight-faced delivery genuinely funny. Like Prisicilla Presley before her, Anderson plays it completely straight, adding a charming counterbalance to the film's silliness. She and Neeson share a warm chemistry that feels natural and effortless.

Danny Huston makes for an effective villain, chewing the scenery with gusto. Imbuing the character with a certain gravelly authority- equal parts menace and theatrical flair- he has never sounded more like his late, great father John. Huston knows exactly what kind of film he's in, leaning into the absurd without losing his imposing edge. CCH Pounder and Paul Walter Hauser are also good, though underused, while two beloved stars from the original films make brief, but memorable, cameos.

Akiva Schaffer's 'The Naked Gun' is a knowingly daft affair- loud, chaotic and proudly unserious. Although highly polished, it doesn't match the razor-sharp wit or tight pacing that made the original films, and especially 'Police Squad!' so beloved. It reminds one of the vast difference between Mel Brooks' 'Young Frankenstein'- a lovingly crafted genre send-up with real comic bite- and his later 'Dracula: Dead and Loving It', which had all the ingredients but none of the spark. There's fun to be had, and Neeson and Anderson give it their all; but, in the end, 'The Naked Gun' is hit-and-miss- mostly shooting blanks.

Although he didn't rack up as many acting credits as his friends Kris Kristofferson and Willie Nelson, Johnny Cash was no stranger to the screen. From gritty thrillers like 'Five Minutes to Live,' to TV movies such as 'The Pride of Jesse Hallam' and 'Murder in Coweta County'- not to mention a string of westerns- Cash proved himself a capable, charismatic actor. He also made memorable appearances on television, showing up in 'Columbo' and 'Little House on the Prairie', as well as making one of 'The Simpsons' most unforgettable guest appearances as Homer's spirit guide.

One of his more overlooked, curious roles is in the Billy Graham funded, Masahisa Sadanaga directed 'Kairei,' or 'Adrift at Sea.' Based on a fascinating true story, the drama follows three Japanese castaways whose ship, the Hojunmaru, sinks, drifting across the Pacific. They eventually reach America, centuries before modern trans-Pacific voyages, becoming the first Japanese men to visit the Western world.

It's an intriguing premise, though Sadanaga doesn't serve it particularly well. Earnest to a fault, the film carries a faintly evangelical tone- gently moralistic, but dramatically underpowered. Flat and oddly lifeless, it plays like a bargain-bin Hallmark drama. Characterisation is thin, and the dialogue is frequently stilted and awkward. What's most frustrating is how little narrative weight or urgency the film brings to such a remarkable historical event. The film rarely leans into the cultural dislocation, emotional stakes or broader historical resonance of its premise- instead reducing a genuinely fascinating story to something curiously inert.

Further, expository narration pops up intermittently, seeming less like a storytelling device and more like a last-ditch attempt to hold the plot together- duct tape voiceover, if you will. One suspects it was added in post, long after the horse had bolted. Indeed, it is heard just often enough- and yet so infrequently- that you're left wondering why it's there at all. While occasionally clarifying certain plot-points, it's largely jarring and unnecessary. This all results in a film that knows it has a compelling story, but never quite figures out how to tell it- like someone nervously recounting a dream they only half-remember.

Unfortunately, the film's weaknesses extend beyond storytelling. The cinematography is flat and uninspired, doing little to elevate the material or evoke the epic scope of the castaways' journey. Although some seafaring sequences impress, more often than not they look like they were shot on cheaply constructed sets under a time constraint, with artificial backdrops and awkward staging undermining any sense of scale or realism. The production design is serviceable at best- period detail is present, but rarely persuasive- and the overall aesthetic feels akin to a hastily produced historical reenactment video.

The soundtrack and score fail to make much of an impression, drifting into generic, forgettable territory, neither enhancing the mood nor deepening the emotional impact. Although Cash is given the opportunity to perform a song, it feels like a token gesture rather than an integral part of the film's atmosphere. The editing is also quite choppy- scenes often linger too long or cut abruptly, disrupting any natural rhythm and further sapping the film's momentum.

The cast are a bit of a mixed bag. Teruhiko Saigô, Junichi Inoue and Hideto Matsumoto do fine work as the three castaways, carrying the film's emotional weight with quiet dignity. As Uncle John, the leader of the Americans, a white-wigged Cash brings a gentle energy and easy authority to proceedings- although it's not exactly a challenging role. Generally, he seems more focused on remembering his lines than giving anything resembling a dramatic performance. He's competent, though not particularly compelling. Unfortunately, the supporting cast fares far worse, sinking into painfully wooden territory- none impress.

Masahisa Sadanaga's 'Kairei,' or 'Adrift at Sea,' boasts a remarkable true story at its core, though struggles under the weight of uninspired storytelling, flat visuals and uneven performances. While Johnny Cash's presence adds a curious footnote and a touch of gentle charisma, the film as a whole drifts without clear direction or emotional depth. It's a missed opportunity to bring a fascinating historical voyage vividly to life- leaving viewers adrift, searching for something to hold onto amid the cinematic fog.

In 2022, Joseph Kosinski's 'Top Gun Maverick' took the world by storm. A sequel to Tony Scott's 1986 classic, the Tom Cruise starrer took in over $1.496 billion worldwide, the highest grossing Cruise vehicle to date. Praised by critics and audiences alike, it was widely seen as the film that reignited the global box office after the COVID-19 shutdowns, with Steven Spielberg calling it the saviour of "the entire theatrical industry."

Kosinski's directorial follow-up, 'Spiderhead,' flew under the radar, not offering much (other than a great Chris Hemsworth performance). His newest effort, 'F1' desperately wants to be 'Top Gun Maverick.' The narrative is essentially the same, but swaps the skies for the pits. It follows renegade racer Sonny Hayes, who is brought out of retirement to mentor a hot-headed young prodigy and help turn a struggling team into contenders. Amidst tension in the garage and friction on the track, can Hayes beat the odds?

If it sounds familiar, that's because it is. For a film about one of the most exciting and fast-paced sports there is, 'F1' is shockingly dull and predictable. Clearly aimed at the same audience that loved the electrifying dog-fights of 'Top Gun: Maverick,' it is a non-starter in nearly every regard: a film about speed that never gets out of first gear. The narrative isn't just derivative of the Cruise blockbuster- it also echoes dozens of sports films where a grizzled veteran returns for one last shot at redemption.

Full of cliches, stilted dialogue and cardboard cut-out characters, it lacks the excitement of John Frankenheimer's masterful 'Grand Prix,' the tension of Lee H. Katzin's 'Le Mans', the bravado of Tony Scott's 'Days of Thunder' and the fun of Gordon Chan's 'Thunderbolt,' as well as the emotion of Sydney Pollack's admittedly troublesome 'Bobby Deerfield.'

Although Pollack's film was- and still is- by no means spectacular, it boasts far more interesting, multi-dimensional characters than Kosinski and co-writer Ehren Kruger came up with. Sonny is a walking cliché, who is about as compelling and well-rounded as a blank piece of paper. Neither he, nor any of his supporting characters, display any growth over the course of the film, and the emotional stakes are contrived.

Further, the interactions between said characters lack spark or authenticity, as if torn from a 'Screenwriting Guidebook for Dummies'. Conversations trudge along, weighed down by stilted, on-the-nose lines, hammering home the obvious. Instead of feeling like real people with real conflicts, the characters merely recite plot points, leaving every exchange flat and lifeless. The film's attempts at emotional depth fall embarrassingly short, drowning under a tide of awkward exposition and contrived banter.

Technically, the film has a lot more to offer. Fast-paced and frequently gripping, 'F1' boasts dynamic camerawork from Claudio Miranda, brilliantly capturing the adrenaline of a race. Furthermore, the crisp editing from Stephen Mirrione and Patrick J. Smith heightens the visceral nature of proceedings. Some of the races are pulse-poundingly intense and beautifully caught on camera; they'll have you on the edge of your seat.

Additionally, the atmospheric sound design immerses one fully in the roar of engines and screech of tires. Hans Zimmer's score is evocative and thrilling, amplifying the tension and excitement throughout. The soundtrack also features a handful of great songs from the likes of Led Zeppelin and Queen (though they're never used to their full potential- often dropped in with little impact and quickly faded out). However, all these technical elements combine to create an undeniably exciting sensory experience- if only the story and characters were as finely tuned.

Brad Pitt stars as Hayes, a role that asks little more of him than to look cool. No one can do that better than Pitt, but charisma alone can only carry a character so far. His talents are wasted on a part that offers no real nuance, development or dramatic challenge. His supporting cast- stacked with skilled performers like Kerry Condon, Damson Idris, Kim Bodnia and Javier Bardem (as well as Shea Whigham in a glorified cameo)- is similarly shortchanged, each saddled with one-note roles of little to no depth.

Despite all the noise, 'F1' never finds its footing. It's a film that looks the part, sounds the part and moves like a blockbuster- but under the hood, it's running on empty. Director Joseph Kosinski clearly knows how to orchestrate spectacle, but spectacle without soul only gets you so far. With a flat script and hollow characters, not even a star as magnetic as Brad Pitt can steer it to victory. In trying so hard to replicate the triumph of 'Top Gun: Maverick,' 'F1' fails to blaze its own trail, ending up stalled at the starting line.

In 2002, Danny Boyle's '28 Days Later' stormed into cinemas like a blood-soaked bolt of lightning, electrifying a genre that had begun to shuffle aimlessly through a graveyard of clichés. It didn't just bring zombies back- it made them run. Fast. Ferocious. Terrifying. Suddenly, the apocalypse had a pulse again. Five years later, Juan Carlos Fresnadillo's '28 Weeks Later' picked up the baton, and, although a little more breathless and a little less graceful, it still managed to keep the infection alive without entirely dropping the ball.

Two decades on, the franchise rises again with '28 Years Later.' With Boyle once again at the helm, the film picks up in a United Kingdom where the Rage Virus, long thought to have burned itself out, erupts back into brutal life. The story centres on Spike, a young boy living in the relative safety of Holy Island, off the coast of Northumberland- one of the last outposts untouched by the infection. Circumstances demand that he travel to the mainland with his mother, where he discovers that the infected aren't the only things to fear.

Engaging, visceral and tense, the film more than lives up to the legacy of the original. Alex Garland's narrative grips from the outset, weaving a story feeling both expansive and deeply personal. While it may not deliver nonstop action or relentless chase sequences, it's a powerful film nevertheless. The world-building is rich and immersive, painting a UK that's both eerily familiar and terrifyingly altered, while the characters- flawed and believable- anchor the chaos in something real. It's a film that not only reignites the infection but recaptures the pulse-pounding immediacy that made the franchise so impactful in the first place.

Thematically, the film taps into familiar territory but with fresh urgency. At its core, it's a story about family- the fierce, messy bonds that drive people to risk everything. Spike's relationship with his mother Isla provides the film's emotional backbone, grounding the horror in something painfully human. Grief also looms large, both on a personal and societal scale: this is a world haunted by its own history, where the scars of the original outbreak never truly healed.

Further, and without ever feeling heavy-handed, '28 Years Later' ripples with quiet political undercurrents. In a post-Brexit Britain still grappling with the consequences of division and isolation, the film's focus on borders, quarantines and the illusion of safety feels sharply relevant. Holy Island's precarious safety speaks to a country trying to wall itself off from a world it can't fully control, while the return of the Rage Virus becomes a grim reminder that no border is truly impenetrable.

In addition, the film's mood is charged with a contemporary resonance, tapping into the collective anxiety born from the Covid-19 pandemic. This undercurrent of real-world fear intensifies the claustrophobic tension and heightens the stakes, making the Rage Virus outbreak feel not only terrifyingly plausible but painfully urgent. It's a stark reminder of humanity's fragility and the thin line between order and chaos.

Visually, the film is as striking as its narrative. Anthony Dod Mantle's cinematography crackles with raw energy, blending the immediacy of handheld footage with moments of stark, unsettling beauty. Reportedly shot on iPhones, the film has a jagged, almost documentary-like texture, heightening the sense of chaos and panic. It's crisp, kinetic and unafraid to get messy, with a muted, desaturated colour palette contrasting chillingly against sudden bursts of blood red. The vast, windswept British countryside is used to great effect- its open spaces amplifying the isolation and vulnerability of the survivors, turning nature itself into both refuge and threat.

The production design further immerses viewers in a world that feels palpably lived-in, from abandoned towns to makeshift shelters, every detail grounding the story in harsh reality. Complementing this is an evocative, eclectic score from Young Fathers that pulses beneath the tension, shifting seamlessly between haunting melodies and adrenaline-fueled beats. The makeup and practical effects are equally impressive, delivering gruesome realism that never slips into gore for its own sake, but always serves the story's relentless urgency.

Moreover, Jon Harris's editing is taut and purposeful, maintaining a rhythm that keeps the tension consistently high without ever feeling hurried. Quick cuts during frantic sequences contrast with longer, more contemplative moments, allowing both chaos and character to breathe. This dynamic rhythm keeps one on edge, perfectly balancing bursts of visceral horror with emotional depth. Moreover, the action sequences- though sparse in comparison to other films of the genre- are gory, nail-biting masterpieces of choreography.

In addition, all in the cast perform admirably. Alfie Williams does strong work as Spike, whose portrayal of youthful vulnerability and growing resilience feels authentic. Jodie Comer is typically excellent as Isla, imbuing the part with emotional depth, while Aaron Taylor-Johnson also impresses, adding intensity and complexity to his role as Spike's father Jamie, enriching the film's tense dynamic. Further, Edvin Ryding does fine work as a cocky soldier, and the always-reliable Ralph Fiennes brings a dash of gravitas to proceedings, delivering a nuanced, subtle performance.

Ultimately, Danny Boyle's '28 Years Later' is a powerful revival of a franchise that helped redefine modern horror. It honours the legacy of its predecessors while injecting fresh energy and contemporary relevance. With its unflinching portrayal of human fragility amidst chaos, compelling characters and striking visual storytelling, the film stands as both a gripping thriller and a timely reflection on a world still reckoning with fear and uncertainty. In short: it's frighteningly good.

It's often said that a film is made in the edit. Sometimes, though, that's where it dies. A misstep in pacing, a scene trimmed too far, a story-thread reshuffled to please the wrong audience- these are the silent assassins of good cinema. However, a film's release isn't always its final form. Some escape the cutting room only to stumble into cinemas half-formed, victims of studio interference, rushed deadlines, or just bad timing.

Yet, every now and then, they get a second chance. A director's cut can resurrect what was lost, revealing the version that was always meant to be. 'Blade Runner', 'Brazil' and countless others have been retroactively rescued, proving that editing isn't just a technical process- it's where a film finds its rhythm, its shape, its soul.

Richard Shepard's feature film debut 'The Linguini Incident' was a critical and commercial failure upon release in 1991. Best described as quirky, it follows Lucy, an aspiring escape artist stuck working as a waitress in a chic New York restaurant. Alongside fellow misfits Viv, a lingerie designer, and Monte, a charismatic English bartender with a suspiciously flexible approach to the truth, Lucy decides to rob the restaurant. What follows is a clumsy, chaotic caper- a good way of summing up the film itself.

In a 2024 Filmmaker magazine article, before the 4k re-edit and release of the film, Shepard blamed the failure of 'The Linguini Incident' on it being taken away from him "recut, barely released and opened on the weekend of the 1992 LA riots." It's a compelling set of excuses, and to be fair, they probably hold some water. Unfortunately, even with Shepard's fresh cut, the film just isn't great.

Although the new version is sharper and more coherent, with improved pacing, it's not a transformation. This isn't 'Blade Runner' reclaimed from the ashes. It's a strange, meandering flick with moments of charm but just as many moments where Shepard and co-screenwriter Tamar Brott's narrative drifts aimlessly, unsure of what it wants to be.

Is the film a romantic-comedy? It's neither very romantic, nor that funny, so perhaps not. Is it a crime caper? A parody? At times, it flirts with being a satire, poking at the same chic environments and yuppie vanity that 'American Psycho' skewered so well- though with significantly less bite. Further, the characters are insufferably trendy- stylishly disaffected, meticulously dressed and prone to dialogue so overly hip it would be too much even in a John Waters film.

There's a calculated coolness to everything that tips over into affectation, as though the film is so busy admiring its own reflection it forgets to tell a story worth caring about. It's not that it is aggressively bad- rather it's stubbornly unsure of itself. Scenes wander off on tangents, jokes hang in the air without landing and the plot, such as it is, appears less driven by character than a vague desire to keep things moving.

Visually, the film has a certain undeniable charm. Robert D. Yeoman's cinematography captures a stylish early-90s New York with a glossy sheen complementing the film's aspirational, if scattered, energy. There's a crispness to the framing and lighting, adding atmosphere and life, even if the story can't always keep pace.

The production design leans into the aggressively curated aesthetic of the era: sleek restaurant interiors, breadsticks shaped like driftwood, cocktails served in crystal glasses. The sets and costumes are impeccably styled, helping to sell the world these characters inhabit, even when the script falters. However, these flashy stylizations are both a strength and a weakness-the film is so busy looking good it sometimes forgets to breathe.

Further, the score echoes this polished, slightly off-kilter vibe. It's jaunty and playful, underscoring the caper elements with light jazz and quirky melodies, yet occasionally veering into the overly whimsical. The music does a decent job of keeping things moving, but rarely adds any emotional depth or tension. In a film struggling to find its narrative footing, the score feels like a pleasant accessory rather than a driving force.

The film's main strength is its cast. Rosanna Arquette makes for a delightfully offbeat lead, blending neurotic charm with a hint of world-weariness that keeps Lucy from becoming just another quirky archetype. Her performance anchors the film's scattered energy, providing a relatable core amid the chaos.

David Bowie, meanwhile, brings his usual enigmatic magnetism to Monte, the charming bartender with a penchant for bending the truth. His presence elevates the material, adding a layer of genuinely cool sophistication and just the right dash of mystery. Even when the script falters, Bowie's effortless charisma never does.

Further, Eszter Balint is a delight as Viv, damn near stealing the show at times, while Marlee Matlin makes the most of an all too small role as the restaurant receptionist. Conversely, as the restaurant owners, Buck Henry and Andre Gregory are ridiculously over the top, playing the material as broad farce. Gregory especially hams it up to an irritating degree, actively damaging the film around him.

In conclusion, Richard Shepard's 'The Linguini Incident' is less a lost classic waiting to be rediscovered than a curious artifact of early '90s indie whimsy- equal parts charm and confusion, style over substance and ambition tangled in uncertainty. While the director's cut polishes a rough gem, it still never quite shines. For Bowie fans, it's worth a look- though it's a bit half-baked.

The ever-versatile Nicolas Cage remains one of cinema's most unpredictable delights. For some, his grounded turns in films like 'Pig' and 'Adaptation'- the latter giving us two Cages for the price of one- are unforgettable. For others, it's his unhinged, over-the-top performances that dazzle: 'Vampire's Kiss', 'Snake Eyes', 'Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call New Orleans'- there are too many to name. Sometimes, as in 'Mandy,' he manages both, veering from understated to full-blown berserk, giving each side of his fanbase exactly what they want.

In his latest, Lorcan Finnegan's 'The Surfer,' Cage plays the titular surfer, returning to his Australian hometown to repurchase his childhood home. While there, he decides to take his son to the idyllic beach where he spent most of his youth. All he wants to do is surf. However, after running afoul of the local beachgoers, what begins as a nostalgic trip turns into something far stranger- and far more intense.

Written by Thomas Martin, it's a wild, darkly comic ride, playing a bit like 'Wake in Fright' mixed with 'Point Break.' Entertaining and engaging, the film features many madcap moments Cage fans will love. However, its narrative isn't just an excuse for another of his crazy performances. Beneath the sun-drenched chaos lies something more pointed: a surreal descent into the warped rituals of masculinity. As in 'Wake in Fright', it explores a kind of sunburnt male madness- paranoia, posturing and violence, all unfolding in a setting that should feel like paradise but quickly becomes hell.

The titular surfer finds himself in a bizarre, increasingly hostile stand-off with a tribe of aggressive locals, where posturing, pride and dominance are the only accepted currencies of power. The absurdity of the situation lends the narrative a Kafkaesque quality: he's trapped within a set of unwritten social rules (about who gets to surf) that are both arbitrary and inescapable. It's a funny, yet unnerving satire of macho bravado with an absurdist edge, where one can't be sure what is real and imaginary.

Martin's characterisation is also deft. The central character makes for a fascinating avatar for wounded pride, entitlement and stubbornness. He can be seen as a kind of symbolic figure, or a stand-in for a particular strain of masculinity in freefall. The locals, meanwhile, are sketched with broad strokes- almost archetypal in their menace- but that works in the film's favour, enhancing its dreamlike, allegorical tone.

However, proceedings do falter in the third act. After so much unnerving build-up- where threat and absurdity are perfectly balanced- the climax feels comparatively tame. The ambiguity that made earlier scenes so compelling suddenly gives way to something more conventional. While the finale still carries a surreal energy, it doesn't land with the same dizzying, uneasy punch, and the film fizzles out instead of delivering a knockout blow.

Conversely, the visuals are stunning throughout. Radek Ladczuk's cinematography cleverly contrasts vibrant, sun-soaked hues with washed-out tones, underscoring the film's surreal and unsettling tone. Early scenes are bathed in the lively colours of turquoise waters and golden sands, evoking nostalgia and warmth. As the story progresses, these vibrant hues fade into desaturated, grittier shades, reflecting the protagonist's psychological and emotional unravelling.

This clash between vibrant and muted tones heightens the absurdity of the situation, amplifying the tension as it escalates. Sweeping wide shots, meanwhile, emphasize the expansive beach, while close-ups- particularly of Cage's increasingly unhinged face- capture the growing madness of the conflict. As things progress, this visual dissonance deepens the sense of unease, transforming the beach from a paradise into a distorted, oppressive landscape, blurring the line between the natural world and the protagonist's psychological chaos.

Further, Tony Cranstoun's editing strikes a perfect balance, shifting from breezy, dreamlike sequences to tighter, more frenetic cuts as the tension rises. Early scenes mirror the protagonist's carefree nostalgia, while the later moments of escalating violence and hallucination are marked by quick, disorienting edits. This contrast not only reflects the character's unravelling state but also deepens the sense of entrapment, netting both the surfer and the audience in an increasingly hostile, surreal world.

However, had the talents of Nicolas Cage not been secured, the film could easily have faltered. He is perfectly cast, bringing an escalating mania to the central role that swings from quietly wounded to righteously unhinged. For the most part, he plays it straight, anchoring the film's absurdity with an oddly sincere intensity. However, when it's time to go full Cage, he doesn't hold back. It's that perfect mix of grounded chaos and unrestrained weirdness that makes him indispensable- to this film specifically, as well as to cinema in general.

The supporting cast lean into the heightened tone, with stellar performances all round. Of particular note is Julian McMahon, who shines as the insidious surfer-dude-cum-cult-leader Scally, who is as sinister as he is pretentious. Never setting a foot wrong, McMahon makes for a magnificent sun-drenched menace, delivering his lines with the smug cadence of a man who has read half a philosophy book and decided he's God. His scenes with Cage crackle with a warped, alpha-male energy- a battle of egos on waxed boards.

Lorcan Finnegan's 'The Surfer' is not just another entry in the ever-expanding Cage canon of craziness- it's a sunburnt fever dream of ego, absurdity and surf etiquette gone violently wrong. With its warped take on masculinity, stunning visuals and a central performance that lands somewhere between Hamlet and a man shouting at seagulls, it entertains even as its final act wobbles. In other hands, it might've been a mess. With Cage, it's divine chaos. So, despite some choppy waters, 'The Surfer' still makes waves.

There are few writers whose output is as prodigious as Stephen King. With over 65 novels and countless short stories to his name, the master of the macabre has kept Hollywood busy for decades. However, for every frighteningly brilliant 'Misery' or 'The Shining', there's a lacklustre 'Cell' or 'Mercy' lurking in the shadows, reminding us that not all adaptations are created equal.

Fresh off his massive hit 'Longlegs,' Osgood Perkins is the latest director to try his hand at a Stephen King tale of terror. 'The Monkey,' based on the short story of the same name, follows Hal Shelburn and his twin brother Bill, whose childhoods are derailed by a sinister toy monkey with a talent for triggering untimely, gruesome deaths. Years later, the monkey resurfaces, and Hal must confront both the literal and emotional baggage he thought he'd left behind.

With its elaborate death sequences and darkly comic tone, 'The Monkey' invites easy comparison to the 'Final Destination' films. It's gorily over-the-top, frequently funny, though never quite earning a place in the pantheon of great King adaptations. It's not a disaster by any means, but it is uneven: the scares are sporadic, characterisation slim and the film's sense of humour often undercuts its own tension. The narrative also lacks the psychological depth that made 'Longlegs' so unsettlingly compelling.

To his credit, Perkins is clearly reaching for something more than jump scares and blood splatter. There's an admirable attempt to blend horror with dark humour and a melancholic parental dynamic that lends the film a touch of emotional heft. At its best, the film gestures toward themes of grief, inherited trauma and the quiet terror of watching your children face the same darkness you did. Moreover, beneath the evil banging of the monkey's drum lies a meditation- albeit a muddled one- on the one thing we all have in common: the certainty of death.

Sadly, these weightier ideas don't always cohere. The tonal shifts are jarring, and the emotional beats often get drowned out in the noise. It's a film that wants to make you laugh, jump and maybe even cry- but doesn't quite commit fully to any of the three. Further, when the monkey isn't onscreen doing what it does best- maiming and murdering- things drag. The stretches in between the carnage feel oddly lifeless, padded with exposition and domestic drama. The whole affair suffers from a dearth of tension, while the emotional stakes never quite land with the force they should.

What the film lacks in narrative cohesion, it nearly makes up for in atmosphere. Perkins' direction is confident, and Nico Aguilar's cinematography- handled with a steady, stylish hand- elevates even the narrative's dullest stretches. The lighting is often moody and expressionistic, with deep shadows and rich colour palettes giving proceedings a dreamy, timeless quality. Whether it's a blood-slicked bathroom or a flickering attic filled with childhood relics, every frame feels carefully composed, as if trying to will a better film into existence through sheer visual craft.

Additionally, the production design evokes a lived-in, slightly off-kilter world where nostalgia curdles into unease. The monkey itself- aged, grimy, and grotesquely toy-like- is a highlight of the film's tactile creepiness. The special effects and scenes of bloodshed are visceral, with a darkly comic edge; easily the best aspect of the film. Further, Edo Van Breemen's score adds a haunting, discordant undercurrent, though occasionally leaning too hard on the eerie whimsy, blurring the line between unsettling and self-conscious.

The sound design, on the other hand, is razor-sharp- each crash on the monkey's drum lands with a wince-inducing jolt. The editing is less consistent: while some sequences are slick and rhythmic, others feel slack, sapping momentum just when things should tighten. It's technically polished, but not always paced to keep the tension simmering.

The performances, much like the film itself, are a mixed bag. Theo James delivers a solid turn as the haunted Hal, playing the role with just enough clenched-jaw intensity to sell the trauma without tipping into melodrama. He's compelling when the material allows, though his character is more of a vessel for themes than a fully fleshed-out person. As Hal's identical twin Bill, James turns it up to eleven and is as over-the-top as the material requires.

The supporting cast have less to work with, though some still manage to shine. Tatiana Maslany, Elijah Wood and Rohan Campbell make the most of their limited screen time, elevating their thinly drawn characters. Others, however, blur together into a Greek chorus of exposition and emotional hand-wringing.

Despite some great scenes of gory grotesquerie, 'The Monkey' ultimately feels like a film caught between instincts- too camp to be truly scary and too scattershot to say anything lasting about grief or death. There are flashes of something sharper, weirder and more affecting buried amidst all the blood and guts, but it never quite takes shape. Although Osgood Perkins remains a filmmaker of intrigue and ambition, and the scenes of carnage are terrific, this King adaptation- like so many before it- is nothing to go ape over.

Few genres are as seductive or as enduringly popular as the gangster movie. Since the earliest days of cinema- with 1906's 'The Black Hand' often cited as the first- audiences have been enthralled by the suave thuggery of characters like Fat Tony and Joey Two Fingers. From the explosive fury of 'White Heat' to the operatic grandeur of 'The Godfather', we've watched countless mobsters rise and fall in clouds of cigar smoke, drawn in by the glint of power and the promise that crime can sometimes pay- for a while, at least.

The best gangster movies crackle with energy. They're fast-talking, blood-soaked morality plays. 'Goodfellas' doesn't just show you a life of crime- it sweeps you up in it, dazzles with its rhythm, then punches you in the gut. The camera moves like it's in on the scam. The characters are magnetic, dangerous, deeply flawed. The dialogue crackles with razor-blade wit. There's urgency, chaos, consequence.

Sadly, Eytan Rockaway's 'Lansky' is no 'Goodfellas.' A tired, cliched slog, the film takes one of the most intriguing figures in organized crime and renders him about as exciting as a tax audit. It follows an aging Meyer Lansky in the twilight of his life, doing a series of interviews with a struggling journalist under the pretence of telling his side of the story (a narrative device strikingly similar to the one used in John McNaughton's 1999 'Lansky').

In theory, it's a chance to peel back the layers of a mythologised figure, to explore the man behind the headlines. In practice, it's a lot of talking, not much showing and a distinct lack of bite. For a film about a man with blood on his hands and the FBI breathing down his neck, 'Lansky' feels oddly low-stakes and low-energy. Rockaway's screenplay- written alongside his father Robert- brings nothing new to the table of gangster fiction, relying on overly familiar tropes, ticking boxes; sketching the outline of a legend without ever colouring in the man.

The film could be the poster child for 'generic gangster movie'. However, while some, like 'Black Mass', may be generic, at least they're a bit of fun. For the most part, 'Lansky' is dull. Flashbacks to his glory days are flat, drained of urgency or danger. The dialogue plods. Even the violence, when it arrives, feels perfunctory- as if included out of obligation rather than narrative necessity. There's no momentum, no grit; no spark. It's a film that mistakes solemnity for substance and slow pacing for depth.

There are brief moments that hint at what could have been. Some scenes involving Lansky and the journalist crackle with, if not quite excitement, at least life. The character of the older Lansky is believable, with some good dialogue. Throughout, there are glimpses of a more engaging film- one properly exploring Lansky's morally ambiguous character. Sadly, these moments are fleeting, overshadowed by the narrative's relentless stagnation.

Moreover, Peter Flinckenberg's cinematography ticks every box on the generic gangster movie checklist- moody lighting, smoky rooms, endless slow zooms- but forgets to add any actual atmosphere. It isn't by any means a bad looking picture, but it feels like style without soul. Although it contains all the visual hallmarks of a gangster drama, it has none of the menace, energy or allure that makes a film in the genre stand out.

Although April Lasky's production design is serviceable, it suffers from the same sense of checkbox filmmaking. The sets dutifully hit all the expected notes- dingy offices, smoke-filled bars, opulent hotels- but they rarely feel lived-in or evocative. Like much of the film, they look the part without ever truly selling the world they're meant to create. The same can be said for Laura Cristina Ortiz's costume design; forgettable and generic.

Really, there's only one reason to watch 'Lansky': Harvey Keitel. As the titular mafioso, Keitel is far and away the film's most compelling aspect. Nuanced and credible, he injects the film with a certain quiet gravitas. While the script does him no favours, Keitel brings layers to a character who could've easily been a one-dimensional gangster archetype. He's a man at the crossroads of a legendary life; Keitel captures the weariness, the wisdom and the dubious morality of someone who has outlived the thrill of his own story.

Sam Worthington does steady work as the journalist, though there isn't much for him to work with in the face of the Rockaways's scant, cliched characterisation. John Magaro's performance as the younger Lansky is so over-the-top and hammy he might as well be hanging in a butcher's shop window, and the same can be said for David Cade's Bugsy Siegel. Additionally, as an FBI man, David James Elliott fades into the background completely, while the talents of AnnaSophia Robb are wasted entirely in the criminally underwritten part of Lansky's long-suffering wife.

Eytan Rockaway's 'Lansky' is a far cry from the best gangster films. Generic, cliched and frequently dull, it really doesn't have much to offer. While Harvey Keitel manages to breathe some life into a character who deserves better, the rest of the film stumbles through checkboxes without ever finding its own pulse. If you're looking for a glimpse into the complex mind of the mob legend, you'd be better off reading his Wikipedia page- at least there, your interest won't get lost in a haze of smoke and missed opportunities. In short, 'Lansky' is an offer you can refuse.

They say there's nothing new under the sun. This is especially pertinent to cinema, where originality is often hard to come by. Christopher Booker has posited that there are only seven plots, and whether or not he's correct, the same basic premises do crop up again and again. Within the horror and thriller genre, there have been so many films where someone does increasingly stupid, violent or humiliating acts for money, it's practically a subcategory. From 'Would You Rather' and 'The Odds' to 'Cheap Thrills' it's a story we've all seen numerous times.

Chookiat Sakveerakul's '13: Game of Death' (otherwise known as '13 Beloved') was somewhat ahead of the pack, arriving in 2006- long before the likes of the aforementioned films. It follows Phuchit, a young man whose day couldn't be going much worse. After losing both his car and job, he receives a mysterious phone call, offering the chance to win a substantial amount of money. Phuchit then finds himself drawn into a twisted game of escalating degradation and violence, that promises fortune, but may strip him of everything else.

It's a wild ride, navigating a tightrope between psychological horror and black comedy. Based on a comic book by Eakasit Thairaat, Sakveerakul's narrative is tense, gradually building towards a shocking conclusion. Although at times a little unpolished, it is engaging, visceral and frequently gory. Further, unlike other similar films, that lean into sadism for its own sake, it aims higher. Sakveerakul doesn't just want to make you squirm- he wants you to think while you do.

The tasks Phuchit undertakes aren't just about pushing boundaries and glorifying the grotesque, but are a commentary on social inequality and the commodification of suffering. The film plays like a bleak satire of late-stage capitalism, where humiliation is currency and dignity the first casualty. A fever dream of economic desperation and voyeuristic glee, it works as a grim diagnosis of a society willing to sell its soul for a payout; a reflection, perhaps, of Thailand's socio-economic anxieties of the time.

The film also functions as a sharp critique of reality television. Though it predates the explosion of social media-driven spectacle, its depiction of a man manipulated into degrading himself for an unseen, voyeuristic audience feels eerily prescient. Phuchit's suffering is rewarded, packaged, and consumed- his ordeal mirroring the cynical mechanics of exploitative entertainment, where pain is monetized and choice is more illusion than reality.

From a technical perspective, the film doesn't rely on flashy visuals or over-stylised sequences. Instead, Chitti Urnorakankij's cinematography opts for a naturalistic approach, grounding the film in a gritty realism making Phuchit's descent into depravity feel all the more immediate. The camera often sticks close to him, amplifying his growing sense of paranoia and entrapment. There's a lived-in texture to the visuals- dim lighting, cramped interiors and handheld shots all serve to immerse the viewer in his increasingly claustrophobic world.

Additionally, the sound design enhances the tension with subtle ambient noises- an ominous hum or distant city murmur- heightening the unease of proceedings. Conversely, silence in key moments deepens the emotional punch. Further, Kitti Kuremanee's score blends eerie tones with bursts of intensity, heightening the film's impact. In addition, it is sharply edited and has a good pace that never lets up.

Krissada Sukosol stars as Phuchit, anchoring the film with a mix of vulnerability, desperation and growing disillusionment. He's not a traditional horror protagonist, but an ordinary man gradually hollowed out by extraordinary circumstances. Sukosol's expressive physicality- at times twitchy, at others eerily calm- mirrors the psychological toll of the tasks, while his subtle emotional shifts keep us tethered to his experience, even as the challenges grow more extreme.

Achita Sikamana is similarly good as Tong, Phuchit's only real ally. Her performance brings a quiet warmth and grounding presence to the film, a necessary counterpoint to the unfolding chaos. Though her screen time is more limited, Sikamana leaves an impression; conveying empathy and resolve in a story otherwise dominated by manipulation and moral erosion. The rest of the supporting cast, though with far less to do, cannot be faulted.

Chookiat Sakveerakul's '13: Game of Death' more than earns its place in the canon of horror-inflected social satire. What it lacks in polish, it makes up for in thematic ambition and nerve. With its naturalistic style, sharp sense of pacing and strong performances, it's a film that lingers. Whether viewed as satire, a cautionary tale or grotesque morality play, Sakveerakul's vision cuts deep. In short, '13: Game of Death' is a game worth playing- if you've got the stomach for it.

There are few detective shows as endearing and unique as 'Monk'. Airing from 2002 to 2009, the series followed Adrian Monk, a brilliant former homicide detective with a crippling case of obsessive-compulsive disorder and a catalogue of phobias that could fill a medical journal. What made 'Monk' more than just a clever procedural was its heart: whether solving a case or avoiding handshakes, Monk was never alone. He had help- from the tough, no-nonsense Sharona (and later, the ever-patient Natalie), the gruff but loyal Captain Stottlemeyer and the lovably offbeat Lieutenant Disher. Together, they turned crime-solving into something funny, touching and- despite the chaos- weirdly comforting.

It's been over a decade since Monk last straightened a crooked picture frame on primetime, but the character's final bow comes in 'Mr. Monk's Last Case: A Monk Movie'- a return that feels less like a reboot and more like a long-overdue reunion. After tragedy befalls his stepdaughter Molly, Monk is pulled out of retirement for one last case- one that tests not only his legendary instincts but also his fragile grip on the world around him. As Monk navigates a noisy and chaotic San Francisco, the film becomes less about solving a mystery and more about finding peace- with the past, with loss and with himself.

'Mr. Monk's Last Case: A Monk Movie' is a delight, both funny and sad, recapturing much of what made the show so great. Andy Breckman's screenplay deftly balances comedy and melancholy, giving us a mystery that's as much about emotional closure as it is about clues. The film knows exactly what it is: not a grand reinvention, but a heartfelt epilogue. It leans into nostalgia without being cloying, offering longtime fans the chance to say goodbye on Monk's own neurotic, bittersweet terms.

What's most striking about the film is its willingness to engage directly with Monk's trauma, particularly his suicidal ideation- something the show often danced around but rarely confronted so openly. Here, it's front and centre. The film doesn't sensationalize his pain, nor does it offer easy answers. Instead, it approaches Monk's mental health with compassion and gravity, while still allowing for the awkward humour that's always accompanied his struggle. It's a tricky tonal balancing act, but one that largely works.

Having said that, the central mystery- while serviceable- isn't particularly engaging. Unlike the show's best episodes, which often featured clever twists or satisfying reveals, the film's case feels more like a vehicle for character moments than a puzzle worth solving. It isn't a particularly tough case for Monk to crack, and longtime fans won't be stumped- and will certainly find themselves missing the tightly constructed cases of Monk's episodic heyday. The emotional stakes are high, but the investigative ones are not. In the end, it's less about how Monk solves the case and more about why it matters to him- and to us.

Visually, the film retains the clean, sun-dappled aesthetic of the original series, though there's a slightly more cinematic polish to the framing and lighting- just enough to feel like a movie, not a long episode. Jeff Beal's score reprises familiar themes with a gentle melancholy, while the inspired use of Randy Newman's 'I Think It's Going to Rain Today' adds emotional resonance, deepening the drama of proceedings.

At the heart of it all is Tony Shalhoub, delivering a performance that's as subtle and finely tuned as ever. He plays Monk not as a caricature of compulsions, but as a man worn down by grief and time, still trying to make sense of a world that overwhelms him. As there was in the show, there's a gentleness to Shalhoub's work- a quiet dignity that makes Monk's pain all the more affecting. It's a reminder of why the role won him so much acclaim in the first place.

Additionally, the returning supporting cast slip back into their roles with ease, each bringing the same lived-in familiarity that made the ensemble so beloved. Traylor Howard returns as Natalie with the same calm competence and warmth that always anchored Monk's more manic tendencies. Ted Levine remains a gruff delight as Captain Stottlemeyer, his no-nonsense exterior still concealing a deep well of affection for Monk.

Jason Gray-Stanford's Lieutenant Disher is as endearingly clueless as ever, though there's a quiet maturity beneath the goofiness that suggests he's grown over the years. Further, Hector Elizondo and Melora Hardin have a few beautifully realized moments as Monk's long-suffering therapist Dr. Bell and his late wife Trudy, respectfully, while James Purefoy does fine work as the villainous, Elon Muskesque billionaire Rick Eden; even if the role is something of a smug caricature. Although it's a shame Bitty Schram's Sharona doesn't make an appearance- and Austin Scott and Caitlin McGee's performances are quite flat- for the most part the cast cannot be faulted.

'Mr. Monk's Last Case: A Monk Movie' is a poignant send-off to a beloved character, brimming with the warmth and charm of the series. Anchored by Tony Shalhoub's brilliant performance, the film is both bittersweet and endearing. While the mystery may not be among the show's best, and a few supporting performances fall a little flat, the respect and affection everyone involved has for the titular detective shines through. For longtime fans, the film feels like a gentle exhale- a last hug, a final tapped lamp. And for Monk, that might just be enough.

Ernst Lubitsch made films that winked at you. Sophisticated spectacles, his comedies didn't shout their jokes, but smuggled them in like contraband, hidden in innuendo, implication and the art of the well-timed pause. In 1942, with 'To Be or Not to Be', Lubitsch made perhaps his boldest gesture yet: a screwball comedy about Nazis, treason and theatre, with Jack Benny and Carole Lombard at the helm and death waiting in the wings.

A cracking comic-caper, it follows a troupe of Polish actors who find themselves performing the roles of their lives- not on stage, but in Nazi-occupied Warsaw. When a young pilot is caught up in a spy plot, the troupe leaps into action, donning disguises, bluffing Gestapo officers and improvising as if their lives (and country) depend on it. At the centre is Benny's Joseph Tura, the pompous Hamlet-in-residence, and Lombard, as his wife Maria, luminous and quick-witted in what was sadly her final screen role.

The film effortlessly juggles tones. One moment it's pure farce- theatrical egos, slippery identities and a Hamlet with more flair than sense- and the next, it glances at real peril with a surprisingly steady gaze. Beneath the laughs, there's a pointed satire about authoritarianism, vanity and the roles people play to survive. The dialogue crackles with razor-sharp wit, every line balanced like a dagger on the edge of a laugh. Whether it's Benny's oblivious grandiosity or Lombard's wry deflections, Lubitsch keeps the script dancing- light on its feet, but never light on substance.

That Lubitsch made this film at the height of the Second World War is nothing short of astonishing. While Hollywood largely played it safe, he aimed straight for the absurd heart of fascism, daring to laugh. But this isn't mockery for its own sake- Lubitsch understood that ridicule, when wielded with precision, can be a subversive weapon. His satire is never cruel, but it is fearless: mocking vanity, the ridiculousness of the Nazi ideology, exposing cowardice; reminding us that even in the darkest times, a well-delivered line- or a perfectly timed pause- can carry a kind of truth that outlasts bombs and bluster.

Visually, the film is no slouch either. The production design conjures a grand theatrical world, full of velvet curtains, dressing rooms and shadowy corridors. Rudolph Maté's cinematography adds a crisp elegance, framing scenes with the same precision Lubitsch brings to the dialogue. It's handsome without being showy, stylish without upstaging the script; perfectly suited to the unfolding farce.

The cast is uniformly excellent, but it's Benny and Lombard who give the film its centre of gravity- or, rather, its comic orbit. Benny, one of the all-time comedic greats, leans gleefully into Joseph Tura's preening vanity, delivering a performance that's both absurd and oddly endearing. He plays a man desperate to be taken seriously, even as the world refuses to play along- a joke that never stops landing.

Lombard, by contrast, is all grace and mischief. Her Maria is a master of timing, charm and quiet control. She brings a knowing sparkle to every scene she's in. Sadly, Lombard would die before the film finished post-production- in this way it acts as a sterling swansong for a cinematic legend. Around them, the supporting players- from Sig Ruman's delightfully blustering colonel to Robert Stack's earnest pilot- flesh out a world where everyone, it seems, is playing to the gallery, even when the stakes are deadly.

Ernst Lubitsch's 'To Be or Not to Be' is a marvel- a film daring to be funny when all signs point to despair. It's sharp, silly and strangely stirring, a comedy that looks evil in the face and responds with a raised eyebrow and a perfectly arched punchline. In a world too often content to play it safe, Lubitsch reminds us that the boldest laughs are the ones that speak the hardest truths. Strongly acted and beautifully shot, 'To Be or Not to Be' ultimately proves that in the face of tyranny, the best answer is always to be- to laugh, to fight and to defy.

Matthew Holness might not be a household name, but in certain circles he's a cult hero. The actor, writer, director- and occasional master of the macabre- has popped up everywhere from 'The Office' to 'Cemetery Junction', bringing a sharp, strange energy to every role. He's perhaps best known as the mind behind Garth Marenghi, the gloriously deluded horror author whose exploits have haunted both stage and screen, most famously in the cult series 'Garth Marenghi's Darkplace'.

Holness's trademark blend of comedy and simmering menace runs through 'A Gun for George', his short film debut as writer-director. Set in the drab suburbs of Kent, it follows the misadventures of Terry Finch, a washed-up pulp fiction writer haunted by grief, failure and the imaginary world he's created to escape them. It's part character study, part homage to the gritty paperbacks of yesteryear, and unmistakably Holness: strange, sad and darkly funny.

It's a brilliant short, centring on a fascinating character: Terry Finch, a bitter, belligerent man utterly trapped in a world of his own making. Holness's film's narrative is loose and fragmentary, more concerned with mood and character than plot. We drift through Terry's daily routines- attempts to get his book published, rants at the library, mournful trips to the site of his brother's death- as he retreats deeper into the mythology of "The Reprisalizer," the vigilante hero of his pulp novels. It's grimly funny and quietly tragic, a portrait of a man so undone by loss, fantasy becomes his only refuge.

Like 'Darkplace', 'A Gun for George' satirises a very specific genre- the hard-boiled, vengeance-soaked world of pulp fiction. Once again, Holness demonstrates a knack for dialogue that crackles with absurd bravado and deliberate cliché, delivered with total conviction. But while 'Darkplace' leans gleefully into the surreal and the silly, 'A Gun for George' is more grounded, more melancholic. Beneath the bravado of Terry Finch and his violent alter ego lurks something sadder: a man clinging to fantasy as a buffer against grief, failure and the slow rot of real life.

Visually, the film is steeped in the aesthetic of 1970's British crime dramas- bleak blocks of flats, nicotine-stained interiors, car parks full of rusting hatchbacks. Leaning into this with affection and precision, Holness, director of photography David Rom and production designer Alison Butler capture the washed-out, overcast look of TV shows like 'The Sweeney'. It's a world of worn leather jackets, battered paperbacks and grim urban sprawl- just the kind of setting where The Reprisalizer might mete out his justice.

The film's visuals not only parody the genre but anchor Terry's delusions in something tactile and familiar, blurring the line between memory, fantasy and the drab reality of his surroundings. Additionally, the score- from Holness himself- is perfectly pitched- evoking the brooding, brass-heavy soundtracks of 1970's shows and movies. It lends a kind of mournful grandeur to Finch's inner world, elevating even the most mundane moments with the swagger and drama of a TV thriller rerun. It's both deadpan and sincere, much like the film itself.

As Terry Finch, Holness is brilliantly absurd- ranting about crime stats and library bans with the solemn fury of a man delivering a national address. It's a wonderfully heightened performance, all bluster and brittle pride. However, there's something sad beneath the swagger: a man clinging to his imagination because reality has failed him. Holness strikes the balance perfectly- stylised, sincere and just the right side of tragic. The supporting characters don't have much to do, but they play their parts with just the right tone, letting Finch's delusions take centre stage without ever undermining them.

At just 17 minutes long, 'A Gun for George' manages to be funny, bleak, and strangely moving- a sharply crafted short that works both as a loving genre spoof and a sad little character study. It's a showcase for Matthew Holness's singular voice: clever, morbid and deeply attuned to the tragic absurdity of lonely men and lost causes. For fans of 'Garth Marenghi's Darkplace' it's essential viewing. For everyone else, it's a perfect introduction to one of comedy's most quietly brilliant oddballs.

According to the National Missing and Unidentified Persons database over 600,000 people go missing in the United States of America every year. Many films have played on the universal fear of having a loved one disappear without a trace. George Sluizer's terrifying 'The Vanishing' lingers on the psychological torment of never knowing the truth. Hitchcock's 'The Lady Vanishes' turns the concept into a reality-bending, paranoia-fuelled mystery, while, more recently, Denis Villeneuve's 'Prisoners' examines how the desperation of losing a loved one can drive a person to moral ruin.

These films tap into a deep anxiety- the fear that someone we love could simply disappear, leaving behind only unanswered questions. Few films distil that fear into something as immediate and relentlessly suspenseful as Jonathan Mostow's 'Breakdown.' Not dwelling in ambiguity or psychological horror, it throws the viewer headfirst into a brutally simple, all-too-plausible nightmare.

It centres on Jeff and Amy Taylor, a happily married couple, who are driving from Boston to San Diego to start a new life. When their car breaks down on a remote desert highway, a passing trucker offers Amy a ride to a nearby diner to call for help, while Jeff stays behind with the vehicle. When Jeff later arrives at the diner, Amy is nowhere to be found- and worse, the trucker claims to have never seen her. What begins as confusion quickly spirals into terror as Jeff is forced to navigate a world where deception and danger lurk around every bend in the road.

A white-knuckle ride, 'Breakdown' is a lean, relentless film, both tense and thrilling. The narrative contains no convoluted twists or grand conspiracies- just one man, an ordinary husband, pushed to extraordinary limits in his fight to find his wife. It is straightforward in the best sense, with the tension building naturally, fuelled by a palpable sense of urgency. Mostow expertly ratchets up the stakes, keeping one on edge, as Jeff's journey becomes less about finding answers and more about surviving a waking nightmare.

It is also- especially in the first act- a terrifying film, tapping into that deep, instinctual terror: the fear that someone you love can simply vanish, leaving you utterly powerless and alone. With every moment of uncertainty, the film deepens this emotional dread, reminding us that the threat of loss is often more harrowing than the loss itself. This emotional vulnerability is what makes the characters feel so real. Jeff and Amy, as well as the villains of the piece, are not larger-than-life figures, but well-drawn and believable. This makes the stakes all the more personal and the film's tension all the more palpable.

While the film is undoubtedly effective in its simplicity and execution, there are moments in its latter half where the plot stretches the boundaries of plausibility. As Jeff's quest for his wife escalates, certain sequences strain the boundaries of logic. However, these moments don't derail the film's overall impact. The emotional core remains intact, even if the plot occasionally ventures into more improbable territory.

The film's technical aspects, particularly the cinematography, play a crucial role in maintaining its breakneck pacing and relentless tension. Director of photography Douglas Milsome's cinematography is reminiscent of Jack A. Marta's similarly powerful work in Steven Spielberg's 'Duel,' effectively highlighting the enormity of the American landscape, amplifying its seemingly never-ending vastness.

This serves to emphasize Jeff's growing helplessness, as well as the film's sense of isolation and danger. The desolate environment feels as much a character as any of the human players, its oppressive expanse mirroring the psychological trap Jeff finds himself in. The sun-baked stretches of highway and the eerie, empty spaces only heighten the feeling of being stranded in a harsh world where nothing is what it seems.

Additionally, the sound design further heightens the film's intensity. The hum of an engine, the distant sound of a truck approaching, or the unsettling silence of an empty diner all create an atmosphere both isolating and foreboding. The sparse use of music allows the ambient sounds to take centre stage, making every creak, every footstep, feel significant. The absence of a constant score lets the moments of tension speak for themselves, immersing one fully in Jeff's increasingly perilous nightmare. Further, Derek Brechin and Kevin Stitt's editing keeps the pace unrelenting, ensuring that proceedings remain taut throughout, while never losing sight of the film's emotional core.

The always reliable Kurt Russell stars as Jeff, anchoring the film with a superb performance striking the right balance between everyman and desperate hero. From the very beginning, Russell's portrayal of Jeff is grounded, making his eventual transformation from confused, slightly obnoxious husband to determined, terrified man-on-a-mission, feel authentic. Russell excels in conveying a raw sense of fear, frustration and determination, creating a character one is fully invested in.

The late, great J. T. Walsh brings a chillingly understated menace to the role of the trucker, and is genuinely frightening. Without seeming overtly villainous or sinister, he exudes a quiet threat; his calm demeanour heightening the film's unsettlingly believable nature. Furthermore, Kathleen Quinlan, without much screen time, does commendable work as Amy, her chemistry with Russell adding a layer of emotional depth to the film, while M. C. Gainey and Jack Noseworthy impress as two of the trucker's henchmen.

In conclusion, Jonathan Mostow's 'Breakdown' is a masterclass in sustained tension and primal fear. Its straightforward narrative, relentless pacing and strong performances- especially from Kurt Russell and J. T. Walsh- create a truly edge-of-your-seat thrill-ride. Mostow's direction, along with evocative cinematography and sound design, keeps things moving at breakneck speed. While the plot occasionally stretches credibility, its emotional core remains intact, making the stakes feel deeply personal and the danger palpable. In short, 'Breakdown' is worth a ride.

John Candy was a comedic powerhouse. Over the course of his all-too-short career, he starred in a treasure trove of great films. 'Planes, Trains & Automobiles' and 'Uncle Buck' are now enshrined as classics, but even his lesser-known gems have that unmistakable Candy charm. The likes of 'Summer Rental,' 'Delirious' and 'Only the Lonely' may not get as much fanfare, but they're packed with the same mix of heart and hilarity that made him so beloved: prime examples of Candy's ability to elevate any role with his effortless charisma.

Paul Flaherty's 1989 effort 'Who's Harry Crumb?' isn't often counted among Candy's best, though his larger-than-life energy keeps things entertaining- even when the film itself doesn't always rise to his level. It follows Candy's titular private detective, a bumbling yet oddly confident investigator who finds himself entangled in the case of a kidnapped young woman. Against all odds, can Crumb crack the case, or will his investigation turn to disaster?

While the film never reaches the dizzying heights of films like 'The Naked Gun', it still has plenty of fun on offer. At its best, it delivers a string of enjoyably silly gags, bolstered by Candy's endless enthusiasm and knack for physical comedy. The mystery itself is entertaining, if predictable, with the plot mostly serving as a vehicle for Candy to cycle through disguises, pratfalls and deadpan one-liners. For his fans, that alone is worth the price of admission.

However, if one removes the rose-tinted glasses of fandom, one can see the film's issues more clearly. Some gags, which might have landed perfectly with a bit more time or sharper editing, fall flat. Additionally, although Candy's performance is consistently engaging, Bob Conte and Peter Wortmann's script doesn't always support him as strongly as it should, leaving some sequences underdeveloped or overly drawn-out.

However, it is well shot by Stephen M. Katz, with vibrant colours and a playful visual style that suits its zany tone. Further Michel Colombier's score is a delight, packed with punchy synth-heavy melodies that are the very essence of 1980's nostalgia. Conversely, as mentioned above, Danford B. Greene's editing is a bit choppy, interrupting the film's flow and- on occasion- dulling the impact of jokes.

On the other hand, the cast all deliver strong performances, especially Candy as the titular character. As the off-beat, eccentric Crumb, he shines, clearly enjoying the material. His comedic timing is impeccable, and even when the script falters, he finds a way to make the most of every scene. Shawnee Smith is great as the kidnapped woman's sister Nikki, who becomes the Watson to Candy's Sherlock, bringing a natural warmth to the role. The two share an excellent chemistry, and their dynamic is one of the film's highlights.

Additionally, Jeffrey Jones does typically commendable work as Crumb's smarmy associate Eliot Draisen, while Annie Potts also impresses, adding a sharp wit and playful energy to proceedings as Nikki's nymphomaniacal stepmother. Further, Tim Thomerson and Valri Bromfield, in smaller but no less important roles, cannot be faulted. Overall, it's clear that the cast, especially Candy, are having a blast with their roles, and that sense of fun is contagious.

Despite its shortcomings, 'Who's Harry Crumb?' remains an enjoyable watch for those who appreciate star John Candy's unique brand of humour and charm. It may not be on the same level as 'The Naked Gun' or 'Dead Men Don't Wear Plaid,' but it's light-hearted tone and the cast's committed performances elevate it beyond its predictable plot and pacing issues. Ultimately, it's a movie that's more about the journey than the destination, though with Candy at the helm, that is more than enough.

The partnership of Ringo Lam and Chow Yun-fat has resulted in some brilliant films. Their first collaboration, 'City on Fire,' helped establish Chow as a Bonafide action star, influencing many Western films, notably 'Reservoir Dogs.' Their second, 'Prison on Fire', as well as its later sequel 'Prison on Fire II', kept the box office roaring, while 1992's 'Full Contact' was so blisteringly intense that a 2014 Time Out poll ranked it among the greatest action films ever made.

Their third film, 'Wild Search,' is an electrifying, wildly entertaining ride. A very, very loose remake of Peter Weir's 'Witness', it follows widowed detective Lau Chung-pong, better known, for reasons never quite explained, as Meow-Meow. After a botched raid leaves a young girl orphaned, he finds himself protecting her while forging an uneasy alliance with her aunt Cher. Sparks fly- not just from gunfire, but from unexpected romance. However, with ruthless criminals closing in, sentiment can be as dangerous as a loaded gun.

Screenwriter Yin Nam's narrative is a delicate balancing act. While the film delivers bursts of intense action- expertly staged with Lam's signature grit- it also carves out space for humour, romance and surprising tenderness. The relationship that develops between Meow-Meow and Cher is refreshingly organic, unfolding through shared responsibility rather than forced melodrama.

The trio of Meow-Meow, Cher and Ka Ka, the orphan, anchors the film, their bond growing through small moments- gentle humour, unspoken understanding and the kind of trust that doesn't come easily in a world as unforgiving as theirs. Lam never overplays the sentimentality though, keeping emotions grounded in the characters' lived experiences. This restraint makes their connection all the more affecting, ensuring that when the bullets start flying, the stakes feel personal.

Despite its lighter touches, 'Wild Search' never loses its edge. Lam keeps tension simmering, using the looming threat of violence to remind us that sentimentality can be dangerous in a world where criminals don't hesitate to exploit weakness. This constant push-and-pull between warmth and brutality makes the film richer than a straightforward action thriller, elevating it into something more nuanced.

Visually, it is one of Lam's most striking films. Wai Keung Lau's cinematography embraces a naturalistic aesthetic, capturing both the grittiness of urban crime and the softer, more intimate moments with equal finesse. The film's action sequences, though not as bombastic as those in 'Full Contact' or 'City on Fire', are impeccably choreographed- fluid, impactful and always serving the story rather than overshadowing it. Shootouts crackle with tension, and Lam's skilful blocking ensures that even smaller-scale confrontations feel kinetic and immersive.

Moreover, Tung-Nei Chow's editing keeps things tight and propulsive, balancing clarity in action with breathing room for emotional beats. Chow cuts for impact rather than chaos, ensuring the film never feels bloated or indulgent. In addition, Lowell Lo's moody, atmospheric score enhances both the film's tension and its quieter moments. Avoiding the dramatic swells of typical Hong Kong action films, his music subtly underscores the romance while hinting at the ever-present threat of violence.

Chow Yun-fat, known for his effortless charisma, dials back his usual cocky bravado to play Meow-Meow as a world-weary but compassionate cop, a man whose tough exterior softens as he bonds with Ka Ka and her aunt, played with warmth and depth by his frequent co-star Cherie Chung. She brings quiet strength to the role, making the budding romance with Chow feel natural rather than obligatory. Their chemistry adds an emotional core to the film, giving the quieter scenes as much weight as the shootouts.

Alongside them, Cheuk Yan Chan is fantastic as the young Ka Ka, demonstrating a natural ability and emotional intelligence quite beyond her years. Ku Feng does sterling work as Ka Ka's ornery Grandpa, while Kwong-Leung Wong is similarly good as Meow-Meow's partner Nam. Further, as the villains of the piece, Paul Chun and Roy Cheung ooze menace, bringing a ruthlessness to proceedings that keeps the tension simmering.

In conclusion, Ringo Lam's 'Wild Search' is a marvellous crime flick, expertly balancing romance, comedy and drama. Boasting striking cinematography and a fine score, as well as pulse-pounding action sequences, it fires on all cylinders. Featuring brilliant performances across the board- especially from Chow Yun-fat and Cherie Chung- it is well worth a watch, especially for fans of Hong Kong cinema. In short, 'Wild Search' is worth hunting down.