Director: Bertrand Bonello
Writer: Bertrand Bonello
Stars: Léa Seydoux, George MacKay

Synopsis: In the near future, emotions have become a threat. Gabrielle decides to purify her DNA in a machine that will immerse her in her past lives and rid her of any strong feelings. But when she meets Louis, she feels a powerful connection to him as if she has known him forever.

The opening moments of Bertrand Bonello’s reality-rooted time hopper, The Beast, focus entirely on a woman named Gabrielle (Léa Seydoux) acting against a green screen while clutching a kitchen knife. As Bonello’s own voice guides her through a scene in which she’s being hunted by some sort of, well, beast, or “bête”, her off-screen director details what will surround her once it’s all generated by computers in post. Not only is it the first moment, in a film chock-full of them, in which fear of artificiality is front and center for its characters, but it tees up a series of cinematic comments on what it means to emote, not matter your surroundings, and imagines what life might be like if we were able to rid ourselves of the trauma those feelings inflict.

Startlingly prescient and wholly original, The Beast — which Bonello loosely adapted from Henry James’ 1903 novella, “The Beast in the Jungle” — could feasibly be reduced to a drama about star-crossed lovers, but its complications make it a significantly more curious piece to gnaw on. Indeed, Gabrielle and Louis (George MacKay, having quite the year) appear to have known each other for some time, but the early revelation that they seem to have been in one another’s orbit for centuries, across timelines and in different forms of themselves, elucidates the notion that not only are these beautiful, curious figures entangled in more ways than one, but that their lives will never not be entwined. 

Whether that’s for worse or for better isn’t much of a question by the time Bonello’s latest mindfuck concludes on a perfect, volatile note, but the other questions it posits linger with a level of intensity most auteurs would kill to achieve. It’s not just about fear and love, but the fear of love; it’s a depiction of the terrors of possibility, and the inevitably of terror, a masterful one at that.

Following its opening sequence, The Beast travels through time, charting the history of Gabrielle and Louis’ eternal connection from Paris in 1910, where Gabrielle, a concert pianist, meets and falls for Louis, a doll manufacturer, at a party; in 2014, where Gabrielle is an isolated model/actress subletting a beautiful glass house in Los Angeles as Louis, now an Elliot Rodger-esque serial killing incel, hunts her every move, plotting her murder like Rodger did the many women he preyed upon during his real-life reign of terror; and in 2044, where Gabrielle is undergoing something called “DNA purification” by floating in a pool of thick, black goo that will undoubtedly draw deserving comparisons to the sinking floor in Under the Skin or the Harkonnen bathtubs in Denis Villeneuve’s Dune films. It’s through this process that Gabrielle and others are able (even beckoned) to purge themselves of emotions they may have felt in past lives.

That this invention has been made available to people in a future dominated by artificial intelligence is hardly a hushed comment on its prevalence in society today, from the world of technology to its ever-looming threat over filmmaking and cultural imports at large. Nor will it be lost on the viewer that, in Bonello’s imagined future, A.I. has turned the world into a series of taupe-walled hallways and glass doors, minimalistic features that some might find soothing in a therapist’s office, but many others will deem hollow, thus feeling hollow themselves. This procedure’s mission, after all, is to rid our past selves of any potentially-painful substance so that one’s present self can live on with emotionless abandon, not torn between worlds, lives, or loves. 

You needn’t be surprised when things don’t exactly go as planned; it’s almost as though Bonello aims to comment on the unrealistic desires of a humanoid-run world. (Gee, I wonder.) But in dissecting these shared concerns about the direction our lives seem to be tumbling in, not once does The Beast neglect the things those unfamiliar with Bonello’s trademark extremism will itch to latch onto. The sequences he dedicates to unavoidable romantic longing, the danger of heartbreak be damned, could ostensibly warrant their own subheading, something like Past Lives; the film’s darkest moments, focusing on menacing obsession and the perils of unseen threats, befit a name along the lines of Fatal Attraction.

Seydoux and MacKay are more than game, and though Bonello’s staging makes for some remarkably tactile moments of dread — including a harrowing recreation of The Great Flood of Paris in 1910 — it’s their faces that do some of the film’s best work when it comes to reducing its highbrow escapades to a human level. Whereas Seydoux was a calculated and cunning messenger woman for the Bene Gesserit in Dune: Part Two, here she strives to swim against the current of calculation toward the sort of imbalance that is required in the real world. MacKay’s turn here is a bit more chameleonic, fitting for an actor who convincingly transformed into a tattooed, closeted street thug in this year’s exceptional Femme; though he’s some form of the Louis that Gabrielle knew, knows, and will come to know over the course The Beast’s entire 146-minute runtime, MacKay seems to have a knack for shedding his skin when necessary, inhabiting the soul of every assignment, never more apparent than it is here. 

The Beast itself is also chameleonic in its invocation of its obvious influences, ranging from David Lynch to other time-bending science fiction films with similar ideas on their minds. But Bonello isn’t nearly as interested in what might happen in the future than he is curious to unravel how our past and present are already dictating its course. We are constantly making choices, he argues, whether it’s to embrace risk or run from it, to break a heart or to have ours broken, et cetera. As André Aciman wrote, “to feel nothing, so as not to feel anything—what a waste.” After all, who are we to rid reality of its authenticity? Something to chew on, perhaps.

Grade: A-

Director: Alex Garland
Writer: Alex Garland
Stars: Nick Offerman, Kirsten Dunst, Jesse Plemons

Synopsis: A journey across a dystopian future America, following a team of military-embedded journalists as they race against time to reach DC before rebel factions descend upon the White House.

I cannot think of a more dangerous film to enter our lives at this very moment. Civil War is jaw-dropping, downright incendiary, and brutally obtuse in its stubborn frankness. Yet, the gloriously mercurial writer and director Alex Garland paints a picture of modern-day dystopian America in peril and the midst of a civil war. Initially, we thought we had the movie figured out, but after leaving your local Cineplex, you won’t be pondering which side you would choose to be on. 

Instead, you’ll find yourself asking, “Which side of patriotic fervor won?”

Civil War follows a group of wartime correspondents in New York. After a brilliant opening sequence, Lee (Kirsten Dunst) saves the life of a junior photojournalist, Jessie (Priscilla’s Cailee Spaeny), when a bomb detonates in the heart of Brooklyn during a protest. Jessie tracks Lee back to her hotel and confesses how much she admires her, though Lee looks at Jessie, pondering whether she should shield the young woman from experiencing the struggles and horrors of the job.

Yet, Lee’s partner in crime, Joel (Mr. & Mrs. Smith’s Wagner Moura), a reporter (and man whore), invites Jessie along the next morning on their perilous journey, opting to take the long route to Washington, D.C., traveling from New York City to Pittsburgh to avoid dangerous outbreaks of war where survival is unlikely. Think Zombie meets Red Dawn, but with characters who should know better and none of Jesse Eisenberg’s feverish wordplay or a legendary Bill Murray cameo.

Joined by Lee’s mentor and seasoned newspaperman, Sammy (Dune’s Stephen McKinley Henderson), their mission is to obtain a photograph and quote from the current President (Origin’s Nick Offerman), who has been sequestered in a bunker in the White House. That’s, of course, if rebel fighters, rogue government forces, survivalists, civilian militias, or the plainly tormented and shell-shocked don’t kill them first.

These are the press member characters, depicted by a wonderful cast, who choose not to pick a side, just document to hold those accountable and for everyone to see. Dunst, who is always an underappreciated performer, is stellar in the role—the film’s conscience and steadily set the tone. 

Moura is electric in his role, playing the classic roguish, swashbuckling, and wisecracking man of action who lives for the moment. And in this case, he gets more than he expects. In the case of Spaeny, like W.W. Beauchamp, she gets much more than she bargained for, seeing the real thing up close and personal. 

Garland’s Civil War is a truly visceral experience that shows how to play both sides of the fence by allowing the viewer to tap into the film’s meticulous ambiguity, allowing the viewer to interpret which side you gravitate towards. Is the President a version of Donald Trump because he wears a red tie and he’s a White man in power? Are the good guys the ones fighting and brutally and ruthlessly killing soldiers in camo? Then why are the prisoners of war being executed with a ferocious machine gun by people wearing the same clothes?

As the film builds toward the big final showdown, can we say the rebels known as the “WF” are the good guys storming the White House? Did we forget the Capital Building Riots on January 6, 2021, where “proud” MAGA members stormed Washington? Even the much-talked-about and will go down as legendary Jesse Plemons cameo does not clear anything up for anyone, even if his character clearly is someone who is working to rid what he considers the world of non-White American inhabitants. 

That’s what makes the film experience of the Civil War so provocative, inflammatory, and dangerous. Anyone left in a dark room watching Garland’s film can be left on their own devices to come to their own conclusions. His tenacious, riveting, and staggering vision isn’t the American dream.

It’s an American nightmare.

Grade: A+

Director: Benjamin Brewer
Writer: Michael Nilon
Stars: Nicolas Cage, Jaeden Martell, Maxwell Jenkins

Synopsis: A father and his twin teenage sons fight to survive in a remote farmhouse at the end of the end of the world.

“I don’t want to rebuild it. I want to build something new.”

Benjamin Brewer and Michael Nilon’s Arcadian is a thrilling dive into the creature feature genre. An apocalyptic event has occurred leaving most of humanity near extinction and living a liminal existence between the safety of daylight and the terrors of night.

Brewer immediately throws the audience into the action as Paul (Nicolas Cage) runs through a collapsed city to get to his twin sons. Fifteen years later, Paul is dealing with Thomas (Maxwell Jenkins) and Joseph (Jaeden Martell) as teenagers. The brothers are at odds due to their distinct personalities. Thomas is wild and action oriented while Joseph is thoughtful, clinical, and scientific. Arcadian implies that Paul himself might have been partially responsible for the virus mutation which overtook humanity and created vicious insectoid monsters. 

Now living on a remote property in what could be Ireland or could be any forested area substituting for bucolic and beautiful but also threatening environment; Paul is at odds with the collective farm run by Mr. and Mrs. Rose (Joe Dixon and Samantha Coughlan). Despite the apocalypse they are creating their own version of Arcadia. They grow flowers, harvest the land, and shepherd livestock behind a fortified gate with a gunman controlling it. They live an almost ne plus ultra life of self-sufficiency. It is little wonder that Thomas is beguiled not only by this seemingly idyllic Rose farm, but also their daughter Charlotte (Sadie Soverall).

Joseph is more precise and practical about trying to keep his family unit alive. He is the inventor and quiet genius. Thomas and Joseph are Paul’s sons, battling at times like Cain and Abel. They are also Paul’s flock and like a good shepherd he will not let a lamb stray.

There are biblical and mythological references galore in the film but what really works is the unrelenting tautness of the film. Snatched moments of time between teenage lovers can have dire consequences for the survival of both of them. In fact, it can have dire consequences for all the people still alive. Especially for Paul and Joseph.

Having similarities to other post-apocalyptic narratives, in particular 28 Days Later by Danny Boyle, and A Quiet Place, makes the plot of Arcadian appear somewhat overly familiar. However, Brewer ensures the audience is absolutely invested in the fate of Paul, Thomas, Joseph, and Charlotte. The bonds that cannot be broken between father and sons, brothers and lovers, parents and their children are tested during a time of monstrous extremity.

Brewer uses his skill as a VFX specialist to create hideous creatures who exist to sting and destroy. Part survival thriller and part eco-horror, Arcadian blends its genres seamlessly to create an edge of the seat experience. Frank Mobilio’s camera work is at times almost cinéma verité and at others discomfitingly abstract; along with Kristi Shimek’s editing it provides Arcadian with a rich and haunting texture. Where we cannot see because of the engulfing darkness the incredible sound design ensures we understand the impending threat. 

The script by Michael Nilion, a regular collaborator with Cage, is layered and intelligent. It avoids exposition dumps to create the air of uncertainty around the events. It isn’t so much a case of what you see is what you get, but a case of what you see and what you don’t see is all you need. 

The film’s tempo of pressure and brief respite follows the logic of the day and night world the characters inhabit. Everything becomes a race to get home, wherever that may be, and to be safe before the sun goes down and the creatures appear. Once we finally do see the creatures beyond mere glimpses and shadows, they are as abject and horrific as you can imagine unnaturally evolved insectoids being. They also work as hive creatures which means they are intelligent and organized in a way that the remaining humans have forgotten. Paul and Joseph act as a reminder that you can never let your guard down against pathogenic nature when it sets out to destroy.

Arcadian has recognizable influences, but the way Brewer has decided to concentrate on what humanity means at the end of the world through the lens clambering dread makes the film a heart pounding experience. Humanity is vestigial not only because there are few survivors, but because extending support to others is something that people who live in the Rose compound refuse to do. With little left to stay alive — limited medicine, food being scarce, the Eden or Arcadia of the Rose farm speaks to the foolishness of a collective which protects only those they arbitrarily deem worthy. Even at the end of the world, a class system remains in place.

Jaeden Martell is extraordinary and considering his supernal career thus far it is a testament to the direction and the script which channel his immense talent. Maxwell Jenkins is the perfect foil to Martell. The other face of a coin that needs to remain whole to ensure the survival of those he loves. Thomas’ blossoming romance with Charlotte is lovely, melancholy, and eventually extremely kick ass. 

It is a maxim now that if you give Nic Cage the right material he can go into God Mode in seconds. Arcadian plays directly into his strengths as an actor. He doesn’t have to say much but every word he says is essential. When it comes to action, Cage does not skip a beat. 
At its heart, Arcadian is a story about family. The legacy they leave and the inspiration they pass on. Coming of age is tough enough under normal circumstances but doing so when you are facing extinction as a species is next level. Arcadian is moody, ominous, and ferocious but it is also about reconciliation and hope. To survive, and be worthy of survival, recollecting the good in humanity is key. Tense, visceral, and explosive – Arcadian is the real deal for creature features.

Grade: B

Director: Larry Fessenden
Writer: Larry Fessenden
Stars: Alex Hurt, Marshall Bell, Michael Buscemi

Synopsis: A Fine Arts painter is convinced that he is a werewolf wreaking havoc on a small American town under the full moon.

Larry Fessenden is a very clever man. He is a cinematic horror poet who, like many of his friends and collaborators, insists that the “monster” is rarely the problem – it is the people who are.

Talbot Grove in upstate New York is about to be turned into an environmental nightmare by corrupt developer Jack Hammond (Marshall Bell). Charley Barrett’s (Alex Hurt) father worked with Jack Hammond creating some more than dubious deals. After the death of his father (played in photographs by William Hurt, Alex Hurt’s real-life father) an alcoholic and control freak, Charley begins to sort through his papers. He discovers that all was not copacetic and begins to drown himself in alcohol and withdraws to spend solitary time painting.

Charley was also in love with, and engaged to, Hammond’s daughter, Sharon (Addison Timlin) while he was working as a contracting boss for Hammond. But during his desperate self-annihilating, booze-soaked nightmare something happened. Charley got bitten by a werewolf and the consequences are reverberating through the whole community.

Blackout cleverly references the original Universal Monster pictures starring Lon Chaney, Jr. but instead of the Romani people being the scapegoat for what is considered the other, it is Mexican and Latino workers who are being exploited by Hammond’s company. Hammond thinks he owns the town and the land, and to some extent he does. He employs most of the people in the region and sets workers against each other. He sows division for profit.

Charley, of course, being a werewolf, experiences the same memory blackouts that Larry Talbot did. As he is an artist, he uses his unconscious memories to draw what he believes he has done. Fessenden is working on a very limited budget, so he employs artwork (provided by John Mitchell) and animation (regular animator James Siewert) to signal the werewolf phase over the three-night period.

Larry Fessenden is working with some of his long-term collaborators both in front of and behind the camera. James Le Gros, Jenn Wexler, Jeremy Holm, Joe Swanberg, and Barbara Crampton, for example. Fessenden’s horror films including Wendigo, Deranged (a blink and you’ll miss it cameo from Alex Breaux is included) and Habit always recognize the mythology around a Monster. Fessenden reconfigures that mythology into metaphors for division, loneliness, and the consuming nature of humans. It is often noted that Frankenstein’s creature is the most tragic of the Universal Monsters; however Fessenden understands that the Wolf Man is the loneliest of all.

Creating an eco-thriller and a discussion of contemporary American politics and capitalism out of a genre film is pure Fessenden genius. Larry has always had a connection to place and space in the American rural, urban, or industrial landscape. Whether it be from his early roles in Kelly Reichardt films, to working with Ted Geoghegan, Ti West, and titans like Martin Scorsese and Jim Jarmusch:; Larry Fessenden cares about how Americans connect psychologically, and in actuality, to an environment and who it ostensibly belongs to.

Few directors working within the budget that Fessenden does can create such powerful real-world fables around existing material. Despite being a chameleon actor, he is a horror auteur who gets to a specific heart residing inside what the audience considers the monstrous.

Once again, Larry Fessenden has given audiences a brilliant insight  into contemporary America through the lens of monstrosity. Blackout is a melancholy, funny, gore-soaked, and, at times, hopeless film about the tragic werewolf and the impulses he cannot control. A letter Charley leaves for Sharon provides the thesis to Blackout. “I think about the misery and terror I spread when I have no control. And I think about what people do when they have control. The combat. They miss the sweetness of life. I’m not sure what I’ll miss. I’ll miss you.” Fessenden proves that there are things American people can and should be doing to prevent tragedies that are bloodier and more scarring than the claws of a werewolf.

Grade: B

Director: Aaron Schimberg
Writer: Aaron Schimberg
Stars: Sebastian Stan, Adam Pearson, Renate Reinsve

Synopsis: Aspiring actor Edward undergoes a radical medical procedure to drastically transform his appearance. But his new dream face quickly turns into a nightmare, as he loses out on the role he was born to play and becomes obsessed with reclaiming what was lost.

A deliberate and shrewd depiction of a man who loses his mind as he takes steps toward what he believes is a greater sense of control, Aaron Schimberg’s third feature, A Different Man, is a dangerous cultural object. Not only should we fear it for the litany of misdirections it baits audiences with, but for how sure it is to force us to turn the unflinching gaze we aim outward onto ourselves, externally and internally, an action human beings are hardly even inclined to perform with a therapist, let alone on a random Tuesday. At times a satire, yet more so a jet-black comedy with an astute sense of reality, what this never-all-that-surprising yet simultaneously unpredictable film achieves in its takedown of our preconceived glorification of appearance — specifically its perceived “importance” in society — makes it one of the more lucid portraits of what really lies under the skin not just of this year, but any year. It’s not to be missed, should you dare.

Whether or not you’re a glutton for discomfort may dictate your willingness to try Schimberg’s film on for size once A24 releases it in theaters this September. But it’s the brilliant sort of work that doesn’t so much as place an emphasis on visual unease as it uses it to pave its way to deeper reflections; on identity, on personality, on our preternatural unwillingness to accept verity on its terms to due a desire for vanity. As it charts the life of struggling actor Edward (Sebastian Stan) through what begins as a painful existence and only becomes worse as the days go by, there are a few ways to read A Different Man, but only one resolute takeaway from the viewing experience it offers: It never wastes its breath.

Edward feels like he is perpetually wasting his. Perhaps it’s the fact that he lives on the Upper West Side of a Beau Is Afraid-lite New York City, a place where everyone wants everyone to know their name yet a select few can bother to remember it. It might be his profession; if you haven’t met an audition-to-audition artist in Manhattan, have you really ever been? Or maybe it’s his neurofibromatosis, a medical condition that causes tumors to balloon all over his face — you can thank the work of makeup artist Mike Marino for your confusion as to why Bucky Barnes has top billing, yet doesn’t appear as his magazine-cover-worth self until close to half the movie is over.

When we meet Edward, he’s bumbling up the stairs of his apartment building as passersby gasp at his appearance, or mutter “Jesus Christ” at the mere fact that they are forced to eke past this monstrosity of a neighbor; clearly, this is a guy who feels like a nuisance wherever he goes. On the set of a schlocky, harshly-toned human resources video meant to teach employees how to communicate with their disfigured coworkers, he’s the only actor who receives notes; his apartment is seemingly the shabbiest in his walk-up, the only dwelling with a seeping black leak in his ceiling. When he accepts the opportunity to take part in an experimental drug trial that should, in theory, rid him of his tumors, not even the nurse assigned to redress his wound can make eye contact without so much as holding back a gag.

It’s not until Ingrid (a loose, unknowingly-callous Renate Reinsve) moves in next door that Edward truly feels seen for who he is as a person — that is, once we get past her asking, “What happened to you?” and Edward not knowing whether she’s referring to his appearance or the gash on his hand, one that Ingrid caused with a startling knock at his door while he was chopping vegetables. She’s beautiful and kind, and immediately makes Edward feel normal; she even makes an awkward offer to pop the blackheads on his nose and to give him a cream for his “really oily” skin feel like a kindhearted gesture, not one meant to make her experience in his presence more comfortable. It’s only when Ingrid rejects Edward’s barely-romantic pass at her that he decides it’s time to ramp up his treatment, leading to a few nauseating sequences that could make the Safdie brothers cringe as David Cronenberg yelps in glee. 

And it’s only then that Stan finally becomes recognizable, and Edward — now calling himself “Guy” after feigning that poor Eddy went and offed himself, ‘cause duh — reaps the benefits of his newfound handsomeness. Meet-cute blowjobs in a grimy bar bathroom; a killer, leak-free apartment that one-night stands walk out of feeling safe and satisfied; a stable, lucrative career as a sleazy-yet-sexy real estate agent. Everything Edward has seemingly ever wanted is finally at Guy’s fingertips. Except, of course, that whole acting career he once pursued in vain, until he spots Ingrid, a playwright, entering an off-Broadway theater set to house her new production, “Edward”. Finally, a part Edward was meant to play. If only he wasn’t Guy…

If that sounds like something of a windy set-up with a disappointingly simple resolution in mind, you’re in for a treat of Kaufmanian proportions. A lesser filmmaker might have taken the opportunity A Different Man presents and elected to peddle ideas of acceptance into viewers’ minds with a startling lack of cognizance, rendering moot what was otherwise a genius conceit. Schimberg’s approach — recognizable if you’ve seen his previous film, the less-assured but similarly-shrewd Chained for Life — slyly considers the notion that judging a book by its cover gets you nowhere, whether that judgment is positive or negative. It does so, in part, in the form of Oswald (Adam Pearson, memorably of Under the Skin), a charming man who becomes an object of obsession for Edward due to how well he carries himself despite his dealing with his own neurofibromatosis — a condition Pearson actually has. Not only is Oswald charismatic and successful, but he represents something far more threatening in Edward’s orbit: A reminder of the skin he once shed, and the person he could never become.

Oswald’s arrival unveils a secondary element to Stan’s stunning performance, for Guy is a harebrained maniac with zip personality (or, better yet, a lousy one). It’s a far cry from his time as Edward, a slouched, lived-in turn from Stan that allows what was already a gifted actor to give his most layered work to date, not to mention his best. As thrilling as the film itself tends to be, it’s that much more riveting to watch Stan continue populating his non-Marvel filmography with inventive showings, many of which have sociopathic tendencies abound. Notably, in Mimi Cave’s criminally-underseen 2021 thriller, Fresh, a two-faced Stan flipped from charming to cannibalistic serial killer on a dime in what was, to that point, his most exciting appearance. What he does in A Different Man is portray darkness on a different, more unsettling level; Edward/Guy’s true self not masked by charm, per se, but by an inability to accept his shortcomings. He’d rather cosplay as literally anyone else.

It’s a complicated performance in a film rich with complicated questions, most of which aren’t easily answered, or keen to be pinned down at all. That Schimberg, despite maybe packing his third effort with one too many strong ideas, is able to keep it all from crumbling would be a triumph to itself, if not for how utterly clever, dark, and hilarious the result is as it stands. While using vanity as a means to a narrative end, not once does he abuse its privileges; the few beautiful faces with which A Different Man is populated belong to borderline detestable people. That’s what makes reading such a brilliant form of Russian Roulette. Even the sexiest book flaps can feel empty once you see what lies inside. 

Grade: A-

Director: Louise Archambault
Writer: Dan Gordon
Stars: Sophie Nélisse, Dougray Scott, Andrzej Seweryn

Synopsis: Follows the life of a Polish nurse Irene Gut Opdyke who was awarded the Righteous Among the Nations medal for showing remarkable courage in her attempt to save Polish Jews during World War II.

There are so many stories of heroism in the face of the despotic Nazi occupation of Europe during World War II that it’s easy to think that all the stories are simple, but Irena’s Vow proves that there can still be a few unheard stories that are as unique and important as many that have already been told. The film is already one leg up on most others because its focus is on a woman who stood up to tyranny all on her own.

The film is driven by the stellar performance of Sophie Nélisse as Irena Gut Opdyke. Her ability to play subterfuge and a constant anxiety over her charge’s welfare is fabulous. She has an expressive face and large eyes that convey many grand emotions in every scene. She carries the film through each worsening lie she has to perpetrate in order to protect those she is hiding.

The lies are intriguing and border on farce. When she has people in to clean the villa before Major Rugmer (Dougray Scott) moves in, she has to deftly maneuver the workers outside for a picnic so her charges can move quickly from the cellar to the attic for the cellar cleaning. She has to explain away extra dishes and how she can serve guests at a party and cook the entire meal herself. She drugs Rugmer in order to shift the people she’s hiding from one room to another. There is a scene in which Rugmer wakes up at night, because he hears small scratching sounds in the cellar. He doesn’t find anything, but when Irena comes in to get the breakfast started he calls for exterminators because they have rats.

It feels as if Dougray Scott’s performance veers too far toward humor in many of the scenes he’s in. He becomes a bit hammy at times as the shouting, fussy Nazi commander who is somehow blinded to what’s going on in his house. It’s almost as if he read the script as a Jojo Rabbit more than a Schindler’s List. That may be a fault of Louise Archambault’s direction as well, though, as some of her other scenes have a strange tonal dissonance between character and scene, especially where Nazis are concerned.

While Archambault should be praised for her disinterest in wallowing in her most violent scenes, the scenes themselves are undercut by the mustache twirling villain of the film, SS officer Rokita (Maciej Nawrocki). This criticism is not meant to undercut the actual atrocities perpetrated by Nazis on the civilian populations. There were horrific crimes committed by these horrific men and we can’t forget the truth of what they did in the name of white supremacy. Yet, the point could be made without going toward Hans Landa villainy when Amon Goeth’s evil was just as cruel, but far less Snidely Whiplash. 

Rokita brutally executes someone in the streets, which is one of the catalysts for Irena wanting to help, but his second scene of terror is more horrific and unsettling. He forces civilians to watch as he hangs the family of Jews, children and all, with the family of Poles that harbored them, also children and all. The scene is effective as a warning for Irena, but when it lingers on Rokita’s perverse glee even focusing on his lazy conducting of the music that plays, it shifts into far stranger territory that detracts from the story at hand.

In spite of these sort of tonal shifts, the film is well made. One particular scene is a fabulous alchemy of Archambault’s direction, Paul Sarossy’s cinematography, and Arthur Tarnowski’s editing. As Rugmer throws a Christmas party upstairs, the Jews in their hiding place light candles and sing for Hanukkah. The Christmas festivities turn from an aggressive singing of “O Tannenbaum” into a bacchanalia of jazz and drink and the muted celebration below becomes emotional as the people remember more songs and think of the family they left behind. It’s a terrific companion sequence as those in hiding wait out the fall of the empire that they can see will come any day now from the papers smuggled down to them.

Irena’s Vow is an intriguing thriller that will keep you interested. While the Nazi’s antics are a bit of a distraction, Irena’s journey is enough to keep the movie well above water. The film is tense, heartbreaking and, in the end, full of hope. Irena’s Vow is a World War II civilian tale that is more than just a historical record, but a harrowing saga as well.

Grade: B

Director: Ryûsuke Hamaguchi
Writers: Ryûsuke Hamaguchi, Eiko Ishibashi
Stars: Hitoshi Omika, Ryô Nishikawa, Ryûji Kosaka

Synopsis: Takumi and his daughter Hana live in Mizubiki Village, close to Tokyo. One day, the village inhabitants become aware of a plan to build a camping site near Takumi’s house offering city residents a comfortable “escape” to nature.

It took Ryûsuke Hamaguchi around 40 minutes before he dropped the title card in his 2021 Oscar-winning film Drive My Car. A magnificent film regardless of that type of specific heat check, the renowned Japanese director seems particularly aware of how his next film might be perceived. In that case, he sheds any notion of playfulness by opening the film with the title card at frame one: Evil Does Not Exist. And as soon as that’s out of the way, Hamaguchi offers his hand to his audience to guide them somewhat aimlessly through a forest. Lush trees slowly creep in and out of the frame as we look skyward, unsure of where we are, how we got there, where we’re going; but it’s soothing, especially when treated to the rich score of Eiko Ishibashi, which will most certainly be a talking point for audiences after the film. But over time, as the credits interject themselves into the serene images of greenery, the leaves are replaced with empty branches and decay. Now, this could be due in part to the time of year, but if there’s anything about Hamaguchi’s films that become immediately clear, it’s that every image is clearly calculated to invoke a thought or emotion in the viewer. And within mere minutes, the standard act of letting credits roll becomes a thesis statement in its own right. There’s nature, there’s the people that inhabit nature, and there’s the people who invade it. 

Takumi (Hitoshi Omika) lives in Mizubiki, a small village an hour or two from Tokyo. Hamaguchi introduces him rather silently. With that, over the course of a few scenes, we begin to get a sense of his routine and person. With little emotion, he chops wood efficiently and serenely gathers fresh water. It’s only upon his friend arriving to help carry the several gallons of water back to the car that he says anything. After a short interaction that captures the kind of person Takumi is, as well as his clear knowledge of the surrounding flora, he’s off to pick up his daughter, Hana. There’s a lot of driving in this film, and for a filmmaker like Hamaguchi, who often keeps the camera still and slow, he makes such an interesting choice when using vehicles. There are multiple sequences of the film wherein the camera appears to be set up in the trunk, looking out behind the car. It mimics a rear view camera, which we also see during one extended sequence, but to a much greater scale. It shakes with the opening and closing of a car door, rocks as the vehicle goes over gravel, and captures the sounds of nearby pedestrians and turning signals. As easily as Hamaguchi is able to transport us to the calm beauty of the outdoors, he can just as easily place us in the claustrophobia of a trunk. It’s this style of engrossing direction that Hamaguchi is able to excel at.

One of the most noticeable elements of Evil Does Not Exist is the ways in which the camera ever so subtly lingers. In most instances where a character exits the frame, Hamaguchi holds in serenity. It’s a reminder that the nature we find ourselves in on a consistent basis exists outside of us. We as people are not simply living on the land, but rather, we are living alongside it. Just because a character leaves Mizubiki to venture back into the city doesn’t mean that the hamlet or the surrounding woods freezes. It exists far beyond the scope of what these encroaching outsiders can imagine. It is in this infinite beauty, or rather, the desperation to protect and preserve it, wherein Hamaguchi is able to mine the emotional depths of his latest film.

The residents of Mizubiki convene at a meeting in which a company is laying out their plans for a new glamping resort. The forum is taking place in order for the residents to state their concerns or pose any questions regarding the resort. And it doesn’t take long before both the viewer and the residents of Mizubiki realize what’s occurring. This forum is basically for show. The two representatives attending are just talent agents, who, in their words, are “not qualified to reply” to certain statements being made. It’s a deeply frustrating experience exacerbated only by the fact that we know the outcome of this forum is already written in the profit margins of a spreadsheet. These representatives can take all the notes and feedback they’d like, from community criticisms to constructive, thought-out personal statements alike. But upon bringing it to upper management, the notion of cost comes up without hesitation. Damn the environment they’re encroaching upon and all who live nearby. In the eyes of the company president, a small enough pollution within the necessary legal parameters isn’t worth the loss of any possible profits. To put one of the more eloquent and thoughtful monologues of the film into more blunt, matter-of-fact terms, sh*t always rolls downhill. Whether it’s the literal overflow of a septic tank from the glamping resort, or upper management basically instructing employees to tell the village residents to piss off, the company was not there to listen; they were merely there to look better to local authorities and to proclaim what will be happening. It’s an anger-inducing sequence, reminiscent of Todd Haynes’ masterful Dark Waters, another film interested in the ways in which corporate greed and business jargon are used to destroy local communities and the very ground beneath our feet.

One can’t help but think of the title of this film in relation to a scene that occurs shortly after a request for a second forum is made. Takumi is discussing whether or not local deer will bite glamping residents. He assures them that they are docile and tend to avoid humans, unless they’ve been shot by hunters and can no longer run. Instead, they will stand and brace for an attack if they must. It’s here that Hamaguchi’s grand title feels as if it takes some shape. In this reading, evil does not exist naturally, but instead, it is created. It’s born out of desperation, brought on by the nature of human greed. To fault a gut shot deer for standing its ground in adrenaline-fueled fear and defense would be illogical. And the same logic should be given to both the earth itself, but also to the people who defend it. In this case, it’s the residents of Mizubiki. You can only remain quiet and inquisitive so long before realizing that there’s only a single path ahead.

In its first two acts, Hamaguchi’s Evil Does Not Exist leaves you with much to contemplate. It’s a patient film that rewards its audience with an enriching world and set of ideas. Even so, this feels far more direct than Hamaguchi’s approach in Drive My Car. Take, for example, a sequence in the final act of this film. It mirrors an earlier sequence, only this time, there has been a fundamental shift. It’s a disorientingly scary one, and is best experienced wholly in the moment. Hamaguchi once again leaves us with a coda to rack our brain, but not with the intention of being mysterious for the sake of shock. Instead, he and his films innately understand that life is hardly ever made up of two paths. There are many, and in many cases, it’s hard to tell which is the right one and which is the wrong one to take.

Grade: A-

Director: Rhys-Frake Waterfield
Writers: Rhys-Frake Waterfield, Matt Leslie, A.A. Milne
Stars: Scott Chambers, Tallulah Evans, Ryan Oliva

Synopsis: Not wanting to live in the shadows any longer, Winnie-the-Pooh, Piglet, Owl, and Tigger take their fight to the town of Ashdown, leaving a bloody trail of death and mayhem in their wake.

People who denounce the Winnie-The-Pooh: Blood And Honey franchise have not been exposed to the cruelty of the original Grimm Brothers fairy tales. It’s what makes this film creature spectacular and alluring; this vicious violence mixed with childhood fantasies. It deconstructs the nostalgia bait and turns it on its head, dismantling this sacred place given to particular films and TV series. Instead of honoring and revering a beloved childhood creature like Winnie-the-Pooh, it ravages it, destroying its saccharine fantasy-like cultural impact.

The second installment from the franchise Winnie-The-Pooh: Blood And Honey is directed by Rhys Frake-Waterfield and written by Matt Leslie. The first installment starts by killing the father in a Freudian attack on the fatherly/authoritarian social order, Piglet and Pooh dismantle their honorary father Christopher Robin, and by that, they are free from the grasp of his love. The sequel starts with Pooh, Piglet, and their new friends from the Hundred Acre Woods of Hell, Owl and Tigger, wreaking havoc on the world, killing more victims and attacking nearby towns. Christopher Robin’s character arc gets messier and more ridiculous than in the previous film with a missing kid brother turning out to be a bigger secret than anybody has anticipated. A different actor plays Christopher in the sequel which makes his character appear even more idiotic than the past film. All the more fun for audiences.

It’s hard to look at Winnie-the-Pooh: Blood and Honey 2 without a direct comparison to the first film. The first film lagged and lost its essence, stalling in pace and narrative improvement. The second film has built on the first but the talking mean nightmarish Poohverse characters have stripped the mystique of the first film. The mute monster trope that found its fame with Jason Voorhees returned to the stage with the Terrifier series, and despite the Pooh franchise extending that, the sequel has lost it with the babbling, gurgly monster talk.

There’s something cathartic about this film. The danger is so far away and detached from reality. Who will go into the woods and meet their end at the hands of half-animal, half-human monsters from a dark fairytale? Fools and horror movie characters who usually deserve what comes to them. It’s not The Cabin in the Woods, Wolf Creek kind of fear where characters from an eerily familiar setting face horrifying consequences; this seems like an unrealistic, demented situation where stupid people seem pulled into this trap through a hidden magnet in their brains. It’s the most guilty-pleasure fun anyone can ever watch, especially if they seek fun after a boring, long workday at the office. 

The sequel is cheesier and more fun to watch. As is the fact that none of the human characters are sympathetic or well-fleshed out. They all seem to exist in a syrupy, unrealistic world where people exist just to be prey to those mythical, bloody, and honey-thirsty creatures. By stripping all the human characters of any sympathetic, likable traits, the filmmakers and writers tone down the gorefest that can sometimes be overpowering in the film.

So what is the root of this genre? Senseless, dull, stupid violence where villainous, mask-wearing characters rarely speak, have a background story or even bother to explain themselves. This is when people won’t even bother delving into Jigsaw’s backstory or the creepy Hostel surgeons. Winnie-the-Pooh, clan-like Art the Clown from Terrifier, are eerie, voiceless monsters that only relish the art of dismembering humans in as messy a way as possible. According to box office numbers, these films are faring well. But what can their massive success tell about today’s modern society? For starters, there is a lot. Imagination and creativity rooted in the familiarity of original tales and standard formulas seem to be a recipe for success. The world may or may not be ready for another wave of torture porn, but are the heydays of the aughts unhinged, sadistic, bloodbath of the early aughts gone, never to be revisited by another filmmaker? It seems like the degree of grim believability that the early aughts torture porn crown jewels –The Collector, Martyrs, High Tension– have showcased has now become a thing of history. What remains is a hybrid film genre between slashers and senseless violence. Winnie-The-Pooh: Blood And Honey 2 is undoubtedly one of them.

Grade: B+

Director: Arkasha Stevenson
Writers: Tim Smith, Arkasha Stevenson, Keith Thomas
Stars: Nell Tiger Free, Ralph Ineson, Sonia Braga

Synopsis: A young American woman is sent to Rome to begin a life of service to the church, but encounters a darkness that causes her to question her faith and uncovers a terrifying conspiracy that hopes to bring about the birth of evil incarnate.

Horror is the genre most subjected to remakes, sequels, and origin stories; all of which are entirely unasked for by genre fans. These projects, particularly in the past decade or so, have been lifeless and without the vigor and dread that the original film to this follow-up (or predecessor) contained. But, there is the rare chance that one of these movies might surprise you. Fifty years have passed since the classic horror flick The Omen. The son of the devil, Damien, arrives at the hands of the Thorn family, and all hell breaks loose. That film has remained relevant within the horror genre, with filmmakers constantly reciting moments from it. But do we need to know about the events that occurred before that? 

In essence, no, we don’t. There is little to no need for us to know the ins and outs of how this fiend was created. But Arkasha Stevenson has been tasked with doing so with The First Omen  – a prequel with the same amount of terror and trepidation that the original contained. While you may not have wanted these answers, the Brand New Cherry Flavor director makes the process worthwhile by crafting one of the most solid studio horror legacy pictures in recent memory. It is backed by a stellar lead performance by Nell Tiger Free, who is firing on all cylinders, and bloody, dire imagery that may shock folks. True genre fans will feel blessed. 

The film’s cold open involves Father Brennan (Ralph Ineson) running to a chapel, where he is meant to meet someone who will give him answers to an uncanny happening taking place. Father Harris (Charles Dance) is sitting in the confessional booth, speaking about a woman being possessed. There is some hesitation on his part; Father Harris seems afraid to say every horrifying detail. Running out of words (and time), he presents Father Brennan with one last clue – a picture of a group of nuns holding a baby, who will eventually become the vessel for a creature that will shift the way people see religion for good. Father Brennan is shocked by what his comrade says, left rather speechless for a few seconds. 

When he finally manages to get his words out, it is already too late. Tragedy strikes as a falling painting, which slices a piece of Father Harris’ head. The last image we see of him contains a smile – a facial reaction that oozes hopelessness and damnation – and this is the first hint at bloody stakes The First Omen goes to, as well as the attempts by Stevenson at intercutting gore with camp through the nun-possession movie canvas that we are used to seeing. Throughout the film, Stevenson implements campy sensibilities in the narrative. It can be in the form of an actor’s line delivery or a narrative thread quickly developing somewhat ridiculously. Although it doesn’t work entirely, the majority help broaden the mysterious tone of the story. 

After that introduction, we meet our protagonist, Margaret Daino (Tiger Free), who is about to take the veil in a few days. She has relocated to Rome – the classic location for most nun-horror movies – to do the lord’s deed at a local orphanage. Before she does become a nun, her roommate, for the time being, Luz (María Caballero), motivates Margaret to take a trip downtown and go to a discotheque for one last night of freedom. The two head towards the strobing lights and pulsating techno-pop tracks that echo throughout the area, which lead to Margaret becoming enamored after a few drinks. What Stevenson does brilliantly in this relatively simple transition from the brightly lit convent to the blue-hued discotheque is making it feel like it is a whole different world that Margaret is slowly discovering. 

As the drinks pour and conversations start developing, the soundtrack becomes more energetic, almost as if it forces Margaret to embrace the free-form nature of this setting. Even though there is joy in the air, an uneasy feeling emerges; we see this through a hypnotic, distorting effect caused by the crowd dancing, swaying from left to right. What Margaret doesn’t know is that this trip will be the catalyst for something sinister lurking. After the night out, everything becomes darker; the place initially coated with a bright, luminescent light is now swallowed by dread and unease. However, there’s a wave of light amidst the darkness in the way of a young girl named Carlita (Nicole Sorace). And Margaret vows to protect her against this forthcoming evil. 

The First Omen doesn’t complicate its story that much. Of course, there are a few twists and turns to make the audience second guess. This is your regular nun-possession horror movie modified into a project that tips its hat to the films that came before while maintaining a sense of identity. The only moment you feel it is losing its uniqueness is during the ending sequence, in which Stevenson forces the foreseeable tie-in with the 1976 picture in a way that feels quite lazy. Nevertheless, the rest flows smoothly and without restrictions. From the first scene, you feel director Arkasha Stevenson’s grasp on the genre and her film’s classical look – reminiscent of the big studio horror pictures from the 70s and 80s. 

You feel the gloss of the multi-million dollar budget coating every frame, yet with some weight to it induced by the filmmaker’s talent, a quality lacking in the recently released films from the Hollywood giants. A primary reason these horror films fail to engage the audience is that the company heads tend to restrain the filmmaker at the helm. That isn’t the case with The First Omen. Every few minutes, you get a visual or image that immediately puts you on edge – oozing dread and disquietude. Stevenson doesn’t want to hold back at all; she implements body horror and elements of nunsploitation as the essential gadgets to build up the scares, ensuring a thrilling experience for genre fans. 

As a treat for genre fans, these moments come with a couple of easter eggs, referencing legendary films like Andrzej Żuławski’s Possession and The Texas Chain Saw Massacre. And it is all captured by the talented cinematographer Aaron Morton, who has had his hand in several legacy projects like Evil Dead (2013) and the recent Lord of the Rings series. While The First Omen has many things going for it, I believe its best asset is the performance by its leading lady, Nell Tiger Free, the film’s beating (and terrifying) heart. She plays a caring mother figure for the entirety of the film, yet her emotions vacillate constantly—switching from exasperation and horrification to worry and angst in seconds. 

Nell Tiger Free commits to every bit Arkasha Stevenson brings to the table, so her character becomes very compelling. It is quite a physical and demanding role. But she is later rewarded with her version of the classic subway scene in the aforementioned Possession, channeling her inner Isabelle Adjani. She screams her heart out while the creature inside devours her. And it is beautiful to watch cinematically. Many filmmakers have made their renditions of that scene, looking for ways to make them both different and equally haunting; the one I often recall is Gaspar Noé’s in Climax. However, Stevenson takes a more direct approach without making it seem like a scene-by-scene copy. 

It is in this scene – and many others that are scattered across the film’s runtime – that you see how Stevenson uses shock factor without ever feeling exploitative, yet tipping her hat to the Grindhouse nunsploitation flicks that inspired her vision for The First Omen. For me, that is what makes this legacy project function properly. It has its unhinged moments where everything goes to hell in a handcart, and, at the same time, Stevenson provides moments for the audience to breathe.

Grade: B+