Movie reviews

Mahershala Ali anchors this with flinty grace, and Adia Joëlle matches him beat for beat; their father-daughter dynamic is the movie’s beating heart. Around them swirls a maximalist cocktail of religious rivalries and vigilante zeal that plays like “we fall down, but we get up… blasting,” and that’s where the contrivances show. The militant evangelical angle, in particular, feels engineered more than observed, and the ending doesn’t fully earn its sermon. Still, the craft is sharp, the action lets Ali flex those knife-fighting chops, and the family thread makes it worth the ticket.

Animals plays like a hand-me-down of High and Low, filtered through Spike Lee’s Highest 2 Lowest and sanded of edge. The Sunday-afternoon-on-Netflix vibe isn’t fatal, but the movie leans hard on speechifying that turns Ben Affleck and Kerry Washington into an exhausting duet—every argument, plea, and clinch left me wishing they’d stop interacting altogether. Gillian Anderson, meanwhile, is pure executive-caliber magnetism; I could watch her calmly issue directives for two hours. Steven Yeun is stranded with “stand there and be symbolic” duties. A few chewy lines surface, but the whole thing feels thinner than it thinks.

Verity serves up a pulpy Colleen Hoover premise—an ailing superstar author, a hired ghostwriter, and a husband caught between them—but never squeezes enough juice from its star trio. Dakota Johnson, Anne Hathaway, and Josh Hartnett have the charisma to ignite a messy love triangle, yet the direction keeps their chemistry oddly inert; even the sex scenes land flat. Still, the page-turner mechanics work: I was never bored and always curious where it was heading. Think Lifetime-grade writing dressed in better visuals and real-deal performances—modest, uneven, but entertaining if the setup or cast already has you hooked.

Built on a classic Western premise—an injured outlaw sheltered by a principled family—Angel and the Badman squanders sturdy bones with trite dialogue, thin villains, and a faith-and-redemption arc that never lands. The romance is the linchpin and the weak link: Penny’s choices feel preordained by trope, not agency, so the “redeemed bad boy vs. decent local” tension plays as unconvincing and, at times, baffling. Despite a capable cast—Zachary Levi, Neal McDonough, and an inexplicably underused Tommy Lee Jones—the performances can’t oxygenate a stagey, evangelical vibe. I’m glad Angel backs indies; this one just isn’t worth the ticket.

Sorkin’s companion to The Social Network hums when it’s dissecting how a platform’s incentives can shove ordinary users toward uglier corners of the internet, not just host speech. Mikey Madison anchors it with a clear, compelling intelligence; Jeremy Allen White matches her, and their lived‑in chemistry gives the apartment-and-hotel-room scenes a charge the story never intends to cash. Jeremy Strong’s Zuckerberg is unnervingly precise and oddly sympathetic in his social misfires. I just don’t buy the endgame: the film narrows into a January 6 blame brief and a fist‑pump catharsis that reality never delivered. Strong work, soft landing.

A farce about resurrecting a farce, Digger blasts its concept at full volume but never convinces me it belongs to this movie; the meta conceit feels slapped on to salvage the chaos rather than sharpen it. Tom Cruise throws himself into it—there’s real energy there—but I’d rather watch him and Alejandro Iñárritu talk shop for two hours than endure this loud, exhausting package. Jesse Plemons and Sandra Hüller are bafflingly underused. There’s craft and star power, sure, just not the cohesion or wit to make the racket worth it.

A trilingual swirl of grief, romance-adjacent longing, and dance, Ha-Chan, Shake Your Booty! folds in magical realism with polish: it looks great, is confidently directed, and features strong performances as a Japanese widow struggles to reclaim movement after loss. I’m usually a soft touch for this kind of reality-bending, but the two-hour runtime feels padded by grief without enough character movement to justify the length. The script’s slow progression never becomes compelling, even as dance resurfaces as healing. I get why it’s winning praise, but I didn’t connect; unless this premise is your sweet spot, I’d pass.

John Wilson turns a curiosity about New York’s concrete into another meandering odyssey, using the premise as a springboard to wander, meet oddballs, and follow tangents until they become the point. The running gag about needing to shoehorn in a major musical act is inspired, and his fixation on frontman Jack Macco slyly morphs the film into a droll mini-portrait of an artist. It’s funny, occasionally enlightening, and very much in Wilson’s singular, discursive lane. It also overstays its welcome—there’s a false finish before an extra 40 minutes—but the shaggy charm still makes it worth seeing, especially for How To fans.

Marketed like a rom-com, Charlie Harper is actually a time-hopping relationship drama about what happens when one partner grows up faster than the other. The nonlinear structure lets you piece together the highs and lows as Nick Robinson’s stalled, defensive Charlie collides with Emilia Jones’s steadily self-actualizing Harper. It’s well directed and very well acted, but the writing doesn’t quite deliver the emotional clarity or wit I look for, especially compared to the gold standard here, (500) Days of Summer. Worth seeing, just not my flavor of romance—and not sharp enough on the page to change my mind.

Primetime revisits the To Catch a Predator boom with a sharply critical lens, zeroing in on the recklessness behind the stings, the ratings-fueled pressure, and the psychological toll on workers—especially a young male decoy pushed into situations he’s not ready for. It paints Chris Hansen as arrogant and manipulative, even detouring into his infidelity, and the heavy fictionalization underlines a broader point about journalism colliding with entertainment. I get the critique, but the deck feels stacked; the show also caught people intending real harm. Still: it’s engaging, provocative, and worth seeing—just temper the hype.

A stripped-down wilderness survival tale with a soldier and his battle-tested dog at its center, Heart of the Beast lives and dies on that bond—and mostly thrives. Brad Pitt does solid, taciturn work, but the four-legged co-star is the real draw: funny, alert, and deeply expressive, selling every beat of loyalty and instinct. The Alaskan vistas are flat-out gorgeous, the kind of icy eye candy that can turn menace into majesty, and the minimal dialogue suits the isolation. Dog people will swoon; cat people may shrug. Either way, I recommend it.

Hip-hop pulses through Forgotten Island’s 1990s mixtape vibe, pairing boombox swagger with bright, personality-forward animation that taps the Spider-Verse/GOAT era’s freedom to mix styles and color. H.E.R. and Liza Soberano’s performances ground Jo and Raissa’s lifelong friendship, and Dolly de Leon’s Lola frames a leap into Filipino mythology that feels fresh instead of recycled. DreamWorks delivers a big, funny, energetic fantasy that never loses its emotional center: two best friends staring down the moment life pulls them apart. The stacked voice cast clicks, the visuals pop, and the heart lands. It’s kid-friendly without requiring a kid, and an easy genre recommendation I expect to connect with audiences.

Walter Thompson-Hernández expands his Sundance-lauded short into a lyrical, Watts-rooted slice-of-life, and the craft is undeniable: precise sense of place near LAX, poetic visual language of planes, horses, and myth, and a father-son dynamic that summons Moonlight vibes without feeling imitative. J. Alphonse Nicholson’s Big Ant carries contradictions—disciplinarian, protector, and mess—while Bodhi Dell’s Lil Ant, imaginative and watchful, mythologizes a dad who can’t meet him where he is. I admired the intimacy and specificity far more than I enjoyed the watch; it’s thoughtful, beautiful, and clearly personal, but I’d only recommend it if this kind of meditative, festival-ready filmmaking is your thing.

Built on the simple thrill of hearing Oasis roar again, this reunion doc leans into what matters: the songs, the crowds, and the way a band can stitch eras and families back together. The access is terrific—stage, backstage, and a smart focus on fans across continents whose stories give the film its pulse. Liam and Noel’s détente is present without becoming therapy; the fun of their kids orbiting the circus adds texture and humor. It’s a straightforward music documentary, not a scavenger-hunt fan film, and that’s exactly right. In a theater, those bangers hit like they should, and that’s enough.

Resident Evil finally feels like a live-action playthrough of the early games rather than a movie borrowing the name, some zombies and the Umbrella Corporation. A simple assignment keeps turning into a deeper nightmare, capturing the atmosphere, structure and scary fun of sitting in a dark room watching a friend explore one terrible hallway after another. After so many uneven attempts to restart this franchise, this is a real step up: beautifully made, thoughtful, funny and frightening when it needs to be. Fans who remember what those original games felt like should have a great time. I highly recommend it.

A rugged Depression-era trek through Oregon’s green wilds gives The Weight its best assets: handsome, old-school Western textures, sturdy survival suspense, and two reliably dialed-in leads in Ethan Hawke and a underused-but-effective Russell Crowe. The filmmaking is crisp, the cast uniformly solid, and the vistas flat-out beautiful. But for all its grit and gold, the movie keeps me at arm’s length; the tension doesn’t bite if I don’t care who’s bleeding. I get why the reviews are strong, and I’d recommend it—but more as a Sunday-afternoon channel-stopper than a must-seek-out watch.

A gonzo conceit—a bitter middle-school drama teacher hijacks West Side Story to stage his own 9/11 musical—promises sharper satire than The Musical delivers. The kids are the heart: funny, well-cast, and a lively counterweight to Will Brill’s Doug, whose aggrieved spiral never becomes compelling enough to justify so much time with him. The film stays intentionally provocative without tipping into true offense, but it’s not funny enough to sustain the bit, nor dark or substantive enough to make Doug interesting. I kept wishing for Paul Giamatti, or at least the thorny warmth of Win Win or The Holdovers. Verdict: wait for streaming.

Terry Gilliam’s vision still crackles: a grimy, jury‑rigged future of pipes and broken machinery where even the time machine seems to complain. What starts as a virus-harrowed sci‑fi setup becomes a jittery dance of misfires and mistaken years, with Bruce Willis reminding you how vulnerable and human he can be and Brad Pitt detonating through scenes with manic charisma. Madeleine Stowe grounds the spiral with steady intelligence. The less you know, the better. This is top-shelf science fiction—strange, tense, beautifully designed—and a big-screen revisit only deepened my admiration. Also, seek out the terrific TV series.

Na Hong-jin channels the dread of The Wailing into a full-bore creature feature, staging a small-town unraveling with monsters you hide from, not outrun—and that distinction makes the film genuinely scary. It looks terrific, the performances land, and the slow-burn mystery lets you share the town’s bafflement rather than endure an exposition dump. The tension is thick, the atmosphere sticks, and the creature work satisfies. The film eventually takes a direction I don’t think it needed, costing it some momentum without breaking it. Still, the craft and scares are strong enough that I’m going back for a second watch.

Paul Greengrass mounts the Peasants’ Revolt with muscular craft and a movie star at its center—Andrew Garfield is compelling and the production looks exactly like I want a medieval uprising to look—but the script keeps shrugging where it needs conviction. With a 14-year-old king, scheming advisers, and thousands marching on London, the drama should write itself, yet motivations feel vague and choices read like markers on a timeline. The performances and imagery suggest a sharper film flickering underneath; the plot, pacing, and thin character work smother it. See it in a premium format for the visuals, but I left wishing the ideas matched the spectacle.

Runner gives Alan Ritchson another welcome old-school action-hero assignment: help Owen Wilson’s courier get a transplant organ to a dying child while criminals try to take it. Their buddy-comedy chemistry keeps the chase moving, and Ritchson has the physical presence and personality for this kind of uncomplicated heroism without needing a costume or mythology. The obvious problem is a rough PG-13 edit that cuts away from impacts, blood and violence so abruptly that several action scenes feel choppy and incomplete. I would gladly watch a director’s cut restore what is missing. Even compromised, this is a solid traditional action movie and a good lane for Ritchson.

Onslaught loses me before its Nazi-derived super soldiers even escape their base. Its supposed hero is a heavily armed, frequently wasted mother living in a filthy trailer, and her six-year-old daughter’s exhaustion with both parents became the most relatable thing in the movie. The villains are glowing-eyed automatons engineered through 80 years of research to murder everyone, including their creators, without enough personality or logic to make that interesting. Reginald VelJohnson is a welcome presence, but he is still trapped in a movie that sounds better in description than it plays. The trailer supplies the premise and cool images; watch that, then save your time and money.

By Any Means turns the investigation of Vernon Dahmer’s murder into a provocative clash between justice and retribution. A Black FBI agent navigating corrupt Mississippi law enforcement is paired with Greg Scarpa, a mob hitman whose answer to white-supremacist violence is simply more violence. Their conflict gives the movie its real weight: Scarpa can leave, while the agent, his family and the community must live with what follows. The film goes darker than I expected, implicating the FBI and its protagonists in ugly choices without sanding off the discomfort. It is well made, fascinating and exactly the kind of movie that gives a group something to argue about afterward.

Dear You follows a debt-ridden Chinese man to Thailand, where he hopes the grandfather who vanished decades earlier may solve his money problems. What begins selfishly becomes a warm, beautifully photographed exploration of the family that continued on both sides of an absence: the wife and children left in China, the relationships built abroad, and generations still connected through letters, money and memory. The diaspora experience is not part of my own African-American family history, which made these enduring ties to an old country especially fascinating from the outside. Viewers with similar immigration stories may feel it even more deeply. I found the whole thing charming, complicated and genuinely lovely.