LIFE ON A LOOP (2025)

Life on a Loop is a tender, funny and deeply human look at life in a rest home, told through the eyes of a devoted carer with a big heart.

In Life on a Loop, Ellie Smith delivers a solo performance that is both stark and stunning: a theatrical meditation on aging, caregiving, and the quiet battles fought within the walls of a rest home. With nothing more than a handful of chairs, a wheelchair, and a cube of fairy lights, Smith conjures a world that is heartbreakingly familiar and unflinchingly honest.

This is not a play that seeks comfort. It doesn’t offer easy sentiment or tidy resolutions. Instead, it invites the audience into the daily rhythms of institutional care: the repetition, the indignities, the shrinking sense of self. And yet, within this bleak terrain, Smith finds flickers of humour, moments of connection, and a resilient humanity that refuses to be extinguished.

The set design is deliberately sparse. Cast-off recliners are arranged with casual disarray, each one serving as a stage for a different character. A few soft toys hint at attempts to soften the sterility. Smith, dressed in a caregiver’s smock, moves between these chairs with fluidity, transforming herself with posture, voice, and subtle gesture. The lighting, designed by Tony Black, and the ambient soundscape by Victor Chaga, provide just enough texture to support the transitions without ever distracting from the performance.

Smith’s portrayal of Grace, a caregiver who recounts placing her husband in care after his mind began to unravel, is a standout moment. Her monologue is tender, painful, and deeply relatable. The guilt she carries is palpable, and the audience responds with a quiet empathy that fills the room. It’s one of many instances where Smith’s writing and performance pierce through the theatrical veil and land squarely in the heart.

The play is set on Christmas Day, though the holiday is barely distinguishable from any other. Party hats and cake do little to lift the mood. The rituals of the day, from medication and hygiene, to meals, continue as usual. There’s no spiritual transcendence. Instead, the focus is on the body: its needs, its failures, its stubborn persistence. The residents aren’t preparing for the next Mass; they’re hoping for a successful bowel movement. It’s grim, yes, but it’s also real. And in that realism, Smith finds dignity.

Life on a Loop doesn’t shy away from the discomfort. It leans into it. The discomfort of residents who feel forgotten. The discomfort of family members who visit out of obligation, then leave with guilt. The discomfort of staff who, through emotional fatigue or systemic neglect, begin to see their charges as tasks rather than people. Smith captures all of this with nuance and compassion.

But the play is not without light. There are moments of joy: small, fleeting, but powerful. A shared joke. A stubborn rivalry that becomes a friendship. A resident who weaponizes their wit against the slow erosion of their autonomy. These moments are golden threads woven through the grey fabric of the narrative. They remind us that even in the most diminished circumstances, people find ways to connect, to resist, to matter.

Smith’s ability to inhabit multiple characters is remarkable. With no costume changes and minimal props, she creates a cast of distinct personalities. Occasionally, the voices blur, but the emotional clarity of each character soon reasserts itself. Her transitions are deft, her timing impeccable, and her emotional range expansive. It’s a masterclass in solo performance.

The play resonates across generations. Younger audience members may see their grandparents (or themselves) in the stories. Older viewers may feel the weight of recognition, the fear of becoming a burden, the hope of being remembered. It’s a mirror held up to a universal experience, and it reflects back both the horror and the grace.

What makes Life on a Loop so effective is its refusal to flinch. It doesn’t romanticize aging. It doesn’t villainize caregivers or families. It simply tells the truth, with humour, with heart, and with a deep respect for the complexity of the human condition. It’s theatre stripped to its essentials: one actor, a few chairs, and a story that matters.

In the end, Life on a Loop is a celebration of resilience. It’s about finding joy in the mundane, connection in the routine, and meaning in the moments that others might overlook. It’s a reminder that even when the world shrinks to the size of a care home lounge, the human spirit can still stretch beyond its confines.

Ellie Smith has created something unique; a play that is both minimal and monumental. Life on a Loop is not just a performance; it’s an act of witness. And in bearing witness, it invites us to see, to feel, and perhaps, to care a little more deeply. 

Life in a Loop is being performed between 11 November - 16 November at Auckland Q Theatre - Rangatira

You can purchase tickets here

TIRI: TE ARAROA WOMAN FAR WALKING (2025)

Tiri Mahana, a 185-year-old matriarch born at the signing of Te Tiriti o Waitangi, recounts her life across generations as she witnesses the evolving story of Aotearoa. Her journey weaves personal memory with national history, confronting the past and inspiring the future.

In Tiri: Te Araroa Woman Far Walking, playwright Witi Ihimaera and director Katie Wolfe have crafted a theatrical experience that is as courageous as it is culturally vital. This production, staged by Auckland Theatre Company at the ASB Waterfront Theatre, refuses to dilute its message or its language. Instead of offering separate English and te reo Māori versions, it presents a single, unified bilingual performance; fully accessible to fluent te reo speakers, and intentionally challenging for monolingual English audiences. This choice is not just artistic; it’s political. It demands engagement, empathy, and reflection.

At the heart of the story is Tiri Mahana, a 185-year-old kuia born on the day Te Tiriti o Waitangi was signed. Her life spans nearly two centuries of Aotearoa’s history, and she has witnessed its most defining and devastating moments: the massacres at Matawhero and Ngatapa, the 1918 influenza pandemic, the Land March, and the Springbok tour protests. Tiri is not merely a character; she is a living embodiment of the Treaty itself; aged, burdened, and still fighting to be understood.

Miriama McDowell delivers a commanding performance as Tiri, carrying the emotional weight of the production with grace and ferocity. She is joined by Nī Dekkers-Reihana, who plays Tilly; Tiri’s spectral companion and inner voice. Tilly is mischievous, shape-shifting, and emotionally agile, slipping between roles and eras with ease. From haka to waiata, from lover to warrior, Dekkers-Reihana’s performance is a masterclass in versatility and emotional nuance.

The staging is minimal yet evocative. A sloped floor and cosmic-lit screen evoke many visual scenes; a journey through time, a battlefield, the path of a hikoi, a dreamlike forest; abstract, timeless, and spiritual. Tiri emerges slowly from the shadows, her silhouette reminiscent of Māori creation stories. This visual metaphor sets the tone for a production that is deeply rooted in whakapapa and cosmology, yet unafraid to confront the brutal realities of colonisation.

The bilingual nature of the play is central to its impact. Te reo Māori is not translated for convenience. Instead, it is woven into the fabric of the narrative, demanding that English-speaking audiences rely on context, emotion, and gesture. This is not exclusion; it’s an invitation to experience the discomfort that Māori communities have endured for generations. The refusal to translate everything is a powerful act of sovereignty.

The production’s emotional range is staggering. It moves from grief to humour, rage to tenderness, often within the same breath. Tiri’s opening monologue is a searing indictment of colonisation, describing the arrival of Pākehā as “hairy goblins” and lamenting her unnatural longevity. Yet even in her fury, there is wit. Comedy and tragedy dance together in a way that feels authentically Māori; where laughter is a survival tool, and storytelling is a weapon.

Tiri is portrayed as two women: the elder, bent with history’s weight, and the younger, frozen in trauma, questioning and challenging every memory. This duality reflects the fractured experience of Māori identity; caught between past and present, pain and pride. The interplay between Tiri and Tilly is electric, often confrontational, and always compelling and nurturing.

The production is not afraid to be political. It references current events, including protests against the Principles of the Treaty of Waitangi Bill and the erosion of Māori rights. These moments are not shoehorned in; they are part of the continuum of struggle that Tiri represents. The message is clear: the fight is not over, and the rangatahi must rise.

Despite its heavy themes, Tiri is not bleak. It is suffused with hope, humour, and love. The relationships Tiri recalls, whether they be romantic, familial, or communal, are tender and joyful. These memories offer respite from the rage, and remind us what is at stake. The production celebrates mana wāhine, resilience, and the enduring strength of whakapapa.

The decision to use a two-person cast is inspired. With only McDowell and Dekkers-Reihana on stage, supported by selective audio and lighting, the production achieves remarkable emotional and narrative depth. The design team, John Verryt (set), Te Ura Taripo-Hoskins (costumes), Kingsley Spargo and Jane Hakaraia (sound and lighting), deserve praise for creating a world that is both intimate and expansive.

This is not a play that will leave audiences unchanged. It is confrontational, unapologetically Māori, and emotionally raw. Some viewers may feel discomfort, confusion, even alienation. But that is the point. For nearly 200 years, Māori communities have lived with those feelings. Tiri offers a mirror; and a challenge.

The production is also a testament to how far Aotearoa has come. That such a powerful critique of colonisation and government policy can be staged publicly is a sign of progress. But it also serves as a warning: that progress is fragile, and must be defended.

In its final moments, Tiri reminds us that the Treaty, though battered and betrayed, still holds power and promise. Tiri herself, though weary, is not defeated. She is still walking. And she invites us to walk with her.

Witi Ihimaera’s Tiri: Te Araroa Woman Far Walking is running from 4–23 November 2025 at the ASB Waterfront Theatre
Ticketsx can be purchased here

BLOKE OF THE APOCALYPSE (2025)

Bloke of the Apocalypse: In the rural back blocks of New Zealand, a father and son battle a zombie apocalypse and some annoying neighbours, all while taking care of their pet lamb, Lambie, and zombified Mum, Julie. 

There’s something quietly brilliant about Bloke of the Apocalypse. It’s not loud, it’s not polished, and it’s certainly not trying to be the next big thing. But in its own understated way, it’s one of the most distinctive animated projects to come out of Aotearoa in recent memory. Created by 21-year-old Charlie Faulks, this six-part YouTube series is a lo-fi apocalypse stitched together with deadpan humour, elastic animation, and a surprising amount of emotional depth.

The premise is deceptively simple: Bloke and his son Oliver live on a quiet farm until the Wenza virus turns their world into a zombie-infested mess. Alongside Oliver's pet lamb and their undead mum Julie, the family must navigate the end of the world, and their own dysfunction, with a kind of stoic indifference that feels uniquely Kiwi. It’s not just a survival story; it’s a slow-burning character study wrapped in absurdity.

What makes Bloke of the Apocalypse stand out isn’t its plot (which is minimal by design), but its tone. The show is absurd, yes, but it’s never manic. It’s restrained, almost meditative, like watching Ren & Stimpy after a long day on the farm. Bloke is the archetypal rural dad: gruff, emotionally unavailable, and vaguely annoyed by everything. Oliver, by contrast, is a jittery ball of nerves; a chihuahua in human form. Their dynamic is classic odd-couple comedy, but filtered through the lens of small-town New Zealand masculinity.

The animation style is raw and elastic, with characters that stretch, twitch, and slump in ways that recall Adventure Time, Gravity Falls, and Regular Show. But there’s also a deliberate ugliness to the design; a kind of visual apathy that mirrors the characters’ emotional detachment. It’s not pretty, and that’s the point. The entire series was hand-animated on iPads using ToonSquid, with each scene crafted in a separate file and stitched together in DaVinci Resolve. It’s a DIY aesthetic that adds to the show’s charm, especially when you consider the scale of the project and the fact that Charlie was just 19 when he secured nearly $500,000 in funding from NZ On Air.

The humour is quintessentially Kiwi: dry, awkward, and often delivered with a blank stare. It’s the kind of comedy that doesn’t ask for laughs; it just exists, waiting for you to find it funny. There are moments of surreal tension, flashes of emotional insight, and plenty of jokes that land precisely because they don’t try too hard. It’s a vibe that will resonate with fans of Footrot Flats, Fred Dagg, and anyone who’s ever lived in a town where the local dairy doubles as a community hub.

Beneath the surface, Bloke of the Apocalypse is quietly ambitious. It’s a story about masculinity, emotional repression, and the contradictions of rural life. It’s about surviving not just zombies, but the weight of expectation, the silence between father and son, and the weirdness of being emotionally numb in a world that’s falling apart. There’s a subtle commentary here on New Zealand’s own pandemic response; the stoicism, the contradictions, the sense of “she’ll be right” even when everything’s clearly not.

That said, the series isn’t without its flaws. The pacing can feel slow, especially if you’re expecting traditional plot beats or high-stakes drama. The narrative meanders, and some episodes feel more like mood pieces than story arcs. But that’s part of the appeal. Bloke of the Apocalypse is best consumed in one sitting, like a short film broken into six parts. It’s not about what happens; it’s about how it feels.

And it feels like something special. With more support and a larger team, this could evolve into a flagship piece of New Zealand animation. There’s a wealth of untapped potential in our end-of-the-world stories, and Charlie Faulks has proven he's got the motivation to mine it. Bloke of the Apocalypse is a quiet triumph; a stoic fever dream that lingers long after the credits roll.

The show was released on YouTube Friday 31st October 2025. 

The show will premiere at Terror-Fi Film Festival on the follow dates & locations;

• Auckland – 6th November
• Christchurch – 16th November

SHELBY OAKS (2025)

A woman's search for her long-lost sister becomes an obsession when she realizes a demon from their childhood may have been real, not imaginary.

Chris Stuckmann’s transition from critic to creator with Shelby Oaks is a fascinating case study in whether those who analyze art can actually make it. For years, Stuckmann has dissected horror films with precision, calling out lazy tropes, praising atmosphere, and championing originality. With this debut, he steps into the director’s chair to prove he can walk the walk. The result is a film that’s rich in mood and ambition, but uneven in execution; a project that feels like it’s straining to reconcile its influences with its own identity. It’s not a failure, but it’s not quite a triumph either. What Shelby Oaks does well, it does very well. What it fumbles, it fumbles in ways that feel frustratingly familiar to anyone who’s watched a horror film and thought, “This could’ve been great if they’d just stuck the landing.”

The film opens with a compelling premise: Riley Brennan, host of a YouTube ghost-hunting show called Paranormal Paranoids, vanished in 2008 along with her crew while investigating the haunted ruins of Shelby Oaks. Initially dismissed as a publicity stunt, the mystery deepens when the mutilated bodies of her team are discovered, leaving Riley’s fate unknown. Twelve years later, her sister Mia, played by Camille Sullivan, is still searching for answers. The first act unfolds in a pseudo-documentary style, blending found footage with interviews and archival clips. It’s immersive, eerie, and effective. Stuckmann clearly understands the power of suggestion, using grainy visuals and analog horror aesthetics to evoke dread without overplaying his hand. The atmosphere is thick, the pacing deliberate, and the mystery genuinely intriguing. For a while, it feels like we’re in the hands of someone who knows exactly what kind of horror works best: the kind that whispers rather than screams.

But then the format shifts. About twenty minutes in, Shelby Oaks abandons its documentary framing and settles into a more traditional narrative structure. It’s a bold move, but one that comes at a cost. The transition is jarring; not just visually, but tonally. The found footage style thrives on ambiguity and limitation; once the film switches to a conventional format, it trades mystery for exposition. And there’s a lot of exposition. The mythology behind Riley’s disappearance (i.e. demons, satanic symbols, hellhounds, and a gloomy woman in a cabin) is rich with potential, but it’s both over-explained and underdeveloped. The film starts breadcrumbing clues with increasing frequency, but instead of deepening the mystery, it begins to dilute it. The suspense that was so carefully built in the first act starts to unravel, replaced by a grab bag of horror tropes that feel more borrowed than earned.

This is where the critic in Stuckmann seems to wrestle with the filmmaker. He’s clearly aware of the genre’s clichés, from slow-turning doorknobs, shadowy figures, and sudden jolts, and he uses them liberally. Sometimes they work, especially when paired with Andrew Scott Baird’s moody cinematography, which leans heavily into darkness and decay. The production design is gleefully grimy, with sets that look like they’ve been soaked in mildew and dread. Even when the story falters, the mood never does. But other times, the scares feel telegraphed, the character decisions baffling, and the pacing uneven. Mia, for instance, is a likeable protagonist, but her actions often defy logic. She stumbles into danger with the kind of reckless abandon that’s become a staple of horror, and while Sullivan does her best to ground the character, the script doesn’t give her enough depth to make those choices feel earned.

The film’s biggest strength is its atmosphere. Stuckmann has a knack for creating unease, and Shelby Oaks is drenched in it. The forests are sprawling and desolate, the buildings abandoned and rotting, the mist ever-present. It captures the eerie, corroded feel of autumnal Americana; the kind of setting where something terrible has happened and might happen again. This sense of place is crucial, and it’s what keeps the film compelling even when the plot starts to wobble. There’s a genuine effort to evoke dread through environment rather than just jump scares, and that effort pays off. The scares themselves are mostly of the 'jump' variety, but they’re well-timed and supported by a jittery sound mix that adds to the tension.

Still, the story struggles to hold together. The mystery of Riley’s disappearance is compelling, but as the film progresses, it becomes increasingly convoluted. The final act veers into religious folk horror, abandoning much of the cryptid/demon suburban Gothic vibe that had been so effectively built. It’s not that the ending is bad; it’s just not the same movie. What began as a slow-burn investigation into a haunting becomes a rushed climax filled with lore dumps and creatures that feel more confusing than scary. There’s a reason why we never saw the Blair Witch in The Blair Witch Project, and Shelby Oaks would’ve benefited from a similar restraint. The film suffers from explanation fatigue, trying to tie up every loose end when ambiguity might’ve been more powerful.

There are also signs of reshoots and narrative patchwork. Clues that the camera lingers on in the film are never referenced again. Characters make increasingly short-sighted decisions, and resolutions come too easily. It’s hard not to wonder how the authorities missed what Mia uncovers in a matter of days. The mythology feels like it needed more time to develop, and the emotional core, Mia’s relationship with Riley, is never fully realized. We’re told they’re close, but we don’t feel it. Their connection is cursory, and that lack of emotional weight undermines the stakes.

Despite its flaws, Shelby Oaks is a well-made film. The cinematography is strong, the sound design effective, and the performances solid. Sullivan carries the film with quiet determination, and Sarah Durn’s Riley is charismatic enough to make her absence haunting. There’s charm in the film’s ambition, even when it overreaches. It’s clear that Stuckmann poured himself into this project, and that passion is evident in every frame. He may not have nailed every beat, but he’s proven he can do more than talk about movies—he can make one. And if this is his first draft, it’s a promising start.

At the end of the day, Shelby Oaks is a mixed bag. It’s a film that begins with confidence and atmosphere, then stumbles under the weight of its own mythology. It’s not the definitive answer to whether critics can create, but it’s a compelling argument that they can try; and sometimes, that’s enough. Stuckmann has shown he understands the language of horror; now he just needs to refine his voice. The film may leave audiences scratching their heads, but it will also leave them pondering the weight of what they have seen. And in horror, that’s not a bad place to end up.

Shelby Oaks was released in NZ cinemas on October 23, 2025

CHAINSAW MAN – THE MOVIE: REZE ARC (2025)

Denji encounters a new romantic interest, Reze, who works at a coffee café.

Chainsaw Man – The Movie: Reze Arc is a cinematic rollercoaster that tries to fuse tender teenage romance with brutal, high-octane violence. It’s a bold attempt to expand the anime’s universe, but the result is a film that feels emotionally disjointed and structurally uneven. For longtime fans, it’s a visceral treat. For newcomers, it’s a confusing plunge into chaos.

The film opens not with blood and chainsaws, but with a surprisingly subdued tone. Denji, our hormone-driven protagonist, is caught between two women: the enigmatic Makima, his superior at Public Safety, and Reze, a charming barista he meets during a rainstorm. Their interactions are sweet, awkward, and laced with teenage longing. There’s a movie date, some flirtation, and a sense of normalcy that feels almost alien in the Chainsaw Man universe.

This first act is slow; almost too slow. It simmers with emotional tension but lacks urgency. The pacing drags as Denji’s internal conflict plays out in quiet scenes that feel more like a romantic slice-of-life than a supernatural thriller. Reze’s bubbly personality and Denji’s naïve infatuation create a believable, if slightly cliché, teen romance. But beneath the surface, there’s a creeping sense that things aren’t what they seem.

And then, the bomb drops...literally.

The film’s second half explodes into action, abandoning its romantic pretense for a barrage of violence, gore, and devilish mayhem. The villain is revealed, the Bomb Devil, a terrifying force of destruction who detonates herself with the flick of a finger. Her appearance is shocking, and the tonal shift is jarring. What was once a gentle story about young love becomes a battlefield of mutilation and chaos.

From this point on, the film is relentless. The fight scenes are kinetic and brutal, with Denji facing off against the Bomb Devil and other monstrous foes like the Typhoon Devil. The animation is dazzling; neon splashes of color, rapid cuts, and surreal choreography that defies physics. It’s a sensory overload, amplified by a pulsing soundtrack that feels more like a rave than a movie score.

Director Tatsuya Yoshihara and writer Hiroshi Seko clearly know how to stage a spectacle. The action sequences are some of the most visually impressive in the Chainsaw Man franchise. But the emotional weight of the first half doesn’t quite carry through. The romance, while touching, feels disconnected from the carnage that follows. The film’s structure, soft then savage, are so far on the opposite ends of the spectrum that it makes it hard to stay emotionally invested.

Supporting characters like Aki and Angel Devil make brief appearances, but their roles are underdeveloped. They serve more as background noise than meaningful contributors to the plot. This is a shame, as their presence could have added depth to the story’s themes of sacrifice and survival.

Thematically, Reze Arc explores Denji’s desire for normalcy and love, juxtaposed against the violent reality of his life as a devil hunter. The film displays Denji's fleeting chance at happiness, but also deadly threats. The duality gives the film a split personality: romantic drama on one side, hyperviolent thriller on the other. It’s an ambitious blend, but not a seamless one.

For fans of the anime, the film is a satisfying continuation. It doesn’t waste time rehashing old plot points, and it dives straight into new territory. But this also makes it less accessible to newcomers. Without context, the characters and their relationships are harder to grasp, though the broad strokes and context do keep it watchable. The film assumes you’ve done your homework; and if you haven’t, you’ll have a lesser experience.

The emotional climax hits hard, but it’s buried under layers of explosive action. Denji’s heartbreak, confusion, and growth are present, but they’re overshadowed by the spectacle. The final battle is a visual marvel, but it leaves little room for reflection. It’s thrilling, yes; but also exhausting.

Chainsaw Man – The Movie: Reze Arc is simply a film of two halves. The first is a slow-burning romance that builds emotional stakes. The second is a chaotic descent into violence that shatters those stakes with explosive force. It’s a bold experiment in tonal contrast, but not always a successful one. The pacing issues and inconsistent tone can make it a challenging watch.

Still, there’s no denying the film’s ambition. It pushes the boundaries of what anime adaptations can be, delivering cinematic scale and emotional complexity. It’s a flawed but promising entry in the Chainsaw Man saga, and one that will spark plenty of debate among viewers.

If you’re here for the blood, guts, and devil-slaying madness, you’ll get your fill. If you’re hoping for a coherent emotional journey, you might be left wanting. Either way, Reze Arc is a wild ride; and one that proves Chainsaw Man is anything but predictable.

Chainsaw Man - The Movie: Reze Arc was released in NZ cinemas from 19 September 2025

DANGEROUS ANIMALS (2025)

When Zephyr, a savvy and free-spirited surfer, is abducted by a shark-obsessed serial killer and held captive on his boat, she must figure out how to escape before he carries out a ritualistic feeding to the sharks below.

In the ever-expanding sea of horror-thrillers, Dangerous Animals swims into view with teeth bared and a wicked grin. Directed by Sean Byrne and penned by Nick Lepard, this Australian-set survival shocker is a lean, mean genre hybrid that fuses the claustrophobic dread of captivity thrillers with the primal terror of shark-infested waters. It’s a film that knows exactly what it is, and leans into its madness with gleeful abandon.

At its core is Zephyr (Hassie Harrison), an American surfer drifting through Australia in search of peace and perhaps a fresh start. Her brief but tender connection with Moses (Josh Heuston), a fellow surfer with a kind heart, offers a glimmer of hope. But that hope is violently ripped away when she’s abducted by Bruce Tucker (Jai Courtney), a local fisherman with a warped sense of environmental duty. Tucker believes he’s restoring balance to nature by feeding tourists to sharks; and he documents each gruesome act with a voyeuristic obsession.

What follows is a taut, 100-minute descent into terror, as Zephyr finds herself trapped on Tucker’s boat, surrounded by open ocean and circling predators. But this isn’t a story about a helpless victim. Harrison’s Zephyr is a fighter; clever, determined, and unwilling to go down without a fight. Her performance is the film’s emotional anchor, grounding the chaos with grit and humanity. She brings nuance to a role that could have easily slipped into cliché, portraying Zephyr as both vulnerable and fiercely capable.

Jai Courtney, meanwhile, delivers what might be the most unhinged and magnetic performance of his career. As Tucker, he’s a blend of sadistic showman and cold-blooded killer. One moment he’s dancing in a kimono with a glass of wine, the next he’s watching snuff-like footage of his victims with chilling detachment. It’s a performance that recalls the theatrical menace of villains like Jigsaw from the Saw franchise; where the horror isn’t just in the violence, but in the twisted ideology behind it. Like Saw, Dangerous Animals gives its antagonist room to breathe, to monologue, to disturb us not just with actions but with intent.

The film’s greatest strength lies in its simplicity. With a small cast and a confined setting, Byrne crafts a relentless atmosphere of dread. The boat becomes a floating prison, and the beautiful yet merciless ocean serves as both backdrop and threat. Cinematographer Shelley Farthing-Dawe captures the eerie stillness of the sea and the claustrophobia of the ship’s interior with equal skill. The underwater sequences, in particular, are haunting, with sharks glide silently beneath the surface; a constant reminder of the danger lurking just out of sight.

Sound design by David White and a tense, pulsing score by Michael Yezerski elevate the experience further. The creak of metal, the crash of waves, the distant roar of the sea, it all combines to create an immersive soundscape that keeps the audience on edge. Every moment feels precarious, every silence loaded with potential violence.

Despite its modest budget, Dangerous Animals punches well above its weight. The practical effects are gruesomely effective, and the film doesn’t shy away from bloodshed. The opening scene involves a brutal, unflinching murder, and sets the tone immediately: this is not a film for the faint of heart. Yet, for all its gore, there’s a streak of black humor running through the narrative, a self-awareness that keeps it from tipping into gratuitousness.

The screenplay wisely avoids overcomplicating things. It’s a minimalist horror in the best sense; focused, efficient, and unrelenting. The plot revolves around a single, high-stakes situation, and while it occasionally flirts with repetition (the classic capture-escape-repeat rhythm), it never loses momentum. If anything, the cyclical nature of Zephyr’s attempts to escape only heightens the tension, making each new confrontation with Tucker more fraught than the last.

There are moments when the film gestures toward deeper themes, such as Tucker’s warped environmentalism, his childhood trauma and twisted Stockholm Syndrome, or the voyeuristic thrill of violence, but it never lingers long enough to bog down the pacing. This is a film more interested in sensation than subtext, and that’s not a criticism. It knows its audience and delivers exactly what it promises: a wild, bloody ride with a heroine worth rooting for and a villain you can’t look away from.

The chemistry between Harrison and Heuston, though only briefly explored, adds a welcome emotional layer. Their early scenes together are tender and believable, giving Zephyr’s ordeal greater weight. You want her to survive not just because she’s the protagonist, but because she’s been given just enough backstory and heart to make you care.

In many ways, Dangerous Animals feels like a spiritual cousin to the Saw series; not in its structure, but in its willingness to explore the psychology of its villain. Tucker isn’t just a faceless killer; he’s a man with a warped worldview, a self-appointed executioner who believes he’s doing the right thing. That complexity, paired with Courtney’s committed performance, elevates the film beyond standard slasher fare.

Ultimately, Dangerous Animals is a triumph of genre filmmaking on a shoestring budget. It’s bloody, claustrophobic, and unrelentingly tense, but it’s also stylish, smartly acted, and surprisingly character-driven. For fans of survival horror, aquatic terror, or just good old-fashioned grindhouse thrills, it’s a must-watch.

Dangerous Animals was released in NZ cinemas on June 12, 2025, and is now available of Prime Video.

THE CONJURING: LAST RITES (2025)

Paranormal investigators Ed and Lorraine Warren take on one last terrifying case involving mysterious entities they must confront.

After more than a decade of haunted houses, demonic possessions, and spiritual showdowns, The Conjuring: Last Rites arrives as the final entry in the main series. Directed by Michael Chaves and starring Patrick Wilson and Vera Farmiga, the film sets out to close the chapter on Ed and Lorraine Warren’s cinematic legacy. While it offers a heartfelt goodbye to these beloved characters, it falls short of delivering the kind of horror that made the franchise iconic.

Set in suburban Pennsylvania and loosely inspired by the Smurl haunting of 1986, the story follows a familiar path. A wholesome family is plagued by a dark entity, and the Warrens are called in to help. The film features the usual suspects: haunted toys, eerie mirrors, shadowy figures, and a climactic exorcism. What sets this installment apart is the added threat to the Warrens’ daughter, Judy, played by Mia Tomlinson. She is targeted by a malevolent force that has been fixated on her since birth, adding a personal layer to the supernatural conflict.

This dual narrative of the Smurl family’s haunting and Judy’s spiritual ordeal,  creates a structure that feels uneven. At two hours and fifteen minutes, the film spends a lot of time switching between its main plot and subplot. Unfortunately, the Smurl storyline feels underdeveloped until the final act. The focus remains on the Warrens, which is a departure from the first film’s strength in centering the afflicted family. This shift makes it harder to connect with the victims and weakens the emotional stakes.

One of the film’s biggest challenges is its tone. For every effective scare, there is a moment that pulls the viewer out of the mood. A table tennis montage between Ed and Judy’s boyfriend, set to David Bowie’s “Let’s Dance,” is charming but completely out of place. These lighthearted scenes clash with the darker themes and create a sense of tonal confusion. The film wants to be both a horror story and a family drama, but it rarely manages to balance the two.

The emotional beats are well executed. Judy’s growth, her relationship with her parents, and her own psychic awakening add depth to the narrative. These moments provide warmth and humanity, reminding us that the series has always been about the strength of family as much as it has been about battling evil. However, this emotional core often feels disconnected from the horror elements. The transitions between heartfelt scenes and supernatural terror are abrupt, making it difficult to stay immersed.

The scares themselves are competent but lack originality. The franchise’s formula of collecting a haunted house, a family in peril, and a spiritual intervention, has been repeated too many times. There is only so much a ghost or demon can do before it starts to feel predictable. Last Rites does not offer much innovation in this regard. The absence of a memorable villain further weakens the horror, leaving the film without a central figure to fear.

Despite these shortcomings, the performances remain strong. Patrick Wilson and Vera Farmiga continue to bring sincerity and grace to their roles. Their chemistry is the emotional anchor of the series, grounding even the most fantastical moments in genuine human connection. Mia Tomlinson adds a quiet strength to Judy, making her more than just a plot device. She becomes a character with agency and emotional weight.

The film’s greatest strength is its portrayal of the Warrens as a family. Earlier entries hinted at their bond, but Last Rites expands it into a fuller dynamic. Judy is no longer a child on the sidelines. She is a young woman grappling with her own abilities and the legacy of her parents’ work. This evolution adds emotional resonance and gives the film a sense of closure.

However, the supernatural side of the story does not reach the intensity or creativity of previous films. The lack of clear rules or logic for the paranormal events makes it hard to stay invested. The jump scares do their job, but they are not enough to sustain the atmosphere of fear that defined the original Conjuring. The pacing is irregular, and the film’s length works against it. Scenes that should build tension are often interrupted by lighter moments, and the overall rhythm feels disjointed.

All in all, The Conjuring: Last Rites is a film caught between two identities. As a horror movie, it is fine; occasionally spooky, often familiar, and ultimately safe. As a franchise finale, it is more successful, offering a sentimental goodbye to characters who have become beloved over the years. But the inconsistent tone and lack of narrative focus prevent it from standing alongside its predecessors.

It is a film that wants to honor its legacy without reinventing it. While that is understandable, it means Last Rites feels more like a gentle epilogue than a terrifying climax. Fans of the series will appreciate the emotional closure, but those looking for the spine-tingling terror of the original may find themselves left wanting.

The Conjuring: Last Rites was released in NZ cinemas on 4 September 2025