Director: Jim Jarmusch
Writer: Jim Jarmusch
Stars: Tom Waits, Adam Driver, Mayim Bialik, Charlotte Rampling, Cate Blanchett

Synopsis: Three stories concerning the relationships between adult children, their somewhat distant parent (or parents), and each other: a reclusive father visited by his grown children in the US, sisters visiting their novelist mother in Dublin, and adult twins called back to their Paris apartment to address a family tragedy.

There are a few constants that trickle down from one section to the next in Jim Jarmusch’s slight delight of  a triptych, Father Mother Sister Brother – this year’s Centerpiece selection at the New York Film Festival – but the one that sticks out is the repeatedly-uttered phrase, “And Bob’s your uncle.” We all, more or less, know what it means: It’s a clever-ish way of saying, “And there you have it!” or denoting that something is simply put. But as Jarmusch’s 14th feature – his first since 2019’s The Dead Don’t Die – unfolded, I found myself wondering about its origins. Some half-assed internet research returned a few possible answers. The phrase was first attributed to the former British Prime Minister Robert Cecil, who made his nephew the Chief Secretary for Ireland in 1887. (“What makes him so qualified to serve in that role?” “Well, Bob’s his uncle.”) Another theory connects it to 18th-Century slang, when the term “all is bob,” or “all is well,” was common. Wherever it came from, and why ever Jarmusch felt it apt to make it something that is uttered in each of his film’s three segments, matters less than how perfectly it fits with the film itself, though we might do well to alter the definition a touch. “It’s simple” might be more fitting; “It is what it is” could work, too.

Any of these interpretations of a saying few use anymore and less know the true meaning of would apply finely to Jarmusch’s new film, a tale of three families in various curious stages of their lives – both as a unit and as individuals – who are all, more or less, hoping that what they’re seeing, hearing, and experiencing is as plain as meets the eye. The “Father” portion, which features Tom Waits in the titular role and Adam Driver and Mayim Bialik as his children, sees a semi-estranged dad having his kids over for an afternoon visit at his rundown-ish house in what simply has to be Upstate New York; Bialik’s Emily is the more distant of the two children, while Driver’s Jeff gets in touch more often (though still infrequently), regularly sends his dad money for “repairs,” and brings a box of food. Life, as Waits’ character relays, has been difficult since the mother of his children died, and his remote existence has had a strange impact on the relationship he maintains with his children. 

But something is off: Not only does he intentionally rough up the appearance of his home by cluttering tables and sinks and tossing books about, aiming to depict his domain as disorderly when it’s actually quite well-kept, but he’s wearing a stunning Rolex on his left wrist – another recurring sight gag in the picture, not least because it’s this festival’s presenting sponsor – one that he says is a knock-off while Emily is certain that it’s the real thing. Bialik, a curious casting choice, is a bit too down the middle here for her character to be interesting, but Waits and Driver more than make up for it with Waits’ gravelly indifference throwing off the siblings with every mumble and Driver’s willful ignorance to Pop’s true colors making for an easy laugh following every quizzical glance and/or stammer.

Next comes “Mother,” in which Charlotte Rampling portrays a tidy, upper-class Dublinite who decorates her residence like a castle as opposed to a soon-to-be casket. She sets up one hell of a spread for tea time with her daughters, Timothea (Cate Blanchett) and Lilith (Vicky Krieps), the former of whom dons glasses and knee-high socks while the latter sports pink hair and pretends to be more successful than she is. (Though Blanchett is chameleonic, this appears to be a fair characterization for Krieps’ character, a free spirit embodied by a performer who spent the entirety of the film’s post-press screening press conference darting around the stage to take flash photos of her director and castmates from a number of angles.) Rampling’s “Mother” is a novelist who likes to keep her work private, and seems to be fond of the fact that this high tea is a once-a-year event; her time is very much her time, daughters be damned. That all three seem to be completely full of it to varying degrees is both a delightful misdirection from Jarmusch, and also a uniquely honest depiction of many families, those who remain connected but at a distance they deem necessary; as Harper Lee wrote, “You sho’ can’t choose your family, an’ they’re still kin to you no matter whether you acknowledge ‘em or not, and it makes you look right silly when you don’t.”

The third and final chapter, “Sister Brother,” is easily the most moving of the three, but there’s an intention to the way Jarmusch concludes his film with the grieving twins Skye and Billy (Indya Moore and Luka Sabbat, both sublime) who return to their recently-passed parents’ apartment in Paris for one last visit before the residence is put back on the market. The duo of Moore and Sabbat spend most of their screentime reminiscing about childhood and discussing their present adulthoods, a lovely juxtaposition that ties the film together in how it reconnects with the past while still placing an emphasis on what has yet to happen to either of them. While so much of what occurs in Jarmusch’s first two sections (especially “Mother”) is sure to leave the audience with the uncertain feeling of what lies down the line for the characters involved, it’s fascinating to see how he views the two youngest participants in the film – applicable to the actors and their roles – as not just the freest of his many creations here, but as the most sure of themselves and their respective directions. Perhaps that’s his view of their generation, that of youth and free-flowing lifestyles where it’s not unusual for people to discuss what kind of drug they tried last; or maybe it’s as simple as Skye and Billy now being parentless at a still young age, thus no longer beholden to anyone but themselves and each other. 

In all likelihood, both are the case, especially when you consider another one of Father Mother Sister Brother’s recurring bits, this being the most romantic of them all: In all three parts, the cinematography team of Frederick Elmes and Yorick Le Saux (both among Jarmusch’s go-to DPs) capture a group of skateboarders gliding through the frame in slow motion, as the film’s delicate score – which Jarmusch co-composed with Anika, the musician and poet – glides atop the scenes, serving not quite as cloud coverage but as a comforting breeze. These sequences are pointed depictions of freedom, as if Jarmusch is redirecting the gazes of the players he needs to see them most and saying, “Don’t you see how easy it can be?” 

In another film, these brief snapshots of life away from the edge might seem cloying, like a desperate attempt to elicit the “oos” and “ahs” reserved for the dumbest of slo-mo shots in projects that know not how to deploy them. But Jarmusch is a filmmaker who has made his name on his innate understanding of people – the more peculiar, the better – and their responses to things that could either be seen as obstacles or gifts. It’s no coincidence that Driver and Bialik’s “Father” siblings turn their nose up at these skaters being in the middle of the road, while for Moore and Sabbat’s Skye and Billy, they’re just people participating in an impassioned activity. It’s telling, though, that Jarmusch’s style when filming them doesn’t change, no matter who is watching. His approach remains at a quiet hum, fitting given that this is the film he’s called his “quiet” work. That’s to be taken with a grain of salt, however: This is the man who made Paterson not quite 10 years ago. And, as was true of that gem and is of this one now, not everything needs to be shouted from the rooftops in order for it to be felt at a singular depth.

Father Mother Sister Brother celebrated its North American Premiere as the Centerpiece selection at the 63rd New York Film Festival. Mubi will release the film in theaters on December 24.

Grade: B

Director: Mamoru Hosoda
Writer: Mamoru Hosoda
Stars: Mana Ashida, Masaki Osada, Masachika Ichimura

Synopsis: A murdered princess awakens in a realm between life and death. Racing against time in a world of chaos, she must defeat her father’s killer and reach a mythical sanctuary before her soul vanishes forever.

Mamoru Hosoda may not be the most acclaimed Japanese animation filmmaker, but he is definitely one of the most creative. Hosoda most often uses sci-fi concepts to create stories about coming of age, loneliness, and human connection. These are truly awe-inspiring creations; Hosoda is more detailed in his imagery than in any other element of his filmmaking. From The Girl Who Leapt Through Time (my favorite of his) to Belle, Hosoda ensures that his films are filled with tons of heart and relatability, even through stories filled with wonder, guiding the viewer through the uncertainties and doubts people have in life via a pleasing-to-the-eye canvas full of vibrant splashes of color and mystical worlds. 

Sometimes he is too simple in his writing and it frustrates the viewer, a criticism that many critics and theater-goers have pointed out, particularly in his last couple of films. The intention is for the film to appeal to a younger audience. In that sense, it has worked for him, as many kids around the world have connected with his work. However, it comes to a point where Hosoda risks diluting the emotional depth that defines his storytelling. Unfortunately, his latest work, Scarlet (screening at the 2025 New York Film Festival in the Spotlight section), has these same issues, yet even more pronounced than before. In Scarlet, the Japanese filmmaker adapts the famous text of ‘Hamlet.’ This tale of revenge has been covered many times before, mainly through the exact boring retelling and theatricality—sticking to the source material without reinventing or changing any part of it. 

That’s how this film begins, with a monotonous approach. Hosoda doesn’t want to stick to that for long; he moves past it after a while and hits you with an alternate ending to ‘Hamlet,’ where his creativity can flow efficiently without the reins of its source material being too tight on his film. But he plays it way too safe in his alternate expedition, so Scarlet never scratches the surface of his ideas and imagery. Hosoda gender-switches the protagonist from a young prince to a princess named Scarlet. This princess has passed at her uncle Claudius’ hand, and heads to an afterlife riddled with war and despondency. This afterlife is called the “Otherworld”; every person in history who dies in the real world must traverse this limbo. 

The decision on what to do while in the Otherworld is the people’s to make. Some settle down and survive the war-torn landscapes; others try to venture forth to find “Eternity,” a paradise. Scarlet is now stuck here, after failing to avenge her father’s death, with Claudius claiming the throne for himself and governing the kingdom through tyranny. But even in death, Scarlet wants to take revenge against her uncle. Scarlet spent years of her life training for the day her sword got a taste of his blood, and she isn’t going to give up in the afterlife if she has the chance to do so. This is an endless journey that Scarlet is committed to; in a vast hellscape, she seeks a way to restore hope that has been lost. 

In this fantasy world, we get to see Hosoda’s strengths in worldbuilding and animating some of the most beautiful creations possible, concocting dreamlike and vivid characters and landscapes for us to traverse. Even though you have imagery that resembles previous adaptations of ‘Hamlet’, he still takes liberties to create new things from material many deem tiresome. Wondrous images pile up to form a visually stunning mosaic that encapsulates Hosoda’s creative mind. He is very detail-oriented with his designs. From the garments the character wears to their specific hairstyles, you can easily see that Hosoda dedicated much of his time to carefully animating and bringing this world to life. But outside of the animation being top-tier, as expected from Hosoda, the rest of Scarlet just doesn’t feel as vivid and lacks the nuance of his creativity. 

The existential angle of ‘Hamlet’ is cut to add sentimentality through a more universal theme, which tethers between genuine and syrupy naivety. Hosoda isn’t one to dwell on dark themes too much, always with a sugary coating. Considering the material and the love he has for it, as stated in interviews and Q&As, you’d think that he might switch it up just this once. He doesn’t. And even through the reinvention in the imagery, he can’t seem to get out of his comfort zone. The source material is dense because each character is expanded upon, and their grievances are explored carefully. Meanwhile, Scarlet rushes through character work, except for its lead, to make space for visual splendor. During this thematic rush, Hosoda repeats his message across many points in the film via over-expository and lengthy discussions. 

The anti-war message is appreciated, and he has spoken very candidly about why he made his adaptation now, as war is plaguing every corner of the world. However, there is no trust in the audience to piece together what Scarlet is talking about. That is something that bothers me with modern cinema. Many directors feel the need to over-explain simple ideas to the viewer multiple times in the film. There is no need to say “war is bad” repeatedly when the message is easy to decipher through the visuals alone. This over-explanation weakens the emotional potency of the story; it’s as if Hosoda fears the message will be lost unless it’s spelled out. Through distrust and simplicity lies Scarlet, which has many things on its side, yet falters from its lack of commitment.

Grade: C-

Director: Bradley Cooper
Writers: Bradley Cooper, Will Arnett, Mark Chappell
Stars: Will Arnett, Laura Dern, Andra Day, Bradley Cooper

Synopsis: As their marriage quietly unravels, Alex faces middle age and an impending divorce, seeking new purpose in the New York comedy scene while Tess confronts the sacrifices she made for their family—forcing them to navigate co-parenting, identity, and whether love can take a new form.

The Novaks have found themselves at a crossroads, though perhaps a more fitting phrase would be that they’ve reached the end of their line. Alex (Will Arnett) and Tess (Laura Dern) have been together for 20-some-odd years, and have a 10-year-old set of “Irish twins” to show for their efforts, but the verve that once existed within their union is gone. Tess is tired of Alex’s detached emptiness; Alex is tired of Tess being tired. There is love here, to be sure, something that is especially clear when the two wait for the former’s train back to the (probably) Westchester home in which they’ve raised their boys (and dogs) on an MTA platform, splitting an edible to pass the time and ease the tension. They board the train together, only realizing amidst a fit of laughter that Alex isn’t meant to be joining her; he’s headed back to the apartment he’s renting in the city as the two navigate their separation, and though he knowingly sprints off of the subway car, Tess wants to make sure he’s in a good headspace. “Are you going to be okay?” she asks through the glass. Alex stays silent, if just for a moment. “I’m gonna be okay,” he shouts back through a forced smile and a voice crack. “I’ll be okay.”

The naked eye will be able to spot that Alex is performing for the sake of his now-ex-ish wife, the mother of his children, the woman with whom he imagined he’d grow old. Not only is that a very natural response for a depressed human being – to hide their true feelings for the sake of another’s – it’s also an appropriate thing for a main character in a Bradley Cooper film to be doing. The act of performance is a central tenet of the filmmaker’s oeuvre; the exploration of presentation, i.e. whether or not the presenter is wearing a mask, putting on a brave face, or merely playing a character. In the case of Alex Novak, his act is a bit of all three. It also takes place on a terrain that he knows nothing about, least of all how to find his footing on its bumpy edges.

So sets the basic stand-up-comedy-set stage for Cooper’s third effort as a writer-director, the exceptionally funny and soulful Is This Thing On?, where said stage serves as both a therapeutic realm and a terrifying one. It’s not a trade Alex – a mid to late-40s guy who works in finance, if we’re to believe him from the one time he ever references it in the film – has ever thought to try until needing a drink and not wanting to pay the nearby bar’s $15 cover. (Who would?) When the bouncer informs Alex that he can avoid being gouged for the price of two decent bodega B.E.C.s by putting his name down for open mic night, he jumps at the chance and unknowingly finds a safe haven, one that dulls all of the outside noise he’s been battling while never staying all that quiet… unless he bombs, of course.

And while he’s hardly worth writing home about the first time around, he’s not half-bad, either, which leads to him coming back again for more. The casting of Arnett in this part would require a viewer to suspend their disbelief if not for his career-best performance, one that is equal parts convincing, frequently heartbreaking, and genuinely funny, both despite Alex’s best efforts and because of them. Described by a friend as someone who “was always the funniest guy in the room” adds up with what we see from Alex routine-wise, because we have all had our own funniest guys in the room yet would likely never encourage them to beg for a slot at the Comedy Cellar. Alex – a character Cooper, Arnett, and Mark Chappell based on the true story of the English comedian John Bishop, who gets a story-by credit here – operates on a different wavelength, though, one that works in his favor though would feasibly curse someone else’s. His painful honesty passes for humor in the beginning; by the time he eventually hits his stride, his truth has become his most reliable tool.  

That Alex doesn’t initially tell anyone about his new hobby complicates matters a touch, regardless of the fact that, once he does share the news of his newfound passion with others, he assures them that it’s not a professional pursuit. That he tells everyone except for Tess – including his kids, his parents (Christine Ebersole and Ciarán Hinds), and his best friend (Cooper) – is the real quagmire, a gamble that could either pay off in grand fashion or blow up mere inches from his face. The authenticity and improvisational quality that persists throughout Cooper, Arnett, and Chappell’s script allows for a sense of sustained unpredictability to exist inside a film that could have very easily been telegraphed and sentimental for the sake of a few sniffles. It helps that Arnett and Dern are both terrific here, not just as ex-lovers but as frustrated co-parents and confused not-quite-divorcees. Perhaps Cooper – who is three-for-three in this critic’s book, for the record – was always meant to be making others do the work rather than placing the heaviest performatory burden on his own shoulders. 

Then again, it’s no coincidence that Cooper takes a step back from the centerfold and acts as a supporting character in this film, an apt choice for the path the story takes, but also for a filmmaker who has been synonymous with and defined by the showiness of his previous efforts both in direction and performance. In A Star Is Born, he played the alcoholic/addict rocker Jackson Maine, a dying star himself who tends to destroy everything in his way, from urine-stained public appearances to relationships with his paramour (Lady Gaga) and his manager/half-brother (Sam Elliott). His turn as Leonard Bernstein in Maestro — the worst film ever made according to Film Twitter but a triumph in the real world — spoke for itself, and not just because of the voice and the nose. His part here is perhaps the film’s funniest in a very pointed sense, but it’s quite nice to see him loosen up enough to play a guy who is literally only ever referred to as “Balls.” He’s also the first to express disappointment at Alex’s enjoyment of performing, given that “Balls” is an actor and appreciated Alex’s tendency to be the friend group’s “settler,” a funny nod if you really want to read into Cooper’s decision to play director here more than star. 

Fittingly, Is This Thing On? is a film Cooper would sooner characterize as being about a “mid-life catharsis” than a “mid-life crisis,” and though both work well as descriptors, the former takes the cake, as watching Alex perform his way through Manhattan’s underground comedy scene never feels like gazing upon a rat inside a maze. His predicament is a discomforting one, but Alex doesn’t ever seem all that out of place in these clubs, on stage or off. The only time the film ever (regrettably) veers into  a territory that one would consider “obvious” and/or “expository” is in a late-film sequence that shouldn’t be spoiled, yet it both offers Arnett a key emotional showcase and deploys Matthew Libatique’s cinematographic style so beautifully – a constant throughout, captured in a picture-perfect 1.66:1 aspect ratio so as to maintain proximity to his performer’s faces rather than the audience watching them – that it’s hard to care that it seems to have been pulled from an entirely different movie altogether.

Then again, it’s worth remembering that we should all be afforded the opportunity to explode every once and a while, and Is This Thing On? is sure to tap the mic on that front while exploring emotional exorcism through a unique and lived-in vein that we don’t often see in films that aren’t comedy specials disguised as movies. It depicts the stage as a portal to rediscovery, a way for the dying soul of a man to come back to life with every ounce of laughter; it is the best medicine, after all. More than that, it’s the kind of film that Cooper has already been making – stories about adults who lose their way and must deal with trials of varying severity in an effort to find it again – but pared back a touch, and thus into a more intimate register. Such restraint allows the film to examine one’s discomfort not with performance, but with how love – as Queen and David Bowie sang – “dares you to change our way of caring about ourselves.” In many ways, that has also been a tenet of the Bradley Cooper directorial experiment all along. No wonder his sweetest, smartest movie yet is the one to drop the mic on the subject.

Is This Thing On? world premiered as the Closing Night selection at the 63rd New York Film Festival. Searchlight Pictures will release the film in theaters on December 19.

Grade: B+

Director: Harry Lighton
Writers: Harry Lighton, Adam Mars-Jones
Stars: Alexander Skarsgård, Harry Melling, Lesley Sharp

Synopsis: A directionless man is swept off his feet when an enigmatic, impossibly handsome biker takes him on as his submissive.

What does the figure of a biker symbolize? Hyper-masculinity and rebelliousness are the first descriptors that come to mind. Every time you see a biker or a motorcycle group in a film, you think about trouble and impending danger. That is how most movies typically portray them. But there are better descriptors that encapsulate the image of a biker: freedom, loyalty, and a shared identity. A motorcycle gang is inseparable; they all head towards the same route without borders. Their identity is forged through the open road — a symbol of brotherhood and resistance against conformity; with each mile they travel, they become an act of defiance and unity. These descriptions align with the themes and character dynamics showcased in Harry Lighton’s directorial debut, Pillion (screening at the 2025 New York Film Festival in the Spotlight section). Lighton reclaims the biker’s image from macho rebellion to queer vulnerability.

Lighton’s Pillion, based on Adam Mars-Jones’ 2020 novel ‘Box Hill,’ tells the story of vulnerability and power dynamics in modern queer relationships through the eyes of a lonely, feeble young man and his life-changing encounter with an alpha-dominant biker. Its title is aptly chosen, as the word refers to the passenger seat behind a motorcycle; the metaphors already pile up with just a single word. There have already been quite a handful of stories about bikers and the struggles of finding authentic desire and personal growth–Kenneth Anger’s provocative and influential short Scorpio Rising, as well as the underseen 1964 film from Sidney J. Furie called The Leather Boys. However, these particular portraits do not delve deeper into the internal and external resilience that comes with opening oneself to intimacy. That’s where Pillion separates itself from the rest. It expands on that step-by-step process that comes with finding yourself.

The Mars-Jones source material is set in the 1970s and has a higher focus on the AIDS crisis that was occurring at the time. To change the story to a contemporary setting, Lighton had to reimagine it, to some degree, to depict the struggles queer men face today. It is a challenging task to undertake, nearly rewriting a work to recontextualize scenarios with a contemporary worldview. In this change, there is a lack of solidity, which occurs when Lighton holds back on the complexity of the characters while performing the tonal balancing act of being stark or light-hearted. However, due to its leading pair being pitch-perfect with one another, and Lighton’s boldness leading to authentic depictions of the subculture he’s depicting, Pillion becomes a rather meaningful picture, with a few quirks that don’t crack the film’s sturdy backbone. 

The two figures at the center of this erotic ballet are Colin (Harry Melling), a lonely young singer desperate for someone to hold, and Ray (Alexander Skarsgård), the ring-leader of a gay motorcycle club. The first time we meet Colin, he’s doing a vocal performance at a local bar, which makes his date head towards the exit. The embarrassment on Colin’s face says it all, and a reek of desperation oozes from his pores. The image of him sitting all alone at a bar, with Melling’s facial expressions revealing his feelings on the inside, shows us that this isn’t the first time he has been in that situation. Pain lingers through the soul, as drink flows down his body. That’s until Ray pops into the picture, where one Christmas Eve night outing shapes the course of Colin’s life. 

From a choir boy to a submissive sexual treat for Ray, Colin finds something he didn’t know he wanted in a package he wouldn’t have dared to approach. But time curses the two, and Colin demands judgment in that controlling relationship, challenging the restrictions put upon him by the dominant Ray. He seeks to have a say on this bond, which helps Colin slowly forge his identity through retaliation. This isn’t the first time Harry Melling plays a character who falls in love with a biker, and this devotion causes a complete shift in his being. In Amanda Kramer’s campy and leather-bound Please Baby Please, Melling plays Arthur, a reserved man with inner sorrow who encounters a greaser gang as he heads home with his wife. Rather than beating them to a pulp, they taunt them. This teasing leaves a mark on the two tight-knit individuals to the point where they question their respective identities and loyalties.

Kramer has consistently explored liberation, personal freedom, and desires in her cinema, employing a highly stylized and campy approach. In that sense, Please Baby Please and Pillion are pretty different, as Lighton is not keen on utilizing splashes of neon lighting and colorful tints to play with the film’s themes. His direction is more stale visually, although it features well-framed shots that effectively convey the emotional and romantic physicality between the leading pair. However, even though one is more tame in terms of sexual elements and the other goes full-frontal, the two films are connected by Melling, who offers an excellent performance in both, and their themes of self-love. While I prefer Kramer’s, as her work is more playful, cine-literate, and creative, Pillion still has quite a few tricks up its sleeve that help its story have an impact.

Nods of comedy and light-heartedness are placed amongst highly erotic sex scenes in Pillion to both shock and create sympathy for Collin as he finds his true self. These scenes help the saddening aspects on the backend of the film feel more striking than provocative. Its melancholy might be slight–not utilized enough to create a wounding, long-lasting effect–yet the film’s heart lies in the right place, without ever needing to play melodramatic beats to conjure faux reactions. There were moments where the comedy stood out like a sore thumb and took me out of the film. Nevertheless, what continued to drive my interest from Pillion is Lighton’s depiction of the gay motorcycle club and the submissive-dominant relationships, which is where the film gets most of its personality and uniqueness. 

Lighton wants to create authenticity of a subculture he doesn’t know much about by having people from it to help him dive into it with sincerity and attentiveness. Cinematic liberties are taken to make the narrative move along, just like any other feature, yet it is all done with genuine interest rather than disrespect. He ensures that there isn’t an “exoticism” with the subculture, or an exploitative edge that ridicules it. For some reason, William Friedkin’s Cruising comes to mind. The 1980s thriller starring Al Pacino received significant backlash from the gay community because of its portrayal of the New York gay leather scene, which included tons of hardcore sex scenes, most of them cut from the original print by the studio. Lighton also delves into the hardcore, although he doesn’t go bar for bar with Friedkin in Cruising. 

Many perceived it as harmful and exploitative, leading to protests during filming and its theatrical release. Although the film has an authenticity, as Friedkin shot it at the actual bars with people who attended them, there is an outsider’s lens from the production that causes a loss of genuineness, which I, as a fan of Friedkin’s work and the film, find disconcerting. We never connect with the members of the New York leather scene; we only see them at the bars doing highly sexual acts. Meanwhile, Lighton does the opposite. He wants us to empathize and understand them thoroughly. And that is what I admire most about the film. While other directors in the past might have treated this scene with a judgmental or stereotypical eye, Lighton protects those who gave him entry into that world by treating them with respect. This is why Pillion, even with its tonal foibles, is bold and daring; especially in today’s cinema, this is a rarity.

Grade: B-

Director: Nia DaCosta
Writers: Henrik Ibsen, Nia DaCosta
Stars: Tessa Thompson, Nina Hoss, Imogen Poots

Synopsis: Henrik Ibsen’s renowned stage drama from 1891 is reimagined in an epic and emotional way.

Henrik Ibsen’s play “Hedda Gabler” is a work that, since its premiere in 1891, has been regarded as one of the finest works of literature ever written, and a masterpiece that ranks among Ibsen’s finest works. Hedda Gabler has been adapted to screen multiple times, with its most notable adaptation so far being the 1975 movie directed by Trevor Nunn, which earned Glenda Jackson an Oscar nomination for Best Actress. In 2025, Nia DaCosta (Candyman, The Marvels) takes on the material and puts her own spin on it, reformatting the story in some fascinating ways.

Hedda (Tessa Thompson) is a free-spirited, gun-loving, and unexpected woman–much to some people’s chagrin–who is feeling bored in life and uninterested in her marriage to George Tesman (Tom Bateman)–decides to host a massive party at her home and invite a whole slew of friends, colleagues, and highly established people. Things take a turn when Eileen Lovborg (Nina Hoss) arrives at the party with her recently finished manuscript that, if published, could take a post that George is gunning for. As the night progresses, the two women lock horns as they confront each other about their past and their potential future, while Hedda also works to orchestrate the events that take place in order to get on top and emerge victorious, no matter how many bridges she burns along the way.

From the movie’s opening minutes, Hedda establishes this version’s titular character in a more unpredictable manner, and one that keeps challenging the social dynamics in place in 1950s England. When Hedda enters a room, she wants all eyes on her and wants to make sure everything plays out exactly how she wants, having some power over the conversations and also making people do things that they would never do so they could appear less powerful. From the outset, some of Hedda’s actions seem manipulative–and some indeed are, particularly a suggestion she makes to one character in the later part of the movie–but there is a complexity to her method, and understanding that it comes from a place of helplessness and silence, in a time when women were given way less agency and attention. It results in a far more feminist take on Ibsen’s play, one that displays the multitudes of Hedda Gabler, the good and the bad, and Tessa Thompson is extraordinary in the role, commanding the screen in practically every frame of the movie’s runtime and delivering perhaps the finest performance of her career.

Hedda’s mannerisms and inflections are often minute, only giving the audience the briefest of glimpses into her psyche, and Thompson excels at making every such minute count. The most we see Hedda ever shaky in her approach is with Eileen, as a past love between them often peeks through their conversations and confrontations. Nina Hoss is equally incredible in the movie, countering Thompson’s calculated Hedda more often than not, and adds to the emotional intensity buried within Hedda’s schemes, while also consistently challenged when she tries to escape her past and who she once was in Hedda’s life. Eileen’s manuscript is a study that could usurp everything George has built, and seeing that play out in moments where his vulnerability is also exposed leads to solid work from Tom Bateman as well. Not to be missed is Imogen Poots as Thea Clifton, who is right in the middle of the entire pressure cooker of a situation building between Hedda and Eileen, and also incredibly effective in playing someone who often represents the audience’s reactions to some of the plot developments.

Much of Hedda is built on DaCosta’s effective direction, moving at a mostly brisk pace with the dialogue delivered often keeping events limited to rooms within the large estate and the party’s proceedings, with some standout sequences to anchor it like a dancing moment where Hedda makes an entire room move along to the live band playing “It’s Oh So Quiet.” While it does still sometimes fall into that trap of feeling a lot more like a stage play than a motion picture (similar to some other plays brought to life on screen previously), it remains dynamic enough to create a solid big screen experience. Backed by a fantastic, even eerie score from Hildur Gudnadottir and Sean Bobbitt’s terrific cinematography, Hedda is also a technical marvel, with a booming sound design that makes every shocking moment or gunshot have a resounding effect.

Despite all these pros, however, what holds Hedda back a bit is some of its underdeveloped conflicts, particularly some subplots involving other people in Hedda’s life who exist only to add some more drama to the proceedings. As a result, some of the ideas and themes that the movie is playing around with get a bit muddled towards the final act, which somewhat rushes itself to the climax. The movie also occasionally drags in the middle, as more and more yarn is spun by Hedda in her elaborate planning of the night’s proceedings, and not always landing exactly what she is thinking in those moments where she decides to do something drastic about Eileen’s position. By the end however, DaCosta does succeed in creating a morally complex and ethically fascinating character study of a complex and fascinating woman who has been analyzed and studied for years, and brings out enough incredible work from the actors and crew involved to make up for some of the shortcomings.

Grade: B+