A group of survivors of the rage virus live on a small island. When one of the group leaves the island on a mission into the mainland, he discovers secrets, wonders, and horrors that have mutated not only the infected but other survivors.
Danny Boyle's 28 Years Later is not just a horror film. It is a haunting meditation on survival, memory, and what remains of humanity when everything else is stripped away. While the infected still provide the backdrop for a landscape of dread, much like The Walking Dead, they are not the true centre of this story. Instead, the film turns inward, looking at the choices people make when the world collapses around them, and how those choices shape identity, belief, and the possibility of redemption.
The story begins in chaos. In a small Scottish town, young Jimmy stumbles through the streets as a new outbreak unfolds around him. The infected (barely recognisably human) snarl, bite, and chase with wild-eyed abandon. But Boyle doesn’t linger here. The focus shifts abruptly to a quieter, though no less tense, setting: a small island off the coast of Scotland. Here, a community of survivors lives in a precarious balance. Their lives are marked by joy and fear in equal measure—bonfires, laughter, and celebration co-exist with strict boundaries and the unspoken terror of what lies beyond the stone causeway.
Among the islanders is Jamie, played with rugged complexity by Aaron Taylor-Johnson. He’s a father first, a man still trying to cling to something solid in a world that offers very little of it. His son, Spike (a breakout performance by Alfie Williams), is twelve years old and on the cusp of adolescence. Jamie takes him across the tidal causeway to the mainland; a sort of rite of passage, but one tinged with recklessness. They are armed only with bows and arrows, and they move through the ruins of the world like deer in a predator’s forest. The decision, unapproved by Spike’s mother Isla (Jodie Comer), immediately raises questions: What does survival mean if it comes at the cost of safety? And what lessons does a father teach when the world no longer has rules?
The infected have evolved. The fast ones, sinewy and nude, are still recognisable from earlier entries in the franchise. But now there are others. The “Slow-Lows” are grotesquely bloated, dragging themselves through the muck. Most terrifying of all are the Alphas; larger, stronger, smarter. One, known as Sampson (Chi Lewis-Parry), dominates with brutal strength, tearing victims apart with animalistic force. These new creatures are terrifying, but they also reflect something deeper: they are the monsters we might become, not simply the ones we fear.
Boyle, working again with cinematographer Anthony Dod Mantle, crafts action sequences that are chaotic and gripping. The camera jolts and races with an urgency that feels almost physical. But Boyle also knows when to pause. When to let the silence settle. Moments of stillness allow philosophical questions to bubble up; questions of identity, ethics, and what kind of future can be imagined after so much has been lost.
Alex Garland’s screenplay explores these themes with both ambition and restraint. The narrative is structurally simple: Spike follows his father to the mainland, returns to help his sick mother, and then leads her on a journey in search of a cure. Yet this simplicity is deceptive. The story is loaded with symbolic moments and subtle commentary on trust, power, and the legacy of trauma. Spike’s journey is less about fighting infected and more about reconciling the myth of his father with the reality of his choices. Jamie, once a heroic figure in his son’s eyes, becomes complicated; at times harsh, at others vulnerable, but ultimately flawed.
Jodie Comer’s portrayal of Isla adds emotional weight. She’s a woman unravelled by anxiety and illness, unsure whether her symptoms are psychosomatic or the onset of Rage. In one of the film’s most powerful scenes, Isla comes face to face with an infected woman. Instead of violence, there is a moment of mutual recognition. Humanity, fragile, flickering, persists even here.
The second half of the film sees Spike taking initiative. No longer the boy led by his father, he becomes the one who leads. With his mother in tow, he ventures across the devastated landscape in search of a doctor, Dr. Ian Kelson (Ralph Fiennes), a recluse whose reputation is part rumour, part warning. Fiennes brings an eerie calm to the role. Kelson is more philosopher than physician, espousing cryptic truths and reflecting on the Latin phrase “memento mori”, a reminder of death’s inevitability, and perhaps the need to make peace with it.
While Boyle’s direction ensures momentum never flags, the film makes space for contemplation. The contrast between the noise of action and the quiet of introspection gives 28 Years Later a rare depth. The world-building is detailed and textured, from the resourcefulness of islanders turned farmers and hunters, to the strange juxtapositions of relics from the past; like the haunting reappearance of an old iPhone or recognisable landmarks now decaying under moss and rot.
The final act sees Spike returning to the island with a new perspective. He is no longer willing to accept the myths that have shaped his upbringing. His goal is no longer survival in the traditional sense. Instead, it is healing—finding answers for his mother, and possibly, a future that doesn’t involve fear as the default setting.
Yet for all its high-concept ideas and moments of beauty, 28 Years Later is not without its rough edges. The film sometimes struggles to fully explore its big themes. The idea of the UK as a quarantined zone, abandoned by the rest of the world, is compelling, but underdeveloped. The suggestion that global politics simply turned away from the suffering is raised, but not deeply examined. Similarly, the ethics around the infected are posed but not always fully pursued; are they still human? Do they deserve empathy?
Still, these imperfections do not take away from the film’s emotional resonance. Boyle and Garland are not offering answers as much as they are posing questions. What does it mean to protect someone you love when the world no longer functions? How do we rebuild when the tools we once relied on are gone or corrupted?
28 Years Later succeeds because it is more than just a continuation of a franchise. It is a film that respects its origins but is not beholden to them. It offers action and horror, yes, but also a story rooted in character and consequence. It is, at heart, a coming-of-age tale. A boy discovers the world is broken, and instead of turning away, he steps into it.
That may be the film’s quietest triumph: showing that in the midst of rage, ruin, and ruinous memory, there can still be something worth fighting for. Not survival. Not even victory. But the fragile hope of something better. And that, in the world of 28 Years Later, is more terrifying (and more beautiful) than any monster.
28 Years Later was released in NZ cinemas on June 19, 2025