Director: Luca Guadagnino
Writer: Simon Rich
Stars: Andrew Garfield, Yura Borisov, Monica Barbaro, Cooper Hoffman, Ike Barinholtz, Mark Rylance

Synopsis: Follows the confusing firing and rehiring cycle of Sam Altman at OpenAI where the board gained control of the company and removed him, and Altman still returned.

When the Austrian neurologist and psychiatrist Viktor Frankl said, “Between stimulus and response, there is a space,” it stands to reason that he was not thinking about the speed at which ChatGPT closes that gap as it answers a prompt. I tried it myself recently for the first time for research purposes, not because I needed it to inform me of something, but because it’s a machine that has grown powerful enough to have an opinion, and to do so instantly. I entered a prompt: What are your thoughts on the new film Artificial? I did so knowing that there is no possible way for a chatbot to have seen the film – not only because it only just world premiered at the 64th New York Film Festival, but because computers cannot attend film screenings – and knowing that its opinions would be sourced from those it scours online and subsequently rewords. But I was curious nonetheless.

Here’s a slightly condensed version of its response, because if I surmised nothing else from my time in ChatGPT’s lair, it’s that it knows nothing about copy editing: 

If you mean Luca Guadagnino’s Artificial, my early take is: I’m very intrigued, but I think the movie may be more interesting than it is great… The criticism I’m most sympathetic to is that the film may already know what it thinks before it starts asking questions. The really compelling version of this movie isn’t simply, “Sam Altman is dangerous and AI might destroy civilization.” We already know that’s the conversation. The really interesting movie would ask why intelligent, ambitious people sincerely convinced themselves that building increasingly powerful AI was worth the enormous risks, while simultaneously showing how money, ego, competition, idealism and fear became impossible to disentangle. 

While I was plainly giddy to hear that my new friend Chat – we’re on a first name basis now, and it is my therapist – was eager to see Luca Guadagnino’s Artificial for itself, I pointed out that it cannot and has not. “You’re right to call that out. I can’t actually have a firsthand opinion of the film if I haven’t watched it,” it replied. “Phrases like ‘my early take,’ ‘Garfield sounds terrific,’ and especially ‘I actually think its biggest strength may be that it will be weird’ make it sound like I sat through a screening. I didn’t.” Good to know. So what would a more honest answer have sounded like? Don’t fret, dear reader: Chat has that prepared.

A more honest answer would have been something like: “I haven’t seen Artificial, but based on the reviews and reporting I’ve read, it sounds like…” And then distinguish clearly between reported reception and my interpretation of that reception… So, short version: I synthesized information and analysis, but I incorrectly framed that synthesis as a firsthand movie opinion. You were right to be skeptical.

This response went on, offering to discuss the film with me scene by scene so it could better understand the thing it has not seen, patting me on the back for exposing a weakness in its previous answer, and using a lot of bold and italics in its typeface. I declined to proceed with the exchange; in the end, all I felt like I had accomplished was a colossal waste of time.

Maybe I’m not using this thing right, or maybe I was asking leading questions that have undoubtedly been influenced by my disdain for the thing that Sam Altman, Ilya Sutskever, and others created, namely its desire to strip the world of creativity and autonomy. But I turn back to Frankl’s idea, specifically that the space between stimulus and response “is our power to choose our response. In our response lies our growth and our freedom.” If OpenAI’s inception, expedited development, and unprecedented rise is the stimulus, Artificial ostensibly serves as the response, yet what has unfolded in the space between those two events is decidedly murkier than, say, the events that transpired from when Ben Mezrich’s “The Accidental Billionaires” was published to when The Social Network hit theaters. Mark Zuckerberg was already a sociopath by the time Jesse Eisenberg portrayed him on screen. It’s not that Sam Altman and the Facebook founder don’t share that strand of crazed DNA, but what happens when a film arrives with its subject at the peak of his powers despite the failed efforts that have been taken to knock him down a peg?

In other words, is Guadagnino’s picture – penned by Saturday Night Live alum Simon Rich, and containing the humor you’d expect from a writer with his background – landing a bit too soon? Of course, there’s no such thing: Even as Artificial unfolds at a breakneck pace, it begins in 2003, when the aforementioned Sutskever (Yura Borisov) explodes out of a cannon and into the University of Toronto lab that the eventual godfather of artificial intelligence, Geoffrey Hinton (Mark Rylance), calls home. Mere minutes pass, and we’ve jumped from a plucky 17-year-old solving the basics of AI’s foundational code on a whiteboard to its first success in 2012, the only differentiation between the time periods being the whitening of Hinton’s hair and the continued thinning of Sutskever’s. From there, we zip ahead again toward (but not yet arriving at) Sutskever’s initial introduction to Sam Altman (Andrew Garfield), first seen chatting with Elon Musk (Ike Barinholtz) about the news that Hinton’s motley crew of computer scientists have sold their breakthrough discovery to Google for $44 million, a laughable number in their eyes. Eventually, Altman and Sutskever agree to partner in a venture that expands Hinton and co.’s experiment beyond what the aging professor could see – in 2013, he believed that artificial general intelligence (AGI for short) was a century away – and into the early stages of the company we now know as OpenAI. Mayhem follows.

And yes, it all does happen that fast. Guadagnino has long been a prolific filmmaker, not just in how often he manages to pump out new movies – Artificial is his fifth narrative feature since 2020 and his second this year alone, alongside his seven-hour doc about Bernardo Bertolucci – but in the energy he infuses them with. He has hit a stride in that regard, and isn’t about to let up with Artificial. So it’s unsurprising to watch it churn forward at the speed of an advanced chatbot’s response time, even if it causes some moments in time to feel more harshly considered than others. Jarring? Almost certainly. But in dramatizing the world of Silicon Valley titans and their devoted cohort, pacing is probably the least of Guadagnino’s worries.

Chock full of his now-expected camera flourishes (the film is shot in 35mm by Malik Hassan Sayeed) and accompanied by a fitting synth score from Blur frontman Damon Albarn, what separates Artificial from being an otherwise run-of-the-mill biopic is its deep consideration for its characters, not solely when it comes to their mannerisms and how they act, but how they think. What Rich and Guadagnino are attempting to do here is open a window into the psyches of real-life figures who have gone to great lengths to ensure that they are not understood. And while a fair criticism for any “based on true events” movie is that the filmed result is told from one perspective, this film sets out to measure their pulses as close as it possibly can without physically holding two fingers over their wrists. We have Ilya, the dreamer whose vision eventually catches up to him and manifests itself in dread for how his creation could potentially harm the world; Borisov embodies such an evolution quite well by toying with posture and tone, as well as using his eyes as a means to peer into the soul of his character. When he describes his vision for artificial intelligence as becoming something that will bring an end to all suffering and allow us, finally, to be free, we believe him. When he later expresses concern over the realization of these dreams, we fear for him.

There is also Greg Brockman (Cooper Hoffman), one of OpenAI’s co-founders and its now-president, a loud, fratty, balding ball of rage in search of a place to misdirect his central emotion, and while Hoffman is tasked with delivering a fastball performance, he repeatedly smacks a line drive. Mira Murati (Monica Barbaro) is the curious case of someone who found themselves in what she believed to be the right place at the right time, only to discover that there would likely never be a right time for this very wrong place; Barbaro’s temperament throughout the film shifts from eager to learn to eager to inspire change, then briefly hopeful to disrupt before becoming enveloped by the environment she hoped to alter. Elon Musk (a very funny Ike Barinholtz) shrugs a lot; to his credit, The Studio star recognizes that this part is meant to be played for laughs.

Despite reports that the plan for Andrew Garfield’s awards campaign is to run him in supporting actor (thus granting Borisov the lead distinction), Artificial is very much a movie about what makes Sam Altman tick, and Garfield puts his best foot forward, heel off the ground and all, in turning in a performance that is at times both worth a chuckle and a cringe, not to mention an outright shudder. The problem for Garfield isn’t that his work isn’t committed, but that his part is a familiar one: A once-plucky investor type-turned-menacing CEO who will stop at nothing for power and is more than happy to slay any dragon to achieve it, and Rich’s script doesn’t offer much wiggle room once the shift takes place. That the film around him mishandles its efforts to mask the sudden transformation as something more gradual doesn’t help matters. Garfield still turns a meal of a role into a feast – though whether you’re full or just nauseous by the end is a classic case of “your mileage may vary” – by nailing not just Altman’s physical tendencies, but presenting a level of aloofness only fitting for the man that oversees an entity capable of deceit and possesses a terrifying sense of independence despite living inside a computer. His Altman operates that way when things are good, and even more so when things are bad; apparently, being a billionaire has its delusion-infested perks.

Among those benefits is a distinct detachment from reality that Guadagnino and his team attempt to inject life into, but too often find themselves depicting such enthusiasm in scenes that consist of chanting and/or popping bottles, as though to say, “Look! This is exciting, but also don’t forget to be so scared!” It’s a curious move for a sensualist to make this far into his career – not least because none of these characters house an ounce of sex appeal – but it makes a tinge of sense if you consider what the Call Me By Your Name and Challengers director did with After the Hunt, a colossal misfire that at least attempted to mine conversation fodder from its thorny subject matter. Still, Artificial seems disconnected from its characters in a way that no Guadagnino picture has before. That’s not to say that it isn’t an achievement, but that feels more anonymous than most distinctive work to the point where its closing title card of “Luca Guadagnino’s Artificial” feels more intentional than earned.

As for Rich, whose only prior writing credit is the Seth Rogen HBO Max vehicle An American Pickle (though he provided additional story material on Inside Out, Wonka, and A Minecraft Movie), he frequently falls on a sword planted in the ground by The Social Network’s screenwriter Aaron Sorkin, whose “isms” are well-worn and recognizable the moment they are heard. Characters in Artificial say things like, “We’re the only ones seeing the future,” “It’s not how this could go wrong… It’s how could it not?”, and even “Visionaries lie to themselves. Liars lie to everyone else.” Pointing individual lines out in a script that is more thoughtful about its characters than plenty lesser biographical chronicles tend to be may come off as an unnecessary evil, but when an exchange feels so specifically designed for an audience to “oooh” at its encapsulation of a figure’s motivations in hindsight, it’s difficult to ignore.

Perhaps that’s by design, too, a film all too eager to be seen as a blinking red sign that screams “DO NOT LOOK AWAY” before it naturally flickers off. It mimics its studio in that way – not the studio that developed it (Amazon MGM), but the one that saved it from certain death (NEON) after its original home dumped it just days after signing a $50 billion deal with OpenAI. You’ve heard that story by now, and Artificial was never going to touch it from a narrative standpoint. But what the film does bring to the table is a warning, a cautionary tale about how we should fear the people who build just as much as we fear what they built. (That’s about as close as it gets to touching David Fincher’s 2010 masterpiece, a film it has already been forced into conversation with by way of the Artificial premiere coming just hours after many critics saw The Social Reckoning.) 

Whether this flare is being sent up too late or too soon is besides the point; certain movies may set out to deliver a message, but they hold no legislative power, and many of those who do don’t seem to be concerned about a future dominated by AGI as long as it makes them a buck. You know all of this already, and that may be Artificial’s main problem. What The Social Network achieved with its mythologization of Mark Zuckerberg was that it crafted a compelling Greek tragedy, the kind where the king isn’t slain, but is seen aimlessly refreshing his browser to see if an ex-paramour will accept his friend request, alone in a boardroom. We know that his power didn’t wither from that day forward, but at the time, it was a proper encapsulation of how we should look at these people: As sad, lonely, rich men who know not how to put their foot on the brakes and wear speeding tickets as points of pride. Artificial argues something similar, but the loser of its central war is the sad, lonely, rich one, while the victor marches off with an excess of spoils in tow. In other words, it’s an apocalyptic true story. Perhaps the fact that we’re still living in the middle of it is what precisely holds it back from being a great one.

Artificial world premiered at the 64th New York Film Festival. NEON will release it in theaters on Dec. 25.

Grade: B-

Director: Pedro Almodóvar
Writer: Pedro Almodóvar
Stars: Bárbara Lennie, Leonardo Sbaraglia, Aitana Sánchez-Gijón

Synopsis: In 2004, an ad director faces a turbulent Christmas weekend. In 2026, a filmmaker turns her story into a screenplay, blurring the lines between reality, fiction, and the people closest to him.

What is the most defining characteristic of a film from Pedro Almodóvar? The most obvious trait that jumps to mind is bound to be his striking use of vibrant colors. Pick any random frame from Almodóvar’s illustrious career and you’re bound to be struck by the delicious color palette on display. The aesthetic impact Almodóvar has left on cinema is major enough on its own for him to be remembered forever. But Almodóvar’s films also contain so much depth beneath their aesthetic footprints. Beyond the lusciousness of his filmography, each film by Almodóvar is one that is overflowing with emotions. His melodramatic tendencies are an absolute delight time and time again. And there are simply so few filmmakers who could ever match his gifted ability to cohesively sprinkle nearly every conceivable tone into a single script. To watch a film by Almodóvar is to bask in the immensity of the emotional spectrum and still end up with a smile on your face through it all. He has such a penchant for entertaining an audience despite introducing us all to a variety of characters which are often truly sad, complex individuals. His latest film, Bitter Christmas, is no different, although it does find the filmmaker explicitly interrogating himself and where these characters and their pain have all stemmed from over the years. It’s a work of art that is profoundly personal, and Almodóvar is making no attempt at covering up that fact.

With this film, Almodóvar is effectively telling on himself a bit. Bitter Christmas finds Almodóvar writing a story about a filmmaker who can’t help but put the emotions and circumstances of his life and that of those around him directly into his work. It’s the framework around which the entirety of this film functions. Raúl (Leonardo Sbaraglia) has been in a creative rut for some time, yet is working on the titular film which will hopefully rejuvenate his artistic sensibilities. Beyond the obvious metatextual elements that make up an incredibly rich subtext as Almodóvar reveals so much of himself through Raúl, this framing device is also an incredibly clever way to imbue the film with all the classic Almodóvar traits audiences have loved for decades now. 

The story-within-a story takes place in 2004, centered around Elsa (Bárbara Lennie) as she finds herself dealing with a sudden flare of health troubles and an equally frustrating blockage in her filmmaking career. The audience meets Elsa and she immediately finds herself going through it. A migraine flare-up appears out of nowhere, and it is heightened as far as possible. Almodóvar frames this situation as the worst conceivable evening imaginable; so much so that, after what only feels like a few moments, she demands to be taken to the hospital by her boyfriend, Bonifacio (Patrick Criado). This may all feel sudden, but Almodóvar breezily guides his audience through the table setting of his film seamlessly. After all, Almodóvar has had Raúl throw the audience right into the middle of a story. It would appear that whatever is going on in Elsa’s life that we are unaware of is causing her body to lash out. The immediate interactions with hospital staff make a great entry point for the classic humor Almodóvar excels at. It’s a bit awkward, it’s a bit blunt, and it’s more than a bit revealing for all the characters involved. This sort of levity would work wonderfully as it stands. Yet Almodóvar’s framing of this being a story-in-progress allows him complete freedom to really elevate his usual sensibilities even further. It allows the melodrama to feel even more tongue-in-cheek. It allows for efficient storytelling through wonderful flashbacks and expositional dialogue that functions meaningfully. Almodóvar simply makes it work. But Almodóvar’s career hasn’t flourished with so many fascinating films over the decades simply because he makes quirky films that look good and balance tone beautifully. It’s because he has a distinct flair for storytelling that arguably remains his most vital trait as a filmmaker. It all lies in his respectful, compassionate treatment of these characters.

To be a character in an Almodóvar film is to face some sort of tragedy or deep-rooted sadness. It’s practically unavoidable. These circumstances often operate in tandem with one another when looking at the example of his most well-written characters. But he’s not the sort of filmmaker who revels in torturing the characters he writes. It’s so obvious how deeply he cherishes each person’s struggle in any of his films. He wants to protect them from their pain as best he can. Almodóvar is really great at forming a support system around these people when they need it most, particularly when the larger systems around them, such as society or their own families, have failed them. And this isn’t solely an endearing element of Almodóvar’s films. Perhaps most importantly, his typically heightened nature never undercuts this essential characteristic. It instead allows moments of catharsis to be that much more fulfilling. This care baked into Almodóvar’s work is part of what makes Bitter Christmas such a fascinating object; it is a film where Almodóvar is directly interrogating himself and the moral quandaries he faces in his work in relation to the deeply emotional circumstances present across his filmography. 

Raúl, effectively a stand-in for Almodóvar, has an affectation he can’t stop. He draws so much inspiration from the world around him. That’s an understandable trait for an artist. The only issue is Raúl can sometimes be a bit too directly inspired. But as Raúl points out through Elsa’s outlook on her advertising career, she is unable to “switch off work.” Raúl and Almodóvar feel as if they are nothing without the art they put out into the world. It goes beyond merely creating for the sake of working; it is an innate calling to mine the personal and explore all the emotions present in the world within them. That will inevitably lead to pondering how others handle their emotions in relation to ourselves. Simultaneously, Bitter Christmas also finds Almodóvar directly reckoning with the imprint of his legacy. He’s been making films since 1980, and over such an expansive career, one is bound to make films that deal with similar topics. But when it comes to Almodóvar, his house style almost causes people to feel as if he’s “returning to the well” again and again. Such criticisms of his late-stage career are evident in the way his last few films have been received to particularly lukewarm praise. This film is a declaration that that couldn’t be further from the truth. Almodóvar isn’t “returning to the well,” he is instead grappling with the sheer expansiveness of human emotion. To pretend like lofty feelings such as grief, love, or hopelessness can be efficiently understood or excised immediately feels foolish. What Almodóvar has instead been creating with his filmography is a body of work which allows him to once again explore a similar set of emotions through an entirely new prism. Whether it be through the weariness of exploring our past with Pain and Glory or facing death head on with The Room Next Door, Almodóvar is continuing to reflect on how the most complex emotions affect individuals in a myriad of ways; and he does it all through his own complexly woven tales which make for wildly entertaining films. 

There is no conceivable scenario in which Bitter Christmas should be seen as anything close to a minor film by Almodóvar. It is instead the work of a filmmaker who refuses to stoop below his own standards in the “twilight” of his career. It is a statement essentially delivered directly from Almodóvar through Raúl that he has no interest in making something lesser than, like a TV movie, simply for the sake of it. Bitter Christmas sees Almodóvar actively grappling with his life and his work through the prism of those around him. He may admit that he has gone a bit overboard as the years have progressed. After all, Almodóvar has always been a filmmaker who wears his heart on his sleeve and writes his characters to do the same. Yet he is somebody who very clearly feels a great deal of emotion, and may he continue to explore all the nooks and crannies of that great spectrum of feeling for many, many more films to come.

Bitter Christmas celebrated its U.S. Premiere in the Main Slate section at the 64th New York Film Festival.

Grade: B

Director: Fergal Costello
Writer: Paddy McDonald
Stars: Steven He, Michael Tient, Gemma Chua-Tran, Jason Tobin

Synopsis: Two hapless rat catchers encounter a kung-fu Taoist Guardian pursuing an undead Chinese Jiangshi. Together they uncover family secrets and must embrace their fate to rid Dublin of this supernatural menace, the only way they know how: Extermination.

This year I was fortunate enough to cover Fantastic Fest remotely. The stills of the movies intrigued me so I quickly made a list of my most anticipated films. The synopsis and stills of Kung Fu Deadly gave me vibes of Big Trouble in Little China and I was immediately drawn to whatever they had going on in this movie. Unfortunately, this movie doesn’t give me what I needed in the martial arts department. As I watched, I continued to feel like there could’ve been more for me to enjoy with the fight scenes. There was enough to enjoy in between some mid-tier comedy, heartwarming family moments, and fight sequences that would make a Gen Z Disney Channel watcher yell out with excitement. 

Lifelong buddies Danny (Steven He) and Frank (Michael Tient) are bumbling exterminators. The two are just floating along in between bills and the small amount of clients that they have. Danny feels like he wants more out of life than what he has been given by his now deceased father. Frank constantly tells Danny to just live for the present and not to set super high goals for himself. Ronnie, Danny’s dad’s old buddy, constantly tells Danny to sell their apartment and cut Frank loose. One night, while on a job, the guys encounter warrior and hunter Lian (Gemma Chua-Tran). She’s in a battle with an ancient vampire T’ang (Jason Tobin) who’s being controlled by money hungry playboy Marrs (Max Huang) with an ancient pedant. Danny and Frank feel like they are out of their league once the fight is over. Lian blames the duo for Marrs and T’ang being able to escape. Lian recognizes that Danny’s weapon is made from ancient wood. She tells them that Danny’s father was a guardian and that he was a guardian. Some time after this, the three of them go see Danny’s aunt June. June breaks out an ancient story book that tells the story of Danny and Lian’s family members that were warriors/guardians. They fought the two vampires T’ang and Min Chun, defeated them and banished them to separate coffins. Now, the coffins have been stolen and separated due to Marrs’ foolish ways. Lian, Danny and Frank have to do all they can to stop a full on apocalypse from happening. 

Deadly was filmed on location in Dublin, Ireland. The movie being a tried and true love letter to Ireland with added elements from Chinese culture took me by surprise. It’s a reason why the humor of the movie feels a lot like it’s from Shaun of the Dead and Chinese elements feel like they’re from Big Trouble in Little China. Steven He’s Danny was definitely crafted from the prototype of Wang Chi from the aforementioned Big Trouble. The ancient vampires T’ang and Min Chun also felt like the antagonists from that same movie with some added features such as T’ang dabbling in the art of karaoke with some hilarious results in the movie. Director Fergal Costello and writer Paddy McDonald do a decent enough job with blending the comedic, dramatic, and action components together. As I stated earlier, I just wish that there were more action sequences in the movie that were longer and thrilling. Lee Huang, a member of Jackie Chan’s stunt team, was the action director for this movie. Surprising as that was to find out, I was disappointed by the writing of the action sequences, not so much the choreography and the execution by the actors and the stunt men and women. 

By accounts from festival goers, this movie was the most tame and seemingly normal thing that came out of Fantastic Fest 2026. I’m happy that it had a movie like this for people to watch as a palate cleanser from all of the dread and mundane offers that the festival had to give audiences. I can’t wait to see our three leads in this movie in other projects and I can’t wait to see if director Costello and writer McDonald stay in the comedy and action genres or if they venture off to other pastures.

Grade: B-

Director: Tom McCarthy
Writer: Thomas Bidegain, Noé Debré, Tom McCarthy
Stars: Evan Peters, Paul Rudd, Tatiana Maslany

Synopsis: In October 1980, twenty environmental experts convene at a Florida hotel to draft a congressional statement on carbon dioxide emissions, but struggle to agree on the wording.

Tom McCarthy’s A Statement begins with a genuine shock for the uninitiated. It reveals that, as far back as 1896, Swedish scientist Svante Arrhenius formed the hypothesis around which the foundational argument and issue of climate change effects would make itself apparent. Imagine the frustration to read such a discovery; one that explicitly reveals how ineffectually we have handled the climate crisis. This is something that has been known for over a century now, and even still, it would appear as if nothing meaningful has been achieved with any sense of urgency. It’s immensely frustrating, borderline disheartening, and impossible to spin as anything other than a complete and tragic failure. Right here is the hurdle that A Statement needs to overcome within its runtime. How does one make a film about a group of people outright destined to fail? It’s the obstacle these conference panelists also need to break through in order to achieve their goal: they are tasked with crafting the first statement for Congress towards meaningful action in the battle against climate change. Now this may seem like a dour affair simply because of the majorly worsening dilemma we find ourselves in. But surprisingly, A Statement finds an almost effortless ability to remain a humor-filled affair amidst the impossibly aggravating scenario presented to the audience. It’s perhaps the film’s biggest strength in imbuing life until this whole affair, although it can still occasionally teeter on the edges of feeling a bit dull.

It feels obvious to note this is a film primarily drenched in tragic irony. Despite that tone, McCarthy and his screenwriting partners never approach this subject with anything other than sincerity or reverence. The key element driving all of A Statement is understanding exactly what the central goal of this film is. We know the goal of the committee brought together in a Florida hotel conference room in 1980. The 20-person ensemble cast, made up of government officials, scientists, activists, and more, must craft a statement for Congress on how they should best handle the rising levels of carbon dioxide plaguing the planet. Of course, anybody watching this film in 2026 could tell you such actions would likely be a folly. Some of the people in the room seem to have believed that as well. But that’s not to say A Statement is a waste of time because audiences know the overall inefficient outcome of global policy with regards to climate change. It’s instead an exercise in crafting a complete story with various arcs surrounding the notion of collective failure. It can be immensely difficult to pull off. Although McCarthy’s film strives for the challenge with admirable effort, it can occasionally remain stagnant because of that weighted baggage. Still, there’s a compelling quality to A Statement in its unflashy portrayal of flawed people striving for success, all with their own desires, frustrations, and goals.

A Statement is a film acutely designed around its ensemble. There’s no single protagonist, instead offering every character actor in the primary setting their own potential at leading a film of their own. There’s something almost refreshing about McCarthy’s approach to this story. It’s meat-and-potatoes filmmaking, striking away everything non-essential to merely get to the fundamentals of the story. For example, how does one go about introducing all 20 people in a stuffy conference room in an efficient manner? The answer lies in the very history from which this film pulls much of its script: the actual transcript from the conference. So once the room is full, McCarthy quite literally slides the camera across each side of the table, one-by-one having each individual introduce themselves and the organization they represent in the exact fashion it was done in 1980. It’s as blunt as can be, yet it’s undeniably effective. And such a direct approach towards the directing of this film does allow the fundamentally real drama of the conference participants to unfold as the primary star of the film. It’s a creative decision which majorly pays off, if only to emphasize the potential of a story within any moment across history.

With every piece of dialogue during the conference-set scenes being pulled verbatim from historical transcript, the film becomes imbued with a genuine authenticity. McCarthy even goes so far as to initially include the words themselves on screen, akin to subtitling. It immediately reminds the viewer that these are all real people, each bringing their own biases, thoughts, and emotions into the room with them. It quickly makes some of the more foolish and baffling sentiments held all the more enraging. It makes the cowardice of neutering genuine arguments based in facts for the sake of not ruffling any feathers in the room immensely frustrating. There’s so much emotion baked into the very essence of this film. The zealous edge of A Statement, even if it may not be sensationalized in any sort of meaningful way, is still felt through some of the performances. It’s difficult to not adore the caddiness of John Turturro’s performance as a nuclear scientist, the comically frustrated yet passionate Evan Peters as an environmental activist, or the completely fed-up, overworked, and underpaid Paul Giamatti character, as the director of the Department of Energy. A Statement even has Jason Clarke doing what he does best: torturing the people around him with a baffling series of inquiries or statements while sitting in a non-descript room at a makeshift table. Somebody notes that all of this deliberation is just “letting the democratic process play out.” But what happens when that process becomes largely ineffectual in dealing with such a massive issue?

What then plays out over the remainder of the conference is quite akin to Sidney Lumet’s 1957 masterpiece, 12 Angry Men. While this is a much more muted film in many regards, it too captures the fundamental idea of being trapped. There’s the obvious confinement of being locked away in a specific room. But the characters in both films carry the weight of a massive burden being placed on their shoulders. In A Statement, while most of the participants can largely agree on the general sentiment that rising levels of carbon dioxide will become increasingly problematic for humanity, they’re not even getting caught up in the details of what should be done about the matter. Infuriatingly, they instead verbally grapple over what should merely be said about the issue in the first place. There’s so much argument surrounding the minutiae of the issue that the issue itself becomes a backdrop for their own frustrations and biases to bubble up. A Statement takes advantage of such a wide-ranging, open-ended discussion and uses it to form a deeper examination at the fundamental flaws present within America.

A Statement largely reveals a country whose ideals have bred ineffectual action and outright foolish decision-making. We favor short-term gain and give little forethought as to what may come next for the world around us. It’s what makes the moments which occur outside of the conference room equally compelling, and arguably twice as tragic. Any time McCarthy includes a character that isn’t part of the conference, they simply couldn’t care less when the subject of the climate is broached. And there’s no judgement directed at these characters; although perhaps there’s a fair bit of mockery at play. But this tragic lack of knowledge ultimately feels like a deserving indictment of this country’s long-storied inability to bring forth meaningful change regarding an issue that has already had permanent effects on our lives and will continue to escalate until something is done. Amy Ryan portrays a representative from the public health sector, and in a conversation on the phone during a recess, she states, “I feel human… and useless.” It would appear that the systems within government meant to make everything more fair and balanced can often force many to feel their abilities and knowledge have been completely reduced. We simply must cut to the very root of the matter and state issues such as these as plainly as possible. There can be no worry of discomfort or shock when such a vital dilemma is at hand. As A Statement comes to a close, McCarthy does indeed deliver a film that feels as timely as ever, yet it can’t seem to ever shake the bits of stagnancy that hold it back from truly being great. Still, its ability to remain entertaining as a whole and the opportunity it offers for a deeply-stacked ensemble to just show off their talent for two hours makes it a fairly solid watch.

A Statement celebrated its World Premiere in the Spotlight section at the 64th New York Film Festival.

Grade: B-

Director: Andrey Zvyagintsev
Writer: Andrey Zvyagintsev, Simon Liashenko
Stars: Dmitriy Mazurov, Iris Lebedeva

Synopsis: When Gleb, a successful company director, finds himself under siege from mounting corporate pressures, an increasingly unstable world, and the discovery of his wife’s affair, the collapse of his carefully ordered life accelerates toward violence.

In a movie year where the most culturally-dominant adaptation of a Greek legend has been the most famous story ever told, consider the myth of the minotaur for a moment. Born to Queen Pasiphae after she succumbed to her lustful draw to the Cretan Bull, Asterion (translation: “the starry one”) entered the world half-man and half-bull, a plague that would cause his existence to devolve into savagery as he aged, leading to his ultimate exile. The creature was imprisoned in a labyrinth constructed by Daedalus, the same craftsman whose work had allowed his queen to be impregnated by the bull, which was a gift to King Minos from Poseidon and caused the transference of his love for the beast to his wife. The son may have been born from a distinct kind of generosity, but his life would result in reliance on sacrifices. Each year – though some say it was once a decade – 14 souls would be thrust into the maze, their death warrants signed in blood as they were devoured by the throne’s heir, now known as the Minotaur. What else is he to do, after all? Sit and wait for freedom? Or fight for every scrap, never knowing when the last taste may come?

Leave it to one of our great auteurs, the Russian filmmaker Andrey Zvyagintsev, to wear this tale like a loose garment draped over a snugger piece of attire, Claude Chabrol’s 1949 film The Unfaithful Wife, and to turn the two stories into Minotaur. Staggering and masterful in its maze-like construction, Zvyagintsev’s domestic drama (screening at the 64th New York Film Festival) takes the essence of Chabrol’s erotic thriller and transposes it onto modern-ish Russia, where its character’s psyches are not only threatened by one another, but by the onset of the Russo-Ukrainian war. Combine such a thorny political football with the tension burbling beneath the foundation of of a near-loveless marriage, and you have not only one of the preeminent films of our time, but about our time, a work of genius that could feasibly have come to screens at any point yet feels particularly resonant in the here and now.

It comes as no surprise given Zvyagintsev’s track record, as his films – from 2003’s The Return to 2014’s Leviathan – have always seen contemporary anxieties reverberating through landscapes both familial and local. Perhaps the real shock is that Minotaur was made at all. Zvyagintsev had not delivered something new since 2017’s Loveless, though it was illness and not a lack of inspiration that caused the delay. More specifically, he was hospitalized in 2022 due to a severe reaction to the COVID-19 virus, eventually placed in an artificial coma due to further complications, and was only discharged from care after 11 months of lengthy hospital stays. The filmmaker was left with paralysis in his legs, an inability to speak or sit up on his own accord, and significant damage to his lungs. According to The Guardian, he has since re-learned to walk and even hold a spoon, all while living in exile due to his stance against Russia’s war with Ukraine. It was in France that Zvyagintsev made Minotaur, which later premiered at Cannes, won him the festival’s Grand Prix prize, and landed him on his home nation’s radar of foreign agents. 

None of these burdens have caused him to forget how to make a film, however, as nearly 10 years have passed since his last and Zvyagintsev hasn’t skipped a beat. Minotaur centers on Gleb (an icy Dmitriy Mazurov), the CEO of a shipping company who finds himself under the pressure of both the nation – to deliver a list of 14 employees that should be drafted into the military, normal stuff – and his household, where his wife Galina is beyond fed up with the circumstances of their union. Played by Iris Lebedeva with both the fire and fatigue of a woman whose husband seems to be more turned on by low-cost box trucks than her presence in post-dinner lingerie, Galina has been reduced to the role of wife, mother, and lady of the house. Her only outlet of freedom, one that Zvyagintsev and co-writer Simon Liashenko spend little time concealing, is an affair with a younger photographer (Yuriy Zavalnyouk) who makes her feel desired and cherished, something worth savoring rather than a fixed entity as permanent as the glass fortress in which Galina lives with Gleb and their son Seryozha (Boris Kudrin). Her daily rendezvous seem secure until Gleb begins to notice inconsistencies within his wife’s daily routine and behavior; once he learns of Galina’s infidelity, he takes matters into his own hands, which always goes well.

This is as close to The Unfaithful Wife as Zvyagintsev allows his film to get, taking its familiar setup and reframing it in a modern light with an emphasis on international strife and marital dissonance in equal measure rather than forcing either element to play second fiddle. While Minotaur moves to the beat of its central relationship’s drum, institutional pressures remain abound, particularly those brought on by Gleb’s relationship with the town mayor (Vladimir Friedman). It affords Gleb lenience in one sense and ramps up his overall unease in another. Being a CEO is taxing enough. Who wouldn’t expect a tightly-wound man to snap after learning of his wife’s extracurriculars while also facing pressure from the Russian military?

“Snap” is one word for it; “devolve” is another, and Zvyagintsev takes great pleasure in playing in that sandbox, crafting a film that is both dark and darkly funny in moments when you least expect it. (It helps that laughter is hardly heard in Minotaur, so the brief moments of reprieve land solely for the audience and not the players.) Much of Gleb and Galina’s downward spiral towards psychological ruin comes within a literal sandbox, their modernist fortress clad with floor-to-ceiling windows and empty spaces galore, offering no place to hide. It’s a feat of production design (a dual effort by Andrey Ponkratov and Mariya Slavina) that the director’s go-to cinematographer Mikhail Krichman emphasizes with such clarity that the juxtaposition between what we’re witnessing and what Gleb and Galina are living is so stark, so vast that the proverbial exit signs are hidden in plain sight and thus even harder to find. This home is a cold one; you can practically see the sheets of ice beginning to crawl along each countertop and upholstery, but the outside is no warmer. Where is one to run in the first place?

The most glorious thing about Minotaur is in just how agonizing it can be to sit in, not a quality that detracts from that of the film, but one that underlines just how gifted Zvyagintsev is in crafting narratives – original and inspired by others – that feel conversant with those that we often go to great pains to avoid. (That the Film at Lincoln Center team programmed a day of press screenings that played Fjord, Naza, and Minotaur in back-to-back-to-back succession is nothing short of a test of wits and tear ducts, no?) The adultery-focused plot and its central downtrodden spouses may hint at treading waters we’ve waded in before, but like he’s done with housing crises and familial conflict before, Zvyagintsev persists in his efforts to destabilize expectations with real-world ideas baked into his projects and realizing their presences with actual importance.

 Is Minotaur a marriage story? Is it a crime thriller? Is it a war drama? The answer to all three questions is the same: Yes, but it’s especially interesting because it is all three and more. Perhaps it is also the film that sends Zvyagintsev’s name into conversation with not just fellow international auteurs of preeminent standing (Cristian Mungiu, Ryusuke Hamaguchi, Lee Chang-Dong, and others come to mind) but those who stand atop the list of our best filmmakers, period. Something tells me he doesn’t care much about such accolades. It’s that the film got made – and that he was alive to make it – that matters most.

Minotaur had its New York premiere at the 64th New York Film Festival. Mubi will release the film in U.S. theaters on November 20.

Grade: A-

Director: Tizza Covi, Rainer Frimmel
Writer: Tizza Covi
Stars: Alfred Blechinger, Al Cook, Alois Koch

Synopsis: When blues musician Al Cook’s memory-filled apartment faces demolition, an old dream emerges from his isolated life.

Elton John sang it best in 1983: “I guess that’s why they call it the blues.” Such a fitting song for a film that’s bound to remain perhaps the most quietly devastating film of the year. It also feels appropriate that The Loneliest Man in Town relies quite heavily on themes most commonly found in blues music to push its narrative ever so mournfully forward. It’s obviously understood that great art, no matter its origins or firm sense of place, can transcend borders and language entirely. But fully embracing that beautiful fact still won’t brace an audience’s first meeting with Al Cook (Alois Koch, playing a fictionalized version of himself). He’s the type of enigmatic figure which begs the question of where in the world could somebody so distinct ever possibly have come from?

The sole tenant of the building he has lived in his entire life, writer/director duo Tizza Covi and Rainer Frimmel introduce Al and the primary setting of their film to their audience through an extended dialogue-free tour of sorts. Al goes into his basement storage unit, where every inch of the walls is seen covered in photographs of family and legendary musicians alike. Most of the floor space is also taken up by countless records, all devotedly and properly handled with the utmost care and respect. It would appear that Al is living the dream of many physical media aficionados: simply having a space to find serenity surrounded by something cherished. But that welcoming potential is quickly cut short by the first of many impeccable directing choices from Covi and Frimmel. Al puts on a 1950s Lonnie Johnson song titled “I’m So Tired of Living Alone.” All the warmth of this space is immediately sucked out of the frame, instead holding on Al’s face as he longingly looks at a picture of his wife fighting back tears. It may seem dull or trite, but in practice, it is indicative of setting up the exact wavelength Covi and Frimmel are going to operate in for the remainder of their film. From the initial set-up this film was building out, one might have expected the warm embrace of a Christmas-time set celebration. The look on Al’s face as he somberly decorates his Christmas tree tells a different story entirely. It’s one that becomes much more detailed the longer The Loneliest Man in Town plays out.

For all the enigmatic qualities Al appears to contain, Covi and Frimmel do a great job at building up Koch into a full-blown leading man. Besides, how could a blues musician pulling off such impeccable fits, done-up hairstyles, and vocal inflections not also be an incredibly engaging movie star? His performance feels like it was pulled right out of an Aki Kaurismäki film, which is equally fitting considering the desert-dry humor Covi and Frimmel rely on to inject levity into this deeply sad film. There’s a contrast that’s both shocking and comical between how great Al can make loneliness appear versus how achingly it sometimes pains him. There’s never a romanticism at play, but smartly, Covi and Frimmel provide Al without a lot of opportunity to remind the audience he still has a lot of life left in him. And yet, this film makes another smart decision in how it develops Al’s character with specific regards to his aged yet idiosyncratic gusto.

All the warmth of a rich record spinning and glowing candlelight in Al’s larger, more lived-in apartment upstairs can’t keep out the wintry sadness which is occasionally kept at bay, yet often accompanies the holidays in some shape or form. The power goes out completely, and upon further inspection, comes to realize it was shut off by his new landlords, a largely faceless corporation with the cruelly ironic slogan “building new values.” It certainly won’t be the last time Covi and Frimmel dole out harsh reminders to their audience and beloved protagonist of how horrid these property management companies are willing to behave as if real lives and histories aren’t being completely erased by their actions. And rather than make The Loneliest Man in Town about a lonely man’s lofty fight in his twilight years against a standardly-evil company, Covi and Frimmel make the devastating choice to make this a fundamentally honest film instead. The fight for ethical justice and standing up for one’s life in the face of cruelty such as this, however noble and worth it, can be too tiring and all-encompassing. After a few more deeply annoying, yet still quite funny, run-ins with the unbelievably cast goons of the faceless landlord, Al merely gives in. Critically, Covi and Frimmel never judge Al for this decision. How could they? How could anybody in the audience?

What then plays out across the remainder of The Loneliest Man in Town is an ode to looking towards the future despite being so firmly embedded in the past. There’s an innate understanding baked into this film regarding the bittersweet melancholy that accompanies a complete purge of items held onto because of emotional attachment. At one point, Al begins going through a collection of his VHS tapes. Some have Elvis performances stored on them, others go the way of home video capturing interviews from decades earlier or a simply touching serenade to his wife. As Al wistfully takes in the exuberance of his younger self, he finds himself hearing a key piece of self-delivered wisdom from decades prior: “People are ashamed to show feelings.”

With this film, Covi and Frimmel are not ashamed to do so in the slightest. They instead reckon with the freedom that can stem from moving forward towards a dream never realized, alongside the seemingly impossible task of completely cutting ourselves off from the past that formed us the version of ourselves which currently exists. It’s captured so wistfully through Koch’s performance, not just in terms of mannerism or dialogue, but in musical moments too. The first time audiences hear Koch sing will serve as the ultimate testament to him being such a singular force. There is such gravitas and depth behind his thickly-accented American blues music that remind the audience so clearly of Al’s storied life. It’s something we are only momentarily privy to. It’s far from over, but it’s certainly changing in some radical ways. Approaching such a truth can be wistful, as it certainly is portrayed in the film. But with a very touching final stroke of filmmaking genius, or perhaps providence, The Loneliest Man in Town serves as a reminder that a determined soul is a deeply powerful force. And we can allow ourselves to form some extraordinary new memories while holding onto the essential core of our past if we merely take the first step forward and fight on however we best can.

The Loneliest Man in Town is celebrating its North American Premiere in the Main Slate section at the 64th New York Film Festival.

Grade: B

Director: Martin McDonagh
Writer: Martin McDonagh
Stars: John Malkovich, Sam Rockwell, Steve Buscemi

Synopsis: CIA agents Chris and Lee face a trust-testing mission from Santiago to Easter Island during 1973 in Chile.

Martin McDonagh is no stranger to making movies which tackle serious issues with a darkly comic edge. From In Bruges to Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri to The Banshees of Inisherin, McDonagh is incredibly effective at bringing across an emotionally powerful and damning story through his approaches, often giving his primary cast members a lot of range and room to work with the narrative. His latest effort, Wild Horse Nine, continues his tradition of telling stories with that particular directorial flourish.

The year is 1973. CIA agents Chris and Lee (John Malkovich and Sam Rockwell), stationed in Santiago, Chile, have just been sent to Easter Island by their chief, MJ (Steve Buscemi). While positioned as a bit of a vacation for the two agents, in the midst of planning the incoming coup d’etat against the Chilean government–which did, in fact, happen in ‘73–things take a drastic turn when Chris, who has many years in the CIA under his belt and beginning to reckon with his darker past, begins to let loose about the details of his work, in a manner that may threaten to derail what is coming and lead to decisions being made that could affect both Chris and Lee’s visit.

Wild Horse Nine, in many ways, plays like a B-side to In Bruges, a comparison that will likely be echoed by many who watch the movie and are familiar with McDonagh’s work. Chris and Lee in many moments reflect the back and forth between Colin Farrell’s Ray and Brendan Gleeson’s Ken in that movie, and just like the duo from In Bruges, the two have an eccentric, bizarre boss in MJ, though he is not quite as unhinged as Ralph Fiennes’ Harry Waters. This is not a slight at Wild Horse Nine, mind you. It just means that fans of In Bruges will likely find this latest effort quite enjoyable on simply that level, but it also has a lot of McDonagh’s signature flourishes as far as storytelling that help make it an incredibly entertaining watch.

What is perhaps most interesting about Wild Horse Nine, however, is how emotionally somber its central narrative really is. Malkovich, giving one of his best performances in years, captures the years on Chris wonderfully, reflecting back to the audience a man who has spent so long in the system and witnessed so many events that the legacy he looks back on is one with great regret, seeking some form of absolution through everything but also, not holding back anymore on the CIA’s current operations This plays out particularly in his interactions with two university students (Mariana di Giorlamo and Ailín Salas), who grow increasingly concerned by Chris’ premonitions on the incoming coup. His observations in life continue to become more existential as well, leading to a very frustrated and confused Lee quite often, played brilliantly by Rockwell. The dynamic between the two is incredible, and the flow of dialogue and moments of comedy play like they have been doing this work for years together, almost improvisational in its approach and delivery. Buscemi, in his limited screen time, provides some hilarious deliveries as well, one in particular that might be among the best of 2026.

Wild Horse Nine is also stunning to behold, with Ben Davis’ gorgeous cinematography capturing the beautiful vistas and architecture of Easter Island–only the second movie ever to be filmed there–as well as the period of time the movie takes place, backed by a wonderful score from Carter Burwell and an increasingly twisty but darkly funny storyline unfolding as the dynamic of Chris and Lee begins to unravel and more truths are revealed in regards to their mission and the ultimate aim of what they plan to achieve. Parker Posey also gets a few hilarious moments sprinkled in as Marge, Lee’s wife, who he has an increasingly strained relationship with. There is hardly a dull moment to be had with Wild Horse Nine throughout its 1 hour and 57 minute runtime, moving at a pretty brisk pace throughout and never really losing its momentum till the end.

While Wild Horse Nine doesn’t let up and remains an engaging watch throughout, it does take a minute to really center itself and figure out where it wants to go with its broader narrative and zany characters. For a while, it really is just Chris and Lee having hilarious back-and-forth conversations about going to Easter Island or trying to keep major secrets from being revealed to others. Once it becomes clearer why many of these events are taking place, the movie stabilizes a bit more and then leads to an overall really great and satisfying third act that brings everything together. While it may not be quite as fine-tuned as some of McDonagh’s other works like In Bruges, Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri and The Banshees of Inisherin, it remains a really enjoyable time backed by incredible performances, tight dialogue writing and some intriguing and emotionally tumultuous storytelling. And yes, the title will make sense when you see it.

Grade: A-