Director: Takahide Hori
Stars: Atsuko Miyake

Synopsis: An ambush during a human-clone expedition triggers a dimension-spanning, time-travel story set 1000+ years before the stop-motion film Junk Head.

Takahide Hori’s Junk World has everything one might hope to see when throwing on a midnight film. Just to skim the surface of lunacy Hori’s film entails, you can expect to see a cannibalistic death cult draped in S&M gear, loads of sci-fi military tech and weaponry, bureaucratic incompetence, fart jokes, robots, humanoid clones, and a copious amount of mutated underground-dwelling creatures. And that’s failing to mention any of the thematic ideas present in the film! With Junk World, Hori and his small team of six (!!) dedicated stop-motion artisans have created a work of art that feels miraculous in its existence. One just needs to see the behind-the-scenes production footage shown while the credits roll to understand that declaration. At the very least, a film like this should excite any cinephile. It shows a true dedication to capturing a specific vision regardless of whether it will be beloved by countless audience members, or a cult crew of fans. Hori is clearly fully committed to the expansive universe of Junk World in a way that feels like it should be somewhat of a blueprint for studio heads in control of massive cinematic universes.

This film is a prequel to Hori’s 2017 film, Junk Head, and is supposedly the middle chapter of a planned trilogy. If studios are marching forward with deadset plans on building out franchises wherever possible, perhaps a situation like this would be the more exciting version of it. It’s apparent that Hori is creating an entire universe in a sandbox of his own making. That freedom is felt in the introduction of every strange creature encountered or each new impressive set explored. It’s as if any idea that seemed gross, creepy, funny, or some combination of the three was placed into the film somewhere. Of course, any lack of oversight can have its own share of drawbacks in terms of overall quality. But purely from an artistic point-of-view, Junk World feels aspirational. To see a world literally being built second-by-second before your very eyes is a beauty to behold. It’s perhaps the biggest driving force in sustaining interest during the rest of the film.

Junk World is made up of countless fascinating ideas and themes. Unfortunately, in 100 minutes, it never completely feels like any of these ideas are meaningfully explored. The only exception to this is how Hori reckons with humanity. After a quick cold-open stinger of a robot, who will be familiar to fans of Hori’s earlier work, in disrepair proclaims, “I am God,” his latest film begins with an expository set-up. In this world, mulligans were created by mankind as a subservient workforce designed to be exploited. Over time, the mulligans were able to adapt, evolve, and ultimately, rebel. Violence ensued before ultimately finding some form of peace, but the hatred amongst both species remained. There’s a bitter tinge to how humanity here so brazenly created something in our own image, only to then mutate it into something designed to be controlled. Where beauty could have been fostered is instead lost to evil in the lust for power. And between two of his lead characters, a human and a mulligan, Hori examines this loss of experiential beauty across both parties.

For the mulligans, we see just some of the ways in which they have adapted in the years since winning their freedom. They appear to be quite talented in the culinary world, whereas humans exist solely on one form of nutrition: allegedly disgusting, non-descript sticks of nourishment. They also live quite long, and with such long life comes a sense of longing for varied experiences. The humans in this film have such a singular drive that usually revolves around some form of greed, gluttony, or selfish desire. They can’t even fathom why they’d venture from a singular path. It honestly feels like a disservice to the film as a whole that the mulligans aren’t explored even further. They represent a viewpoint about humanity that feels evergreen. In golf, a mulligan is an extra stroke allowed after a poor shot. It’s a literal do-over to make up for a mistake; another attempt for potential greatness. In humans naming their creations after this term, it’s as if we knew we were destined for a lifetime of refusing life’s greatest joys and experiences.

Overall, Junk World feels like a bit of a mixed bag. But its clever structure is one that ultimately allows for a fair amount of forgiveness. Without revealing anything specific, the plot weaponizes the irreverent sense of humor of its creator. Initial elements that may seem to be oddities, or even straight up flaws, become completely recontextualized over the course of the film. It’s a bold approach to telling a story, but very much feels reminiscent of how One Cut of the Dead approached its own story. It can feel like a great reward for an audience if handled correct;y. And purely from a narrative perspective, Junk World feels like it pulls this trick off well enough. Alongside some very fluidly-animated action sequences, the imaginative madness of its overall production design, and its admirable commitment to expanding the world of its creator, Junk World will justifiably have a midnight movie-loving cult of fans. Where it goes beyond that is anybody’s guess. But the knowledge that filmmakers like Hori are still actively willing their wildest dreams and ideas into existence by any means necessary is a thrilling experience to behold in its own right.

Junk World is celebrating its International premiere in the Midnight Madness category of the 2025 Toronto International Film Festival.

Grade: C-

Director: Francesco Sossai
Writers: Adriano Candiago, Francesco Sossai
Stars: Filippo Scotti, Sergio Romano, Pierpaolo Capovilla

Synopsis: Two blustery 50-somethings, have an obsession: going for their last drink. One night, they run into Giulio, a shy architecture student, whose way of seeing the world and love will be transformed as the trio wander from bar to bar of Veneto.

If you’re looking for a road-trip buddy comedy with arthouse sensibilities, Francesco Sossai has made the film for you. The Last One for the Road is one of the most charming films of the year. Yet for all its humor and the irreverent attitude of its two central characters, this is a quietly devastating film in several regards. Through Carlobianchi (Sergio Romano) and Doriano (Pierpaolo Capovilla), Sossai finds a way to channel his incredibly potent ideas into a deceptively wrapped package. A film about the time we’ve lost, the time that has been wasted, and the unrelenting forward momentum of life itself, The Last One for the Road is an often funny film. It will leave you smiling by the time its credits begin to roll, but you’ll also contemplate your own life long after exiting the theater. And so much of this film’s emotional impact rests on the shoulders of Carlobianchi and Doriano. They exhibit absolute hooligan behavior for so much of its runtime that the moments of genuine emotion and dramatic turns shock the viewer. Wasn’t this just supposed to be a fun movie about two old friends looking for that perfect final drink?

Of course, that very much is what the film is about. But that quest for the final drink of the evening is ultimately revealed to be quite the folly. How could it not be? These two don’t really operate on the typical day-and-night cycle the rest of us seem to follow. When we first meet them, they’re both asleep in the front seats of Carlobianchi’s beat-down Jaguar. One can only guess what time it might be, let alone the last time they actually had a peaceful enough moment to themselves to have a genuine night of rest. But there’s more important things in life to think about for these two. This includes, but is not limited to: where they’ll get “one last drink” while looking more sloshed than perhaps anybody ever has previously in cinema. The urban legend of their hometown is a brief topic, which Sossai plants as a kernel for what’s to come. This duo even drunkenly announces the through-line of the film, captured through startling close-ups which are uncomfortably intense. Anybody who’s been at a bar a bit too late and spoken to somebody who drank a bit too much will instantly recognize what Sossai and director of photography Massimiliano Kuveiller have perfectly captured here. Though the introduction of The Last One for the Road is a loose and rollicking good time at the movies, it’s only a matter of time before reality comes crashing back down for these two. Not that Carlobianchi or Dori are ever all that phased by it amongst others.

In this instance, it consists of a smash cut from comical interactions with random bar patrons to violently throwing up beneath a vast highway system. It’s here that Sossai provides the first of many wistful glimpses that make up the film. It takes the form of a quietly delivered statement: “The ‘90s were great.” This is immediately followed by a conversation shrouded in darkness. The two look out onto a neighborhood, and reckon with the change of their outlook over time. Where they once saw boundless opportunity and the chance for a life beyond their harmless, small-time criminal enterprise, they now see walls too high for them to mount. Life has passed these two by. No matter how much they seem to drink, it’s a seemingly inescapable truth that sneaks up on them in their rare moments of somber quietude. Lucky enough, they’re about to literally stumble into somebody that may perhaps change their lives.

While looking for that last drink, and this time, of course they actually mean the last, they find a group of students celebrating a graduation. One of them is Giulio (Filippo Scotti). It’s in his charming, reserved demeanor that this wild duo morphs into a wonderfully odd, but still riotous, trio. Giulio tells his crush that he won’t be joining them at the next bar. When he tries to appease her by rescheduling for another time, she simply states one of the most universal truths there is in this world: “There’s never another time.” 

And what happens next essentially occurs without even a moment of thought on the part of Carlobianchi. He and Dori are two guys who have clearly lived a lifetime seizing every moment available to them until there was nothing left to grab onto anymore. In Giulio, whether they actively realize it or not, they see a project. It could even be perceived as a second chance. There’s still time for him to rectify the error of his ways before it’s too late. And so, the two middle-aged men head off to the bar with this group of graduates, Giulio reluctantly in tow. Eventually, he decides to double down on calling it quits and quietly exits. But Carlobianchi and Dori can’t be rid of that easily. They once again convince him to stay out for one more drink. Seriously, this time it’ll actually be their last one. It’s in this next bar that Sossai’s film begins soaring to new heights both beautiful and impressive.

Carlobianchi and Dori may seem easy to cast judgement upon at face value, but there is something inherently poetic about their lifestyle. They see an entire side of the world that few get to actually experience. And an even smaller amount of people within that group actually internalize everything around them. The Last One for the Road does an excellent job at capturing the quiet beauty to be found in these pockets of the world that are overlooked or cast to the side. In these tiny neighborhood haunts Carlobianchi and Dori clearly frequent, we see live musicians playing their hearts out to the point of tears falling from their eyes. The soft neon lighting beckons patrons to the dance floor, or to simply sit in contemplation amongst fellow strangers, friends, or perhaps nobody at all. It’s incredibly evocative, and the further down the rabbit hole Giulio is reluctantly dragged by his newfound partners in crime, the more Sossai’s film begins to open up these pockets of beauty hidden throughout the world in plain sight. But with that beauty, there can also be a profound sense of sadness and loss.

The whole reason Carlobianchi and Dori were on the road in the first place was to surprise their friend, Genio (Andrea Pennacchi), at the airport. He’s been in Argentina for several years now, and is finally making his return to Italy. They’re particularly excited to celebrate the grand reunion at a small café the three of them used to frequent, but can’t recall the exact location of. Luckily, Giulio finds it through context clues and the marvels of modern GPS, and off they go. It’s only upon arrival that they see it’s been boarded up. And by the looks of it, it has been for quite some time. It’s here, amongst the literal ruins of a life that has long since passed them, that we come to understand Carlobianchi and Dori better. This isn’t just as characters, but simply as people. 

Any one of us can end up a victim of circumstance, and Sossai sneakily injects this truth into the very foundation of his film on more than one occasion from here on out. So who can blame these two for dealing with life the way they best see fit? Giulio, a student of architecture and a passionate art lover, teaches the two about what a capriccio is. In simple terms, it is a recognizable landscape that has been altered by a designer to include imaginary details pulled from fantasy. He describes it as “an imaginary landscape… one that doesn’t exist.” That’s The Last One for the Road in a nutshell. Sometimes, all we end up searching for is something that simply doesn’t exist. We can picture it so clearly, and can fully understand the steps needed to reach our destination. But time is uncaring, and by the time we actually get there, it may be completely unrecognizable. In that reality comes the duality of this film. Yes, it is a cautionary tale in some ways. But Sossai also imbues it with the infectious energy of capturing individuals who simply go out and take matters into their own hands. They undeniably feel the weight of everything throughout their day-to-day life, but that doesn’t stop Carlobianchi and Dori from imbuing plenty of their own airy personality and lightheartedness into it whenever possible. Maybe they’re not the most aspirational set of characters in cinema, but they certainly bring a valuable reminder to it. And it’s nevertheless an important idea to impart upon audiences in a clever, and wildly entertaining, manner.

The Last One for the Road is celebrating its North American premiere in the Centrepiece category of the 2025 Toronto International Film Festival.

Grade: B+

Director: Guillermo del Toro
Writers: Mary Shelley, Guillermo del Toro
Stars: Jacob Elordi, Mia Goth, Oscar Isaac

Synopsis: A brilliant but egotistical scientist brings a creature to life in a monstrous experiment that ultimately leads to the undoing of both the creator and his tragic creation.

For as long as one can remember, director Guillermo del Toro has wanted to bring his vision of Mary Shelley’s iconic novel “Frankenstein” to the big screen, and put his own spin on the material. As a massive fan of horror and fantasy, having dabbled in the two genres his entire career, the story of a genius, egotistical scientist driven to reanimate someone from the dead and defy all scientific odds is one primed for del Toro’s eccentricities. With his latest movie, Frankenstein, he finally gets to present that vision to the world.

Victor Frankenstein (Oscar Isaac) was always brilliant as a child, learning quickly how to operate on others and find success in all methods possible. As an adult, he believes he can bring people back to life with all motor and mental functions intact and devises a method to do so through a bizarre experiment that goes against everything in science. Driven by his narcissism and ego, as well as an endowment from Heinrich Harlander (Christoph Waltz),  he performs the experiment and gives birth to a creature (Jacob Elordi) that is reconstructed from different body parts, a creature who is less than happy with his creator as the days progress.

As is the case with every Guillermo del Toro project, Frankenstein is a technically remarkable movie with every frame executed as beautifully as one would expect. From the spectacular production design by Tamara Deverell to Dan Lausten’s incredible cinematography, to the terrific visual effects and outstanding creature effects for the monster himself, the movie is an audiovisual marvel on every conceivable level. The period costumes by Kate Hawley are sublimely presented on screen and complement the movie’s gothic architecture and ambience, all set to an incredible score by Alexandre Desplat that brings the story to more vivid life. The sound design booms in the movie’s louder moments, particularly during the standout experiment sequence where the monster is brought to life, and del Toro’s signature flourishes and visual knacks when it comes to the fantastical nature of these scenes is on full display throughout.

Frankenstein is a story about both Victor and his monster, and capturing the tragedy and horror in each of their lives and how it drives them. It is this emotional bedrock that is built into Shelley’s original story, and makes up a solid chunk of del Toro’s vision as well. Oscar Isaac is excellent as Frankenstein, embodying the incredibly flawed, self-centered, yet extremely intelligent and clever scientist as he descends further down the rabbit hole to make this experiment come to life, disregarding everything else around him as he nears success. The scene stealer of the movie, however, is Jacob Elordi as the creature himself. His best performance to date, Elordi brings a vulnerability and humanity to Frankenstein’s creation that adds a powerful emotional layer to the movie, and showcases the tragedy of his existence and the sadness of seeing horrific events unfold wonderfully. Seeing the creature learn more about what he is and who he is makes for incredibly compelling viewing, and his scenes with Elizabeth Lavenza (Mia Goth, excellent here) make for wonderful additions to his story.

At 2 hours and 29 minutes, Frankenstein is a monumental movie and del Toro’s longest to date, giving ample amount of time to Victor and the Creature’s storylines. However, while the monster himself is given significant emotional backing, the same cannot always be said for the titular character, whose storyline often just moves from one scene to another with very little time given to some scenes so they can breathe a bit more. As a result, some of those moments do not land as well as they could, particularly when it comes to Victor’s early life and his relationship with his father, Leopold (Charles Dance), and brother, William (Felix Kammerer). The pacing is also stunted slightly at times as a result, and the first act can feel a bit messily structured as a result. Once the experiment is about to be carried out and the Creature is brought to life, the movie picks up significantly and ends on a very satisfying note.

Frankenstein may not be Guillermo del Toro’s best movie to date, but it is his most ambitious, and the love and care he has for the original story is present throughout its runtime. While it may not hit every beat perfectly, it is a mostly successful effort that has the potential to be even better on subsequent viewings. Its look into the existence of monsters and the monstrous nature of humans themselves makes for fascinating viewing, and a movie worthy of del Toro’s illustrious catalogue.

Grade: A-

Director: Benny Safdie
Writer: Benny Safdie
Stars: Dwayne Johnson, Emily Blunt, Ryan Bader

Synopsis: The story of mixed-martial arts and UFC champion Mark Kerr.

Benny Safdie’s The Smashing Machine is quite literally obsessed with the body of Mark Kerr (Dwayne Johnson), and it’s completely understandable as to why. His hulking figure swallows up the frame whenever the camera tracks him backstage at a fight or in the confines of his Arizona home. He feels trapped within the edges of the cinema screen. But he also has no problem bursting out of it through Johnson’s immersive performance. What’s equally impressive about his figure in this film is just how easily we’re stunned by it. It’s very likely that the gap between public appearances of Johnson with a shirt on versus without one leans tremendously in the favor of the latter. So for Safdie’s solo directorial debut to still effectively capture Johnson’s shirtless body as an unseen spectacle is a marvel. But what exactly is it about The Smashing Machine that captures our attention so easily?

Perhaps the sentiment truly is as simple as us enjoying people operating at their highest possible potential. It’s the same reason the barbaric combat sports highlighted in this film are so popular despite them being a frightening shock to the senses. It really can be as simple as that. But at the same time, there’s an undeniable complexity at play within both the sport and the film. We can’t help but wonder what could compel an individual to put themselves through such agony. One of the most intriguing elements of The Smashing Machine is in this balance between the simplicity and complexity of its answer. The figures at its center, though its primary focus lies with Kerr, are statuesque humans. But they’re also just as fragile and human as anybody else. Maybe they can take many, many more hits than most of us ever could. But the fragility on display is one that’s far more emotional and internally vulnerable than we might come to expect.

From the film’s lo-res introduction, Safdie projects a feeling of otherworldliness onto Kerr and the entire ring he’s ready to dominate. The hits feel staged, the audio is distorted, and we can barely recognize Johnson. It’s only after the ring of the bell that the film cuts to a startlingly clear image of Johnson in Kazu Hiro’s make-up and prosthetics, dripping in sweat. The bloodthirsty look on his face is only replaced after the bell with a nervous worry for his fellow fighter. As we hear Kerr being quoted in an interview saying, “you can feel like a god,” all we see is a man trying to grapple with what he’s just done to another man. It’s in this dichotomy that Johnson’s performance excels. The gentleness that stems from his hulking frame is honestly quite disarming. Another example is Kerr regularly referring to all the things that will make his tummy ache. It’s quite funny as Johnson sells the comedy in this film particularly well. But it also speaks volumes of his soft-spoken demeanor and often adorable nature. He just seems like such a big sweetheart. But that’s not to say this film solely paints him as a perfect specimen without struggles.

This contrast feels like the entire reason as to why the film exists in the first place. In the multitudes of a man that seems so indestructible, it’s compelling to see him actively deny that he might be broken. Whether or not that break is beyond repair is where The Smashing Machine falls into the usual traps we see in films of a similar ilk. At times, the distress depicted amongst Kerr and girlfriend, Dawn (Emily Blunt), can feel incredibly one-note. Always a fan of Blunt, and she is wonderful here, but this film feels like a disservice to her. As The Smashing Machine marches on, it widens its scope to focus on more than just Kerr’s relationship with the world of fighting he inhabits. So there’s really no reason for Dawn’s relationship to it to not be explored further beyond its surface level depiction. In Blunt lies the ability of a performer who can expertly achieve thrilling and devastating nuance, and we are never fully gifted the chance at seeing that, save for one alarming sequence. Yet despite this film’s reliance on such traditional sports biopic elements, it also finds ways to really shine beyond them. Safdie’s human touch and fascination with what makes Kerr operate translates into an inherently compelling story. It also helps that his stellar direction bolsters this film with a sense of borderline-documentarian realism.

Some have criticized The Smashing Machine for it being a bit unstylish while capturing the fights. But this presentation is a feature, not a bug. These fights are captured in a brutal, unflinching manner. The ring, and later the octagon, are inescapable until one fighter dominates the other. The plain nature of Safdie and cinematographer Maceo Bishop’s camera captures these men in a raw, often unflourished form. It strips them of some of their godliness. Safdie is capturing these men while their guards are most lowered. And it’s in moments such as these where the more interesting elements of this otherwise standard sports drama are able to shine brightest. Safdie stages and captures images of these behemoths in situations that are incredibly effective. One handheld tracking shot simply follows Johnson from ringside, into an elevator, through the halls backstage, into his private locker room. It’s simple, but the emotional response elicited from watching this short journey in such an unstyled way works wonders. 

It’s even present in the final sequence of this film. Without revealing anything, there’s such an evocative coupling of the two central ideas of The Smashing Machine that it allows the film to elevate itself beyond the strange diversions present in its structure. Safdie stated he wanted to make this film because he was “driven to get inside of Kerr’s head.” For as much as we’re let in through Johnson’s performance, it’s holding us at bay just as much. At the height of Kerr’s substance abuse issues, Johnson utilizes this dead-eyed stare that reveals absolutely nothing. It’s a blankness that is so impressively empty. But when all is said and done, The Smashing Machine provides us so much to ponder, while also leaving much to explore beyond its brisk runtime. How well it works for the individual will likely rely on how willing the viewer is to engage with Safdie’s deeply human touch. And despite falling into many of the usual traps sports dramas often do, if more were like this, it feels like cinemas, and audiences, would be all the better for it.

The Smashing Machine is celebrating its North American premiere in the Special Presentations category of the 2025 Toronto International Film Festival.

Grade: B-

Director: Romain Gavras
Writers: Will Arbery, Roman Gavras
Stars: Chris Evans, Anya Taylor-Joy, Vincent Cassel

Synopsis: A celebrity-filled environmental benefit is disrupted by a group of eco-terrorists.

Sacrifice opens with an environmental charity gala in Greece that assembles a group of A-list guests. You’ve got the action star (Chris Evans), the Jeff Bezos-inspired billionaire (Vincent Cassel), the pop icon (Salma Hayek Pinault, fabulously channeling Madonna), and the fun-loving Charli xcx-type pop star (Charli xcx herself, in a fun cameo). Everyone comes in with an agenda, fight climate change, naturally, and use the camera-laden event to shift the media narrative that surrounds their celebrity status. Anya Taylor-Joy’s Joan and her cultish group of friends take the gala hostage with an agenda of their own—take three of these attendees to be sacrificed to a near-by volcano on the cusp of erupting, doing so will prevent the end of the world.

Evans plays Mike Tyler, made famous by a Gladiator-esque epic, and he’s ready to put his action star days behind him. He comes to the event preoccupied—his hairline is rapidly thinning and he’s being ripped apart on social media for a recent, very public meltdown. There’s something so delightfully cheeky and fun about watching movie stars play obnoxious, obtuse celebrities in a satire making fun of out-of-touch celebrities and the public’s willingness to give these same people endless attention and affirmation.

Evans tears into this material with a fervor. The parallels to his superhero past are obvious, but this is so much more than an actor playing a heightened version of themselves. Evans packs his character with an earnestness and vulnerability that is fascinating to watch and unpack. Fresh off The Materialists, Evans turns in another career-best, and wildly different, performance here, tapping into an evolving and underappreciated range as an actor, and elevating the film when the rest of Sacrifice falters. 

Taylor-Joy is the other standout in Sacrifice. She is a woman on a mission, but also finds herself charmed in the presence of Hollywood charisma. Her defenses are down, and Taylor-Joy plays this duality between conviction and tenderness, and very well. There’s a raw honesty that Taylor-Joy brings to her work in Sacrifice, that again, makes the film recommendable.

Sacrifice is a film carried almost entirely by the very, very good performances of its cast. Though with the exception of Taylor-Joy and Evans, the actors are underutilized. With Cassel, there’s more to explore with his winking-devil of an almost-villian. But, he’s reliably great. Sam Richardson is hilarious playing a Hollywood agent trying to save his top client. John Malkovich pops up as Taylor-Joy’s father, doing quite a lot with not much to work with. 

The characters eventually move away from this satirical set up and here is where Sacrifice struggles. During the post-screening Q&A, co-writer Will Arbery said that the film’s satire acts as a trojan horse for something deeper. Fair enough. The problem is that the satire is the very best part of Sacrifice and the film loses steam in the back-half when it leans away from those elements, getting lost in the semi-baked mythology of its wacky doomsday cult. Arbery has Succession among his writing and producing credits, and it feels like Sacrifice is a film that wants to operate on that level, but the film is never quite as clever as it wants to be, and the deeper meaning it’s searching for comes up a bit shallow. 

Still, Sacrifice is a good enough movie. It’s so close to being a great one. The cinematography from Matias Boucard and setting provide for some striking images. Director Romain Gavras has his moments of flourish where the style and substance come together quite nicely. Sadly light on moments of much-needed tension, Sacrifice does have plenty of humor. There’s fun to be had which makes the sacrifice of our precious movie-watching minutes, ultimately worth it.

Grade: B+

Director: Paul Greengrass
Writers: Brad Inglesby, Paul Greengrass, Lizzie Johnson
Stars: Matthew McConaughey, America Ferrera, Yul Vasquez

Synopsis: A wayward school bus driver and a dedicated school teacher battle to save 22 children from a terrifying inferno.

Director Paul Greengrass is no stranger to bringing true events to life on screen and putting audiences right in the middle of those events in as visceral and intense a way as possible, with movies like United 93 and Captain Phillips being clear examples of his method. With The Lost Bus, Greengrass showcases the devastating 2018 Camp wildfire in California, and the true story about a school bus that powered through the fire as the situation continued to escalate.

Kevin McKay (Matthew McConaughey) is a school bus driver in Paradise, CA who is trying his best to keep things together as his personal and professional life continue to become more and more frayed. On November 7, 2018, Kevin finishes his dropoff of the schoolkids he is in charge of and is heading back to drop the bus off when a fire that began earlier in the morning begins to engulf Paradise and shut down the city at an alarmingly fast rate, and puts 22 kids in Ponderosa Elementary at risk as their parents can’t get to them, so it is up to Kevin and teacher Mary Ludwig (America Ferrera) to help get the children to safety.

The Camp fire was the result of a poor transmission line owned by Pacific Gas and Electric Company (PG&E) catching fire and the embers being blown across by high speed winds, and it was the deadliest and most visceral wildfire in California history, wiping out 153,336 acres of land and killing 85 people, costing around $16.5 billion in damages. Anyone who was around at the time, which would be many reading this piece, would know of the news surrounding the fire and the devastation left in its wake. In The Lost Bus, Greengrass’ understanding of the horrors of this event and the hopelessness as it continued to spread is on full display, as the audience feels like they’re on the ride with Kevin, Mary, and the schoolkids as they ride through one fiery obstacle after another.

Combined with spectacular visual effects, a booming sound design, and a thunderous score from James Newton Howard, The Lost Bus envelops that feeling around the viewers throughout, and once the escape begins, the movie turns into an intense disaster movie of epic proportions. There is nothing beautiful about this situation, and the heat of the flames around cars, streets and trees feels close the whole time. On the other side of things, the scenes involving firefighters and personnel trying to understand the situation better and get a handle on it as soon as possible is very well executed, and highlights the urgency of the matter and the unpreparedness of just how much worse the fire can get. It isn’t long before a low-risk area is suddenly engulfed in flames with no way out, which leads to some nerve wracking sequences that are edge-of-the-seat worthy.

Making his return to acting after almost six years, Matthew McConaughey is fantastic as Kevin, embodying the urgency and relentlessness of the real life figure trying to survive this catastrophe, as well as the fear and anxiety that comes from wanting to help more and get to his family, who are in imminent danger as he tries to save the children. He is backed by an equally fantastic America Ferrera, who adds another layer of humanity to the story and tries her best to keep things level as it becomes more and more difficult to keep the children safe. The desperation that comes through both is highlighted by their solid onscreen chemistry, and make the dramatized for screen situation they’re in feel more like the real event.

It is a bit unfortunate then that despite such highs, The Lost Bus is sometimes brought down by a script with some extremely wobbly dialogue and a first act that feels tedious to say the least. Kevin’s family dynamic with his son and estranged wife lead to some clumsily executed moments, and the emotional depths the movie searches for in those moments feels missing, partly also due to many cliched moments of tension playing out between the characters. It also is marred by not giving enough time to the other characters. Besides everyone on the bus, many supporting characters including Kevin’s son and mother are left underdeveloped and only given more depth via an exposition dump. They barely feature in the movie enough to make a more powerful impact. Once the fire makes its way to Paradise and everything gets dialed up to 11, the movie improves significantly and leads to a spectacular finale. However, due to its rough opening 30, it falls short of reaching greatness across the board. By the end, The Lost Bus is a solid disaster movie that manages to convey the tragedy of the Camp Fire effectively, but slightly less effective as an extended character piece that could bring it all home a bit better.

Grade: B

Director: Darlene Naponse
Writer: Darlene Naponse

Synopsis: A visual art documentary captures seasonal changes in Atikameksheng Anishnawbek (formerly Whitefish Lake), director Darlene Naponse’s Northern Ontario home community.

Film festival screenings tend to have their own set of obligatory advertisements that play before the feature presentation, as opposed to the typical slew of trailers (now featuring car commercials!) that roll prior to multiplex offerings. At the Toronto International Film Festival, these brief messages tend to include skits that are meant to inspire cheers for the festival’s many volunteers and one of two increasingly-annoying spots for local radio personalities Roz and Mocha, whom r/TIFF users are convinced will one day serve as greeters at the Gates of Hell. But the most prominent – and controversial – featurette is the festival’s “Land Acknowledgement,” a 30-second plug for the territories upon which the two-week-long cinematic showcase takes place. Footage of the Canadian wilderness is accompanied by a narration from TIFF CEO Cameron Bailey, who mentions that “[TIFF is] grateful to work on this land,” nevermind the fact that it was stolen in the first place and is now occupied by hotels, bars, and a few massive theaters upon which thousands of wealthy cinephiles annually descend to watch the latest feature from “White Filmmaker X”… or David Cronenberg, who is not at all deserving of this slander. 

Anyway: It’s difficult to tell whether or not the programming of a film such as Darlene Naponse’s Aki – a mostly wordless and consistently stunning documentary that photographs and takes place on its director’s home community, Atikameksheng Anishnawbek, in Northern Ontario – comes in direct response to the criticisms the festival has faced in response to its somewhat-empty prerecorded recognition, as if the powers that be felt it might quiet the unsettled murmurs. It certainly doesn’t help that the film’s description on TIFF’s website concludes by saying, “This is the perfect film for anyone curious about the beauty of First Nations’ communities, or for those longing for their homes on the land.” (You know, just in case you weren’t aware that the call was coming from inside the TIFF Lightbox.) Yet Aki is here, celebrating its world premiere at the festival’s 50th edition, and there’s an element of kismet to that fact: That despite years of vacant gratitude from the brass nurturing the festival’s global spread, a film – albeit a small one – of this nature is receiving deserved exposure on a prominent stage. 

One can only hope that those prioritizing the premiere of Wake Up Dead Man: A Knives Out Mystery and other buzzy titles of that ilk will make time in their schedules for more intimate fare such as this. And while this critic certainly isn’t naive enough to reject the ease with which that rolls off the tongue from his current location – *checks map,* not in Toronto – it’s still fair to have dreams. Naponse’s film often has such a quality: It offers glimpses of a community that aspires to live on in its current state despite the industrial desire to uproot its history in favor of capitalistic gain. Plenty of its shots, captured by the cinematography team of Naponse, Ryan Mariotti, and Mathieu Seguin, display vast plains and forests from above as if to emphasize the spread of its focal community by visually dictating its boundlessness. 

Plenty more, though, make that illimitable nature clear from up close, the camera existing seamlessly amongst the people who populate the lands formerly known as the Whitefish Lake First Nation. Children skate on a homemade ice rink, sending pucks flying across its slick surface; others play basketball and bike across a parking lot that appears to have been repurposed for play. In the film’s standout scene, the entire community gathers for a powwow, full of joyous dancing, singing, and ceremonial celebration of their heritage. Perhaps they’re also celebrating the knowledge that their land, for the most part, still stands as intended. 

Of course, this euphoria can only last so long, and it’s fascinating to watch Naponse depict the changing aspects of her homeland with a perceptible eye that isn’t entirely pessimistic, but recognizes the ominous nature of what it’s witnessing. When a title card reading “Azhigwa,” or “at this time” in Anishinaabemowin, appears, the director turns her attention to these aforementioned industrial landmarks, and Cris Derkson’s sanguine cello-driven accompaniment fades away in favor of dark, droning hums that would befit another film’s introduction to a terrifying villain. Whether or not these noises were specifically created to fit the tone of the scene or are natural sounds emanating off of the factories, plants, and gray clearings where trees once stood on screen is less worth analyzing than their prominence here, though it’s safe to assume that the buzz of Naponse’s community’s most vibrant areas and its gloomier ones were captured in accordance with the filmmaker’s statement regarding the project’s quietude: “This film is intentionally non-verbal,” she wrote. “It is not silence—it is the land speaking. The wind, the water, the ice, the drum—these are our languages, too… This is not the silence of absence but the language of land.” 

Even if the nonverbal languages spoken in Aki are all cut from the same cloth, that doesn’t mean they all express the same message, nor that they are all as hopeful as the last. But quite like the four seasons it uses as unofficial chapters to chart its natural course, Naponse’s film is a stellar act of endurance that acknowledges not only the land at its center, but the fact that certain things may present themselves as unwielding constants, but are never not contestable. This is why a shot of a forest beyond chopped to stumps one by one is immediately followed by a group of boys gathered to play pickleball on the same square of pavement that was a basketball court 20 minutes prior. It’s why a clump of gray pinecones withering away by the hour is almost immediately succeeded by the blaze of a campfire, a group of hunters gathered around it for warmth from both the flames and one another. No matter what’s on screen, it can be trusted that everything remained as it was meant to remain, unmeddled with by the visual artists at work here. That the same can’t necessarily be said about the land Aki depicts, and others like it, is just another reason to acknowledge its existence.

Aki premiered at the 2025 Toronto International Film Festival. It will be distributed independently in the coming months.

Grade: B+

Director: Daniel Roher
Writers: Robert Ramsey, Daniel Roher
Stars: Leo Woodall, Dustin Hoffman, Havana Rose Liu

Synopsis: A talented piano tuner’s meticulous skills for tuning pianos lead him to discover an unexpected aptitude for cracking safes, turning his life upside down.

Niki White (Leo Woodall) tells Ruthie (Havana Rose Liu) that she’d be surprised at how loud the world actually is. There’s distraction anywhere we turn our heads. That any of us are able to focus amongst the dissonance borders on miraculous. For Niki, there’s an added challenge. He has hyperacusis, which turns any mildly loud sound into one that’s quite deafening. Louder noise can be even more debilitating, hence why he always carries around an extra set of heavy-duty headphones. But at the point in his life when we meet him, in Daniel Roher’s narrative debut Tuner, he has found a way to co-exist among the noise. In fact, his sensitive hearing is now being utilized for something beautiful. If only the clients he and mentor Harry Horowitz (Dustin Hoffman) tuned pianos for felt the same way. To these wealthy clients, it’s just background noise. But to Niki and Harry, both promising musicians who each had to step away for their own reasons, it’s the opportunity to allow beauty to pour out of the ivory keys once more. Even if the changes might be imperceptible, the tuning makes all the difference to those who know. And it’s that sort of beauty we should hope to surround ourselves with. For all the thrilling crime elements present in Tuner, it’s this notion that allows it to sing as a particularly compelling drama.

After the fun of the jazzy introduction, Roher settles into a nice groove of moving his story forward. It’s never a film that feels rushed, but is constantly moving. At first, the focus primarily revolves around Harry’s smooth-talking, forcing the reserved Niki into humorous situations. Hoffman is obviously wonderful here, doing what he does best and really bringing some life into the film. Niki is meant to be a bit flat by design, and Woodall does a great job at sustaining this blank canvas which comes heavily into play as the crime elements heighten throughout the film. From there, he swiftly introduces Ruthie to his characters and the audience, and it’s in this budding romance that Tuner finds an additional beating heart. If the first act of this film plays out like a comedic jaunt, the second act shifts into the cinematic territory of romance.

It’s here that Rose Liu is delightful as the co-lead of the film. Through Ruthie, Roher and co-screenwriter Robert Ramsey channel a deeply romantic pairing for Niki. This goes beyond the charming chemistry Rose Liu and Woodall share on screen. It’s in their relationship that Tuner shapes another vessel of thematic ideas ready to be explored. Niki is fed up with tuning pianos for people who can’t tell the difference. To his rich clients, having a piano in the center of the room serves as pure vanity. For Ruthie, her piano means something. And Niki not only sees that upon taking her piano apart, but admires and adores her for it a great deal. As they sit amongst all the components of her piano laid out before them, it’s a physical manifestation of how easily such beauty can be taken apart and reduced to nothing. It’s a beautiful thing to be able to not only see somebody’s passion, but feel it and understand it on a fundamental level. They both know this piano, currently apart in individual pieces, can be rebuilt into something brilliant. In Ruthie, Niki sees something that was stripped away from him. He tells her how lucky he is to even be able to still be near pianos. But if that too were stripped away from him, one gets the sense that Ruthie being by his side would bring him a sense of ease. But that calmness that he has found is on the verge of such disruption.

Tuner stands out as a deeply exciting film because of the crime elements permeating through its DNA. The third act plays out like a full-blown crime thriller, but complementing the budding romance of the second act has Niki discovering an additional function his sensitive hearing serves him: he’s a damn good safe cracker. Niki finds he’s unable to secure a small business loan once unexpected bills begin piling up. It’s a fact Roher doesn’t harp on all that much, but it sets the stage for justification as to why Niki feels the need to turn to crime in the first place. What does leave a bit to be desired is any sort of guilt or emotion regarding Niki’s criminal turn in the first place. There’s hints of it throughout the screenplay, but there’s not much in the way of meaningful interrogation regarding the turn. Despite some associating documentarians with a dryer filmmaking style, Roher brings a really playful energy to this section of Tuner. One particular montage, graced by wonderfully energetic work from editor Greg O’Bryant and composer Will Bates, brings such fun into this section of the film. And it’s much needed considering the shocking turn Tuner is gearing up towards.

Like ascending notes on a piano, this film has a poetic way of escalating to a thrilling crescendo. While parts of Woodall’s performance can feel a bit wooden, it’s the agony he can display while being accosted with deafening noise that is acutely felt. Coupled with the blown-out sound design, the sequences where Niki can barely function due to his sensitivity serves up a genuine fright. Despite never really delving into the intricacies of the heightened crimes Niki becomes entangled in, Roher still captures the impact of certain consequences. He wants to get out, and will do so as best he can. He has found his purpose, even if it costs him a great deal in the end. The world is so loud as Niki told Ruthie. But if we can attune ourselves to something, or someone, we care deeply for, perhaps all the excess noise can be drowned out. Maybe that singular force is all we need, and the search is necessary. Across several different genres, Tuner takes Niki on that search whether he knows it or not. For all the thrill and fun had across this film’s kinetic runtime, it’s in the evocative nature of its emotional and musical rhythms that make it an exciting discovery.

Tuner is celebrating its Canadian premiere in the Special Presentations category of the 2025 Toronto International Film Festival.

Grade: B

Director: Curry Barker
Writer: Curry Barker
Stars: Chloe Breen, Anthony Casabianca, Haley Fitzgerald

Synopsis: A hopeless romantic’s wish for his crush’s love triggers a dark enchantment in Curry Barker’s eerie directorial debut.

Curry Barker’s debut film Obsession understands just how all-consuming a crush can feel. It can have us acting all sorts of ways, all in the hopes of our true feelings being noticed by the person we’re pining after. In Bear’s (Michael Johnston) case, it’s his longtime friend and co-worker Nikki (a tour-de-force Inde Navarrette). He’s had a crush for years, and seemingly everybody in their friend group is painfully aware. Even complete strangers are clued into the fact after a humorous introduction which subverts expectations. The stresses of vulnerability when it comes to expressing our true feelings are instantly understood upon meeting Bear. It’s an immensely helpful tactic for setting up the foundation of Obsession. Because as important as the crush is to Barker’s film, so are the overwhelming nerves that come with the potential of imploding a stable situation. Bear’s dilemma on whether or not to reveal his true feelings to Nikki is where Obsession sets itself up for exciting genre success.

Bear is told all he has is time to confess his feelings, which brings him some comfort. But Obsession reaffirms the notion that sitting around and internalizing our emotions for years on end is beneficial to nobody. In a pivotal scene early on, Bear’s awkward inability to express himself properly in front of Nikki is endearing. But it also saddens the audience at the possibility he may never get around to it. After a night of trivia amongst friends, it feels like he’s perfectly set up for success. He brought a sweet gift along for Nikki, and Barker provides his central character the perfect scenario. This barebones set-up is simple enough to draw the viewer in emotionally before the genre elements fully kick in. And how exactly does Barker introduce the genre leanings of this film? Quickly and off-handedly; it’s as effective as it could possibly be.

Bear bought Nikki a One Wish Willow, a novelty toy which supposedly grants you a single wish. After again refusing the opportunity to reveal his feelings to Nikki, and impressively fumbling the interaction quite comedically, he snaps it with frustration. His wish? For Nikki to love him more than anybody else in the world. From here, Obsession is off to the races, and allows for Navarrette to take center stage for the remainder of the film. Hers is a fully committed performance that could easily fall apart in lesser hands. But she embodies this monkey’s paw nightmare scenario in a way that feels completely unhinged and unpredictable. Her facial expressions remain eerie as she randomly lashes out in public, utilizes a 1000-yard stare that chills when her and Bear are alone, and generally torments the friends they surround themselves with through painfully awkward horror. It’s a full-bodied performance that Barker utilizes to great effect.

Obsession is a menacing example of selling one’s soul for our deepest desires. But the fact that this horror occurs against a person’s will is what makes it particularly twisted. And it’s honestly a shame the film doesn’t grapple with Bear’s internal dilemma even more. Yes, he’s distressed and confused on how to handle the situation. But one might hope to see Bear’s true guilt clash with the relief of getting what he wanted all along. In addition to that, Obsession might have benefitted from examining the co-dependent relationship angle a bit more. What’s present is comical, but merely glosses the surface at what could be. As such, Obsession feels a bit hollow as far as these deeper ideas go, but it’s a fun enough vehicle regarding wish fulfillment that works really well as a midnight genre flick.

Obsession relies on a variety of deeply unsettling genre techniques to maximize its effect on the audience. Barker clearly knows what he’s doing here, never providing his characters the easy way out of his scenario. For starters, the internal logic of the film’s horror rules are quite twisted. It’s what makes the desire for more insight into Bear’s potential guilt all the more justified. There’s a torment within Nikki’s soul that shows itself in fleeting moments, making Navarrette‘s impressive performance all the more layered. In addition to that, there’s plenty of simple practical effects that are utilized so well. On more than one occasion, Nikki’s body movements feel puppeteered. Through a shuddering reverse effect in-camera, or just in the way Navarrette positions her limbs or contorts her face, something about her very person feels twisted. This makes way for the practical body horror that’s slowly being teased. Much of the film utilizes gruesome body horror sparingly, but when Barker wants to drive the nail home hard, he pulls it off wondrously. There’s several particularly brutal scenes that shock with how quickly they arrive in the film. It’s as harsh as can be, as Barker pulls no punches for any of his characters. Best of all, he caps Obsession off with an absolutely devious finale. With its deeply dark sense of humor, the final moments of this film will leave genre fans walking out of the theater eagerly anticipating Barker’s next foray into genre filmmaking.

Obsession is celebrating its world premiere in the Midnight Madness category of the 2025 Toronto International Film Festival.

Grade: B-

Director: Ted Evans
Writer: Ted Evans
Stars: Sophie Stone, Anne Zander, Ace Mahbaz

Synopsis: In an isolated deaf community, Matt’s idyllic world cracks when Eva arrives, making him question his identity and the costs of maintaining his supposedly utopian society.

Ted Evans’ Retreat begins with a strings-dominated score which immediately unnerves the viewer. Paired with vintage black & white photographs of schoolchildren flashing across the screen, everything about the introduction to this film feels ever so slightly off-kilter. And that feeling never completely goes away throughout Evans’ film. Take Eva’s (Anne Zander) arrival at Chilmark, an isolated community in the English countryside for Deaf people. What’s introduced as a seemingly genuine community functioning for the benefit of its residents morphs into something else entirely. The exact form the plot takes is one that’s best experienced without any sort of hints regarding its direction. But what Evans is toying with both thematically and stylistically is equal parts interesting and exciting.

The reasons Retreat makes for an interesting film to engage with are twofold. On one hand, it oozes with style. Although this is Evans’ debut feature, he has a background in making short films. And those experiences have clearly left him interested in exploring not only an exciting visual language, but an auditory one as well. A majority of the film functions without sound. Evans seems very aware that coupling his thriller tone with such flair can create for a truly alarming experience. An example can be seen in one of the first nights Eva spends at Chilmark. An alarm begins going off, but there’s no sound whatsoever. Instead, all the lights go dark before repeatedly flashing an ominous red. As the group amasses quickly and shuffles into a dark and dingy basement, the experience is discombobulating for both Eva and the audience. It’s here where Evans begins really showing off with his first marvelous use of shadows. The camera pushes in to our leads, Eva and Matt (James Joseph Boyle), and then pushes beyond them to just capture their deep shadows against the wall. For a film that focuses on the ways in which these characters remain isolated amongst their community, it’s a perfect encapsulation of Evans’ script. It also looks really damn cool, and it’s a technique Evans returns to with equal effect later on in the film.

As the alarm lights still flash, no context is provided, nor is there any sort of official warning as to what is occurring. Mia (Sophie Stone), the leader of this community, rationalizes the drill as a way to build reliance on one another. But what happens if that community, or more directly, those in charge, doesn’t have their best interests at heart? Evans plants several eerie seeds in the first act of Retreat that leave hints regarding the overall tone of his film. There’s nothing wrong with a reliance on community. Larger structures exist partly due to the necessity of support systems. But no matter how well-intentioned something might be, all it takes is human intervention to twist something noble into something sinister.

We see this play out through dual narratives, though both are interconnected. It’s handled a bit messily, but the narrative shift ultimately works in the film’s favor. The focus of Retreat shifts from Eva to Matt around midway through. Matt has only ever known Chilmark. In this isolated community where people retreat from the outside world, all he wants to do is see the other side. As such, he is treated as the odd one out. It’s a simple and effective way at highlighting the hypocrisies of Mia as leader of this commune. Through her treatment of Matt, we see the first signs of typical human behavior invading the supposed utopia meant to be free of such prejudices. Evans does ultimately reveal the actual reasons for such behavior, but even after doing so, the strength of Retreat lies in its welcoming of forcing the audience to reckon with such systems on a fundamental level.

As we come to learn how Mia has warped something that could be beneficial into something cruel and unjust, Evans allows the viewer to place their own beliefs of such systems onto the film. It’s clear Evans wants communities such as these (without the sinister undertones) to thrive and be beneficial to those who partake. It’s what makes the haunted ending of Retreat all the more thought-provoking. Self-preservation can delude our most well-intentioned ideas, and Evans shows the outcome of such delusions. But he leaves his viewer with a tinge of hope before the credits roll. Despite the outcome shown in Retreat, we can ultimately hope for something beneficial. There is always a chance for something greater than what currently exists. It’s in that hope, left to the next generation, that Retreat turns all its thrills and its horror into something worth fighting for despite all that’s occurred thus far. While discussing this film, Evans simply stated he just wants everybody to “enjoy the cinematic experience.” In that regard, he succeeded. But he has also left his audience with plenty of text and subtext to chew on.

Retreat is celebrating its world premiere in the Discovery category of the 2025 Toronto International Film Festival.

Grade: B-