THAT TIME I GOT REINCARNATED AS A SLIME THE MOVIE: TEARS OF THE AZURE SEA (2026)

Rimuru and friends visit Celestial Emperor Hermesia's resort island after the Jura-Tempest Federations opening ceremony. During their vacation, they encounter a mysterious woman, leading to a new incident by the azure sea.

That Time I Got Reincarnated as a Slime the Movie: Tears of the Azure Sea arrives with the energy of a summer holiday special, only to reveal a more thoughtful and character-driven story beneath its bright surface. It is a playful escape from the usual political bustle of Tempest, yet it still carries the thematic threads that have defined the series. Most importantly, it finally gives Gobta the spotlight he has quietly earned over the years, and that choice reshapes the entire experience for the better.

The film begins with Rimuru and his inner circle accepting an invitation to a private island owned by the elven ruler Hermesia. On paper, it is a harmless getaway. In practice, it is a parade of some of the most powerful beings in the world arriving at a resort that was never built to host them. The early scenes lean into the humour of this setup. There are swimsuits, sun-soaked vistas, and the kind of breezy comedy that usually signals a low-stakes side story. The problem is that this stretch goes on a little too long. It is cheerful and colourful, but it delays the real story enough that the pacing starts to sag.

Copyright: © Taiki Kawakami, Fuse, KODANSHA/ “Ten-Sura” Project

For newcomers, this opening also tries to summarise the events of the anime so far. The effort is admirable, but the sheer number of characters and the dense political history of Tempest make it a tough entry point. Anyone unfamiliar with the series will likely feel lost before the plot even begins. For returning fans, though, the holiday antics are a warm reunion, even if they linger longer than necessary.

Once the story shifts gears, the film becomes far more interesting. Rimuru’s presence on the island triggers a chain of misunderstandings and manipulations. His overwhelming power has always been a double-edged sword, and the movie leans into the idea that even a peaceful visit can destabilise an entire region. Rimuru remains earnest and well-meaning, but his political naivety is on full display. He still struggles to grasp how others perceive him, and how fear can be weaponised by those with sharper agendas. The film uses this to explore the unintended consequences of power, a recurring theme in the franchise.

Yet Rimuru is not the heart of this story. That honour belongs to Gobta, and the film is stronger for it. Gobta has spent three seasons as a lovable nuisance, a loyal soldier who often stumbles into competence by accident. Tears of the Azure Sea finally lets him be more than a punchline. When the island’s troubles escalate, Gobta steps into a role that feels both surprising and completely earned. He becomes the grounded centre of a story filled with dragons, demon lords, and political intrigue.

Copyright: © Taiki Kawakami, Fuse, KODANSHA/ “Ten-Sura” Project

Gobta’s strength lies not in overwhelming magic but in instinct, agility, and a kind of scrappy determination that makes his fights some of the most enjoyable in the film. The action choreography shifts away from explosive spells and toward clever, physical combat. Gobta improvises, adapts, and survives through sheer grit. These scenes feel fresh for the franchise, and they give the movie a welcome sense of intimacy.

His interactions with Yura, a young priestess tied to the island’s deeper mysteries, give the film its emotional core. Yura is introduced as a figure burdened by ritual and responsibility, someone who has grown up surrounded by expectations. Gobta, by contrast, acts from the heart. He helps because it feels right, not because it benefits him politically. Their bond grows naturally through shared danger, quiet moments, and a mutual recognition of each other’s sincerity. It is a gentle, charming romance that never overwhelms the plot but gives it warmth.

The film’s visuals support this shift in tone. The new character designs, especially the vacation outfits, add a sense of novelty. The animation is fluid, and the dragon’s movement is a standout achievement.

Copyright: © Taiki Kawakami, Fuse, KODANSHA/ “Ten-Sura” Project

As the story approaches its climax, it takes a turn that will feel familiar to fans of Avatar: The Last Airbender. Without spoiling specifics, a late narrative choice involving Yura may divide audiences. Some will find it thematically appropriate, while others may feel it undercuts the emotional investment built throughout the film. It is not a deal breaker, but it does soften the impact of an otherwise strong character arc.

Even with that stumble, Tears of the Azure Sea succeeds by embracing a smaller scale. Gobta’s vulnerability makes the stakes feel more personal. Rimuru could flatten armies, but Gobta has to think, dodge, and trust the people beside him. That contrast gives the film a refreshing sense of balance. It is still a Slime movie, filled with magic and spectacle, but it is also a story about a loyal hobgoblin finally getting the attention he deserves.

For long-time fans, this is a delightful detour that celebrates a character who has quietly supported the series from the beginning. For newcomers, the dense lore and lengthy resort introduction may be a barrier. But for those already invested in Tempest and its citizens, Tears of the Azure Sea is a warm, playful, and surprisingly heartfelt addition to the franchise.

That Time I Got Reincarnated as a Slime the Movie: Tears of the Azure Sea will be released in NZ cinemas on April 30, 2026. Find your nearest screening here

Review written by Alex Moulton

WORLDWIDE RELEASE DATES

• April 28, 2026: Austria, Germany, Switzerland (German)
• April 29, 2026: Belgium, France, Switzerland (French)
• April 30, 2026: Australia, Brazil, Central America, Chile, Colombia, Denmark, Hungary, Iceland, Israel, Italy, Kazakhstan, Kuwait, Mexico, Netherlands, New Zealand, Norway, Peru, Portugal, Saudi Arabia, Spain, UAE, Ukraine
• May 1, 2026: Canada, Finland, Ireland, Sweden, United Kingdom, United States
• May 7, 2026: Greece
• May 8, 2026: Poland, Romania

SGT. HAANE (2026)

Haane Manahi DCM of B Company, 28th Maori Battalion, whose remarkable bravery was crucial in the 1943 battle for Takrouna's fortified summit in Tunisia.

Tearepa Kahi’s Sgt. Haane arrives as a rare and deeply significant addition to Aotearoa’s cinematic landscape. It is a World War II story told not from the distant vantage point of empire, but from the lived experience of Māori soldiers whose courage has echoed through generations. 

At its centre is Lance Sergeant Haane Manahi of Te Arawa and Ngāti Raukawa, a man whose actions at Takrouna in 1943 were so extraordinary that multiple Allied generals recommended him for the Victoria Cross. That recommendation was later reduced without explanation, a historical injustice that has long lingered in the memories of his descendants. Kahi’s film, however, is not a retelling of grievance. It is a reclamation of legacy, a celebration of whakapapa, and an attempt to bring a story long held within whānau into the public consciousness.

The film takes an unconventional approach to its subject matter, weaving together dramatic re-enactments, archival research, and interviews with descendants of the 28th Māori Battalion. This structure reflects a distinctly Māori way of storytelling, where the past is not sealed away but remains in constant dialogue with the present. Voices of mokopuna sit alongside depictions of their tīpuna, creating a sense of continuity that honours the intergenerational nature of remembrance. It is a thoughtful and culturally grounded choice that reinforces the idea that history is not static but lived and carried.

At the same time, this approach shapes the film’s rhythm. The narrative frequently shifts between eras, moving from the heat of battle to reflective commentary and back again. While this reinforces the film’s kaupapa, it occasionally softens the dramatic tension of the wartime sequences. The ascent of Takrouna, an almost vertical limestone cliff defended by hundreds of enemy soldiers, is one of the most astonishing feats of the North African campaign. Yet the film often describes the scale of the challenge more than it visually immerses the audience in it. The re-enactments are compelling, but they are brief, and the constant return to present-day reflection sometimes interrupts the emotional momentum that the battle scenes begin to build.

This is not a failure of intent but a limitation of scope. Sgt. Haane is not a Hollywood war epic with vast budgets and sweeping battlefield choreography. Instead, it is a film that prioritises connection over spectacle. The soldiers who climbed Takrouna were cousins, all descendants of Ngāti Whakaue from Ōhinemutu. Their bond is central to the story, and Kahi foregrounds this relational aspect throughout. The performances from Alex Tarrant, Niwa Whatuira, and Vinnie Bennett are grounded and sincere, capturing the quiet determination of men who understood both the danger ahead and the responsibility they carried for one another.

Still, there are moments where the film feels as though it is holding back. The audience is told of the overwhelming enemy presence, the heavy artillery, and the near impossibility of the mission, but these elements are only lightly depicted on screen. As a result, viewers unfamiliar with the historical context may not fully grasp the magnitude of what Manahi and his men achieved. The story is extraordinary, almost unbelievable in its bravery, and there are times when the film’s restraint risks making it feel less immediate than it truly was.

Yet the emotional power of the story remains undeniable. One of the film’s most affecting threads is the discovery of Nizar Chhoubi, the last remaining resident of Takrouna, whose family was protected by Manahi during the battle. This connection across cultures and continents reinforces the film’s central theme: that this is not simply a story of war, but of humanity. Manahi was not only a soldier. He was a protector, a leader, and a man whose decisions saved lives beyond the battlefield.

The interviews with descendants add further depth. Their voices carry pride, sorrow, humour, and a sense of duty to keep these stories alive. For those who grew up hearing about Takrouna, the film is a long-awaited acknowledgement. For newcomers, it is an introduction to a chapter of history that deserves far wider recognition. The blend of perspectives creates a tapestry of memory that feels authentic and heartfelt.

Where the film excels most is in its intention. Kahi is not interested in revisiting the controversy of the downgraded Victoria Cross. Instead, he seeks to restore the mana of Haane Manahi by focusing on what truly matters: the courage he showed, the lives he saved, and the legacy he left behind. The film positions him not as a figure defined by bureaucratic injustice, but as a hero whose actions speak louder than any medal.

In the end, Sgt. Haane is a film of immense cultural value. It may not deliver the scale or intensity of a large budget war epic, but it offers something far more meaningful. It provides a Māori-centred retelling of one of the most remarkable acts of bravery in New Zealand’s military history. It honours the men of B Company, acknowledges the whānau who have carried this story for decades, and invites the wider public to understand the depth of their sacrifice and connection.

Most importantly, it ensures that Haane Manahi’s story, once held quietly within families, now has a place on the silver screen, where it can be seen, remembered, and passed on.

Sgt. Haane will have commemorative screenings from 20-30th April, including ANZAC Day, and will be released nationwide on April 30th. Find your nearest screening here
 

SIRĀT (2025)

A father, accompanied by his son, goes looking for his missing daughter in North Africa.

Oliver Laxe’s Sirāt is a film that moves with the slow, drifting quality of a dream. It begins with a sense of hypnotic calm, as if the story is floating on a current of sound and dust. Then, without warning, it plunges into emotional turmoil. The film is not driven by plot. It is driven by sensation, by the feeling of being lost in a world that is falling apart. It is a work that lingers not because of what happens, but because of how it feels.

The story follows Luis, a father searching for his missing daughter Mar, and his young son Esteban. They travel through the mountains and deserts of southern Morocco, moving from rave to rave in the hope of finding someone who has seen her. The pair weave through crowds of dancers, offering her photograph to strangers. Their hope is fragile, but they continue forward because stopping would mean accepting the worst.

The film opens with a long rave sequence that stretches on for what feels like an eternity. The music pounds. Dust rises in waves. Bodies move in a trance. Time seems to dissolve. Laxe refuses to rush. He wants the audience to feel the pull of the rhythm, the way the rave becomes a world of its own. For some viewers, this will be intoxicating. For others, it will be overwhelming. The film does not try to please either group. It simply immerses you in the experience.

The trance is broken when soldiers arrive to shut down the party. The ravers scatter. Rumours of a global conflict spread through the crowd. The world outside the rave seems to be collapsing, but the ravers treat the news with a strange indifference. Their focus remains on the next gathering, the next burst of music, the next moment of escape. This contrast between global crisis and personal obsession becomes one of the film’s central tensions.

Luis and Esteban eventually join a small group of travellers who are heading toward another rave deeper in the desert. Many of them carry visible injuries or physical differences. They seem to have formed a community built on shared vulnerability. At first they want nothing to do with Luis, but his persistence earns him a place in their small convoy. Together they cross a vast and unforgiving landscape.

Laxe refuses to provide backstory. We never learn why Mar left home, or what her life was like before she disappeared. We never learn much about the ravers themselves. The characters arrive on screen without explanation, and the film leaves their histories untouched. This creates a sense of emotional distance. We recognise these people, but we never fully understand them. It is a deliberate choice that mirrors Luis’s own confusion. He is surrounded by others, yet he remains isolated.

The middle section of the film becomes a slow desert road movie. The group travels in battered vans across endless stretches of sand. The cinematography is breathtaking. The desert dwarfs the characters. They become tiny figures swallowed by heat and wind. Sandstorms erase their tracks. Supplies run low. Yet a fragile sense of community begins to form, especially between Esteban and the ravers, who treat him with a rough but genuine tenderness.

The score pulses quietly beneath the images. It is a low, mournful electronic rhythm that hints at the tragedies waiting ahead. When those tragedies arrive, they strike with shocking force. About halfway through the film, just when it seems to be drifting toward hope, Laxe delivers a devastating twist. It is the first of several. The film becomes increasingly painful and unpredictable. The calm of the early scenes gives way to chaos.

The final act descends into emotional devastation. The film becomes jagged, surreal, and deeply unsettling. The title refers to a narrow bridge in Islamic belief that souls must cross on the Day of Judgment. In the final stretch, that metaphor becomes almost literal. The characters feel suspended between life and death, hope and despair, connection and isolation.

Despite the bleakness, Sirāt is not a hopeless film. Laxe finds moments of tenderness amid the devastation. A shared joke. A gesture of care. A fleeting sense of belonging. The film suggests that empathy, however fragile, is what makes survival possible. Laxe refuses to judge his characters, even when they behave recklessly or selfishly. Instead, he observes them with a calm and almost spiritual neutrality.

Sirāt is not narratively strong. Many scenes feel aimless. The emotional stakes can be unclear. Yet the film’s power lies in its atmosphere. It burrows into your senses rather than your intellect. You do not leave with answers. You leave with sensations. You leave with images burned into your long-term memory.

It is slow. It is meandering. It is hypnotic. Then it breaks apart. When it breaks, it breaks completely.

Laxe has created a film that is difficult, frustrating, and unforgettable. It lingers not because of what happens, but because of how it feels. Sirāt is a reminder that some stories are not meant to guide you. They are meant to leave you wandering long after the credits fade.

Sirāt is coming to Aotearoa NZ cinemas March 5, 2026.

Find your nearest screening here

Review written by Alex Moulton

DEEPER (2025)

Explorer Richard Harris, key in the Thai cave rescue, risks all diving NZ's potentially deepest cave system. As he pushes limits underground with limited air, he questions his motivations and impact on loved ones.

Jennifer Peedom’s documentary Deeper offers an intimate look into the world of extreme cave diving through the eyes of Richard “Harry” Harris. The film positions itself as both an adventure story and a character study, and it succeeds most strongly in the latter. At its core, Deeper feels like a personal tribute from Harris to the pursuit that shaped his life. It is a reflection on a hobby that grew into a calling and eventually propelled him into global recognition after the Thai cave rescue. The documentary explores this passion with sincerity, although its narrow focus sometimes limits its broader appeal.

The film follows Harris and his long time diving companions, known collectively as the Wet Mules, as they attempt to push deeper into New Zealand’s Pearse Resurgence. This cave system is considered one of the most challenging and potentially deepest in the world. The team’s 2023 Hydrogen Expedition forms the spine of the narrative. Their goal is to overcome High-Pressure Nervous Syndrome (HPNS), which causes tremors, confusion, anxiety, and cognitive impairment in dives beyond 150m. The team aim to test hydrogen as a breathing gas at extreme depths, a concept that is both scientifically fascinating and inherently dangerous. The divers are fully aware of the risks involved. Hydrogen can explode if mishandled and can freeze lung tissue if delivered incorrectly. The film acknowledges these dangers, although it often does so in broad strokes rather than detailed explanations.

Peedom presents Harris as a thoughtful and humble figure. He repeatedly insists that he is not a brave man, which becomes a recurring theme throughout the documentary. His modesty is genuine, yet it also highlights the paradox at the heart of the film. Harris is drawn to environments that most people would never willingly enter. He is compelled to push deeper into the earth for reasons he struggles to articulate. The documentary attempts to explore this internal drive, but the answers remain elusive. This ambiguity is part of the film’s intrigue, although it may leave some viewers wanting a clearer sense of motivation.

One of the challenges Peedom faces is the inherently uncinematic nature of cave diving. The underwater world inside the Pearse Resurgence is dark and visually limited. Visibility is often poor and the divers move slowly through narrow spaces that offer little for the camera to capture. There are no sweeping mountain vistas or dramatic cliff faces. There are no dangerous animals lurking in the shadows. The danger is real, but it is internal and technical rather than visual. As a result, the documentary relies heavily on surface footage, interviews, and drone shots of the surrounding wilderness to create visual interest. These scenes are beautiful, although they sometimes feel disconnected from the central action.

The film also leans on the Thai cave rescue as a narrative anchor. For viewers who are not familiar with deep diving, these flashbacks provide emotional context and help explain why Harris is such a respected figure. They also serve as a reminder that his greatest achievement is already behind him. The documentary never states this outright, but the implication is clear. The shadow of Tham Luang hangs over the entire film. Harris’s new expedition is important to him and to the diving community, but it does not carry the same global stakes. This contrast shapes the way the audience experiences the story. The tension is quieter and more introspective, which may not satisfy viewers expecting a high intensity survival narrative.

Where Deeper is most engaging is in its exploration of the scientific and physiological challenges of extreme diving. The divers discuss high pressure neurological syndrome, tremors, cognitive impairment, and the mental strain that comes with descending to such depths. These topics are fascinating, yet the film often touches on them only briefly before moving on. Many viewers will likely wish for more detail. The process of mixing gases, the calculations behind the chosen ratios, the methods used to prevent explosions, and the logistics of switching breathing systems mid-dive are all mentioned but not explored in depth. These are the kinds of insights that could have drawn non-divers further into the story. The fact that the audience had many questions during the post-screening Q&A suggests that the documentary leaves some of its most interesting material underdeveloped.

Structurally, the film sometimes feels stretched. The runtime is modest, yet the pacing can feel slow because so much time is spent on introductions and background information. The documentary could have benefited from a tighter focus on the Hydrogen Expedition itself. A deeper dive into the cave system, its history, and its unique geological features would have added valuable context. Instead, the film often returns to Harris’s personal reflections, which are thoughtful but occasionally repetitive.

Despite these limitations, Deeper has several strengths that keep it engaging. The relationship between Harris and Craig Challen is one of the film’s emotional anchors. Their camaraderie provides warmth and humour, which helps balance the seriousness of the expedition. Their interactions reveal the human side of extreme exploration. They joke, they worry, and they support each other in ways that feel authentic and relatable. These moments give the documentary a sense of heart that elevates it beyond a simple adventure chronicle.

Peedom also makes effective use of maps, communication logs, and underwater audio to help the audience understand the divers’ progress. These tools provide clarity in an environment that is otherwise disorienting. The sound design is particularly strong. The rhythmic hiss of breathing equipment and the muffled stillness of the cave create an atmosphere that oscillates between serenity and anxiety. These sensory elements help convey the psychological experience of deep diving, even when the visuals are limited.

Ultimately, Deeper succeeds as a thoughtful portrait of a man who is driven by curiosity and a desire to test the limits of his own capabilities. It is informative and often compelling, although it does not always deliver the level of tension or scientific detail that some viewers may hope for. The documentary is most effective when it embraces its introspective nature. It invites the audience to sit with the mystery of why people like Harris pursue such extreme challenges. The film does not provide a definitive answer, and perhaps it never could. Some motivations live too far below the surface to be neatly explained.

Deeper had its Aotearoa NZ Premiere on January 16, 2025.

Keep an eye out for additional screenings here

Review written by Alex Moulton

28 YEARS LATER: THE BONE TEMPLE (2026)

As Spike is inducted into Jimmy Crystal's gang on the mainland, Dr. Kelson makes a discovery that could alter the world.

28 Years Later: The Bone Temple arrives as a strange and compelling artifact from a world that has been collapsing and rebuilding itself for nearly three decades. Director Nia DaCosta and writer Alex Garland choose not to expand the franchise outward into new territories. Instead, they burrow into the psychological and philosophical core of the universe that has grown around the Rage virus. The result is a film that feels ancient and newly imagined at the same time. It is chaotic in tone, intimate in scale, and surprisingly invigorating for a series that once defined the modern infected genre.

The earlier films in the franchise rarely paused to consider the infected as individuals. They were a force of nature, driven by fury rather than hunger, and the stories focused on the humans who tried to survive the storm. The Bone Temple overturns that long standing approach. It asks a question that has lingered in the background for years without ever being spoken aloud. What does the world feel like from inside the mind of an infected person?

The film answers this through one of the most unusual pairings the series has ever attempted. Ralph Fiennes returns as Dr Ian Kelson, a man who has spent so long alone that he seems carved from the same bleached bones he stacks into towering monuments. His companion is Samson, an Alpha infected whose enormous and unclothed body moves through the film with the presence of a mythic creature. Sedated by Kelson’s blowgun darts, Samson becomes something more than a monster. He becomes a being with a flicker of inner life, a presence that invites curiosity rather than fear.

Their scenes together are hypnotic. They nap in tall grass, sway to music, and share moments of stillness that feel almost sacred. At times, the film drifts into a dreamlike rhythm that resembles a strange hangout story between a scientist and the creature he refuses to abandon. Fiennes plays Kelson with a sincerity that borders on madness. He believes that compassion still matters, even after twenty eight years of devastation. Samson, played with surprising vulnerability by Chi Lewis Parry, becomes the first infected character in the franchise who feels like a person rather than a threat.

Running alongside this quiet and uncanny relationship is a far louder and more chaotic storyline. Spike, the child survivor from the previous film, is swept up by Jimmy Crystal. Jimmy was once an orphaned boy. He has now grown into a theatrical sadist who leads a gang of young men that share his name and his blond wig. Jack O’Connell plays him with the swagger of a street level mobster. His followers behave like a violent performance troupe, part cult and part roaming nightmare. Their scenes crackle with anarchic energy and recall the stylised brutality of A Clockwork Orange.

DaCosta avoids the specifically British tone that defined earlier entries. Instead, she frames the conflict as a mythic struggle between reason and fanaticism. Jimmy twists language into a tool of manipulation. He calls his cruelty “charity” and positions himself as a messianic figure of destruction. Kelson, in contrast, agonises over the infected and their inability to communicate at all. The film becomes a meditation on how words shape our humanity and how easily they can be corrupted. When Kelson and Jimmy finally collide, the result is theatrical, unsettling, and strangely beautiful in its own grim way.

Despite its thematic ambition, The Bone Temple is intentionally small. Gone are the sweeping landscapes and wide-ranging journeys of 28 Years Later. DaCosta narrows the world to a handful of characters and a few desolate locations. The effect is claustrophobic but purposeful. This is a story about what happens after survival. The apocalypse is no longer an event. It is a condition. The infected are no longer the only danger. The survivors have had decades to reinvent cruelty.

The film’s looseness will frustrate some viewers. Plot threads appear and vanish without resolution. A pregnant woman introduced midway through the story disappears entirely. Spike spends much of the runtime as a traumatised witness rather than an active participant. The narrative drifts between dreamlike sequences and abrupt violence. Yet this instability feels intentional. After twenty eight years of collapse, the world itself is unsteady.

What anchors the film is Fiennes. His performance is wild, tender, and completely committed. He elevates every scene he touches and grounds the film’s philosophical ideas in raw emotion. His Kelson is a man who has survived too long and refuses to surrender the last fragments of his humanity.

Tonally, the film is a kaleidoscope. It is bleak one moment, absurd the next, and then suddenly transcendent. The soundtrack mirrors this chaos. Radiohead’s melancholy sits beside the operatic fury of Iron Maiden. The combination should not work, yet somehow it does.

By the time the credits roll, The Bone Temple has reshaped the franchise. It is not larger in scope. It is deeper in spirit. It digs into the infected, into language, into belief, and into the strange ways people rebuild meaning after the world ends. It is messy, uneven, and occasionally baffling. It is also the freshest the series has felt in years. If the next film brings these threads together, the 28 saga may be heading toward something remarkable.

28 Years Later: The Bone Temple will be released in NZ cinemas from January 15, 2026

Find your nearest screening here

Review written by Alex Moulton

ANACONDA (2025)

Best friends Griff and Doug have always dreamed of remaking their all-time favorite movie "Anaconda." When a midlife crisis pushes them to finally go for it, they assemble a crew and head deep into the jungles of the Amazon to start filming. However, life soon imitates art when a gigantic anaconda with a thirst for blood starts hunting them down.

Tom Gormican’s Anaconda (2025) arrives with the kind of self‑aware swagger that tells you it knows exactly what it is: a meta‑reboot that doesn’t want to outdo the 1997 cult classic, doesn’t want to reinvent cinema, and definitely doesn’t want to take itself too seriously. Instead, Gormican and co‑writers Kevin Etten and Hans Bauer lean into a playful, chaotic, action‑comedy experiment that feels like a group of old friends dared each other to remake a beloved VHS from their youth. What starts as a nostalgic passion project quickly spirals into jungle‑soaked mayhem, existential panic, and a surprising amount of emotional sincerity.

The story follows a cluster of mid‑life‑crisis friends who decide to remake the Anaconda movie they adored as teenagers. It’s a clever pivot away from the original’s straight‑faced creature feature. Instead of retreading the same beats, the film reframes the premise as a movie‑within‑a‑movie, where the cast’s personal baggage becomes just as dangerous as the giant CGI snakes. It’s messy, it’s meta, and it’s genuinely refreshing to see a reboot that uses its inspiration as a springboard rather than a template.

Paul Rudd is the biggest surprise here. After years of perfecting the lovable ham routine, he flips his persona on its head and leans into a kind of deliberately awkward anti‑comedy. He plays an actor who thinks he’s serious, acts like he’s serious, and yet is so hilariously out of his depth that the performance becomes its own joke. There’s a subtle amateurishness to him; a lack of awareness that feels intentional and oddly endearing. It’s a fun contrast to his usual polished charm, and it gives the film a comedic texture that feels new for him.

Jack Black, meanwhile, is exactly the Jack Black you expect and want; loud, boisterous, playful, and clearly having the time of his life, he once again proves he’s the undisputed king of jungle‑set chaos. What’s interesting is that, for once, he isn’t the biggest energy source in the cast. Rudd’s chaotic earnestness often overshadows him, creating a fun inversion of their usual comedic dynamics. Black feels like the seasoned pro watching his friend unravel, and he leans into that dynamic beautifully.

Thandiwe Newton brings a surprising amount of heart to the film as Claire, the level‑headed corporate type who never lost sight of her friendships, or her old flames. She plays the “crushing girl” archetype with a theatrical subtlety that’s rare in a movie like this. Her emotions simmer in glances and pauses rather than being spelled out in dialogue. It’s refreshing to see a popcorn flick trust the audience enough to let subtext breathe. Newton gives the film a pulse it didn’t strictly need but is much better for having.

Steve Zahn’s Kenny is a walking mood swing, and it’s glorious. One moment he’s exhilarated, the next he’s depressed, then manic, then drunk, then weirdly philosophical. Zahn plays him as a man wrestling with his vices, but with a palpable love for his friends that keeps him from becoming a caricature. It’s a more unpredictable, more emotionally jagged version of the roles he’s known for, and that unpredictability becomes one of the film’s comedic engines. His chaotic emotional swings add a layer of texture that keeps scenes lively even when the plot slows down.

Selton Mello’s Santiago, the snake handler, is one of the film’s strangest and most delightful creations. Deadpan yet affectionate, sociopathic yet oddly nurturing, he feels like he wandered in from a completely different movie; and that contrast only makes him more compelling. The cast as a whole is a collection of extreme personalities, misfits and lovable disasters whose chemistry gives the film a scrappy, homemade charm.

Sony clearly relishes the opportunity to go meta. There are cameos, callbacks, and winks to the audience; some subtle, some not so subtle. Without spoiling anything, fans of the original will spot a few familiar faces. The film never mocks the 1997 classic; instead, it treats it like a beloved relic worth celebrating, remixing, and occasionally roasting. It’s a reboot that understands nostalgia without being trapped by it.

The snakes themselves are fully CGI and very obviously so. But because the film leans into comedy rather than horror, the artificial look becomes part of the charm. If this were a serious thriller, it would be less forgivable. 

There’s a definite Tropic Thunder energy to the whole affair (actors filming in the jungle, egos clashing, reality blurring with fiction) but Anaconda (2025) never reaches the same satirical heights. It’s gentler, sillier, and more affectionate toward its characters. Still, the comparison is earned, and fans of that style of comedy will find plenty to enjoy.

The soundtrack is another unexpected delight: a mix of unconventional tracks that shouldn’t work in a jungle‑snake‑meta‑comedy, yet somehow elevate every scene. It’s playful, unexpected, and perfectly aligned with the film’s “why not?” attitude. The music becomes part of the film’s identity, lifting even the goofiest moments.

While the film puts a fresh spin on the original, it still hits some familiar beats. There’s only so much you can do with a giant snake story, after all. And yes, it probably won’t be remembered as a genre‑defining reboot. But that’s not the point. Anaconda (2025) is a movie that shows up, makes you laugh, surprises you with a bit of heart, and then bows out gracefully. It’s a film that’s proudly here for a good time, not a long time; and sometimes, that’s exactly what you want.

Anaconda will be released in NZ cinemas from December 26, 2025

Find your nearest screenings here

Review written by Alex Moulton

FALLOUT SEASON 2 (2025)

In a future, post-apocalyptic Los Angeles brought about by nuclear decimation, citizens must live in underground bunkers to protect themselves from radiation, mutants and bandits.

Fallout Season 2 opens with confidence, plunging straight into New Vegas and delivering the mix of nostalgia, strong performances, and atmospheric world‑building that fans have been waiting two years to see. The first episodes waste no time reintroducing Lucy (Ella Purnell) and The Ghoul (Walton Goggins), whose unlikely partnership remains the emotional core of the series. For longtime players of Fallout: New Vegas, the immediate appearance of the Dinky the T‑Rex landmark is a perfect nod; more than just fan service, it signals that the showrunners understand the emotional pull of the game’s world.

The narrative picks up exactly where Season 1 ended, maintaining continuity while building anticipation for the journey ahead. The structure still shifts between multiple arcs, echoing the rhythm of the games. At times this back‑and‑forth can feel heavy, but it enriches the larger tapestry, reminding us that every character has their own quest. Walton Goggins continues to steal scenes as The Ghoul, balancing menace with sardonic humour, while Ella Purnell’s Lucy brings optimism to the wasteland’s bleakness. Aaron Moten’s Maximus is the standout of these early episodes, his arc evolving from insecure Brotherhood squire into something far more layered.

Visually, the show captures the ambience of New Vegas with striking fidelity. Grainy textures, faded colours, and unexpected pockets of life evoke the game’s atmosphere, while the production design ensures New Vegas feels like a living, contradictory city; glamorous yet decayed, wealthy yet desperate. Practical sets combined with CGI give the world weight, making the wasteland itself feel like a character.

Plot threads involving Lucy’s father, Hank MacLean (Kyle MacLachlan), add intrigue. Once seen as a hero, Hank is revealed as a morally compromised Vault‑Tec employee secretly working for Mr House. His duplicity underscores the series’ central theme: appearances deceive, and survival often demands compromise. Mr House’s brief but chilling introduction captures the same malevolence that defined him in the games, hinting at larger conflicts to come. Already, glimpses of factions like the Great Khans and Caesar’s Legion suggest the show will attempt to balance the sprawling political landscape of New Vegas.

One of the adaptation’s challenges is how to handle the branching narratives that made the game iconic. With multiple possible endings, the series must honour player choice while crafting a coherent television story. Showrunner Geneva Robertson‑Dworet has confirmed that Season 2 will weave these possibilities into continuity without locking into a single “canon” path, a bold move that raises anticipation for how conflicting agendas, such as Mr House, Caesar’s Legion, the Brotherhood of Steel, the NCR, will collide.

Episodes 1 and 2 succeed in laying this groundwork. They balance fan service with narrative progression, offering familiar landmarks and factions while pushing characters into new territory. The pacing occasionally dips, particularly during transitions between arcs, but the exploratory feel mirrors the games themselves. Just as players wander from quest to quest, the series embraces digressions, trusting the audience to enjoy the cumulative effect.

The atmosphere is where the show excels. The wasteland is not just a backdrop but a mood, conveyed through sound design, cinematography, and pacing. Watching these episodes feels akin to playing Fallout: New Vegas late at night; wandering through desolate landscapes punctuated by sudden bursts of violence or beauty. That the series can replicate this sensation is a testament to its creative team.

If there are weaknesses, they lie in the occasional fatigue caused by constant shifts between storylines, which sometimes interrupt the momentum of Lucy and The Ghoul’s journey. Yet this ensemble approach reflects the ethos of the games: no single character or faction dominates, and every perspective matters.

Overall, the first episodes deliver a strong start. They honour the legacy of Fallout: New Vegas while carving out new narrative space, with compelling performances, immersive design, and thematic depth. Most importantly, they capture the paradox at the heart of Fallout; a world ravaged by apocalypse yet still teeming with humour, hope, and resilience. For fans who have waited two years, the return is more than worth it. The journey into New Vegas promises to be both nostalgic and surprising, a testament to the enduring power of the Fallout universe.

Season One is currently available to stream on Prime Video
Fallout Season 2 is streaming from Wednesday December 17 on Prime Video.
A new episode will be released weekly 

Review written by Jack Kemp

Edited by Alex Moulton

THE RUNNING MAN (2025)

A man joins a game show in which contestants, allowed to go anywhere in the world, are pursued by "hunters" hired to kill them.

Edgar Wright’s The Running Man is a bold reimagining of Stephen King’s novel and the 1987 Schwarzenegger film. With Wright at the helm, Glen Powell in the lead, and a supporting cast stacked with talent, the film sets out to deliver a dystopian spectacle that feels both thrilling and eerily familiar. While not flawless, it succeeds in being an entertaining, thought‑provoking ride that keeps audiences invested from start to finish.

The story centers on Ben Richards (Powell), a man living in a future where corporations have replaced government, poverty is rampant, and entertainment has become the lifeblood of society. Fired from jobs for "insubordination" a.k.a. whistleblowing, Richards finds himself blacklisted, unable to provide for his family. His wife Sheila (Jayme Lawson) works nights in degrading conditions, while their daughter suffers from an illness they cannot afford to treat. It’s a setup that resonates strongly with contemporary anxieties about healthcare, inequality, and corporate dominance.

Wright’s vision of this world is striking. Streets are crumbling, yet screens and gadgets saturate every corner, distracting citizens from their decay. Surveillance is omnipresent, but no one resists because the system keeps them entertained. It’s a chillingly believable dystopia, one that doesn’t feel far removed from our own reality of streaming platforms, social media obsession, and widening wealth gaps.

Desperate, Richards volunteers for “The Running Man,” a televised bloodsport hosted by the flamboyant Bobby T (Colman Domingo). Contestants must survive thirty days while being hunted by corporate‑backed killers, with ordinary citizens incentivized to betray them for rewards. The prize: wealth beyond imagination. The cost: almost certain death.

From the moment Richards enters the game, the film rarely lets up. Action sequences propel him through sewers, decayed apartment blocks, and neon‑lit streets. Powell throws himself into the role, sprinting, fighting, and snarling his way through relentless pursuit. These sequences are the film’s highlight; kinetic, inventive, and genuinely thrilling. Wright’s flair for choreography and visual spectacle shines, even if one wishes there were more of these set pieces to balance the heavy exposition.

Glen Powell is undeniably the film’s centerpiece. His natural charisma is offset by a deliberately abrasive edge. Richards is not quite a charming hero; he’s angry, impatient, and prone to violence. Powell’s cocky delivery and smirking bravado can be grating, but they suit the character’s volatility. He embodies a man who doesn’t seek revenge so much as a fair chance for survival and dignity. Whether audiences warm to him or not, Powell’s commitment is undeniable, and he carries the film through its uneven stretches.

The supporting players, unfortunately, don’t fare as well. Colman Domingo electrifies as Bobby T, a showman who embodies the grotesque marriage of charisma and cruelty. Josh Brolin, as producer Dan Killian, nails the cold calculation of a man profiting from human suffering. Yet beyond these standouts, many actors are sidelined. William H. Macy, Katy M. O’Brian, Michael Cera, and Emilia Jones appear briefly in roles that add little to the narrative. Their presence feels more like padding than necessity, contributing to the film’s bloated runtime of 133 minutes. One can’t help but wish Wright had trimmed these diversions or given more depth to the allies Richards encounters along the way.

Wright and co‑writers Stephen King and Michael Bacall attempt to tackle a laundry list of sociopolitical issues: healthcare inequities, class divides, corporate corruption, propaganda, labor exploitation, and the dangers of spectacle culture. The film gestures at all of these, but rarely pauses to explore them meaningfully. Instead, they serve as background noise to the action, lip service rather than incisive commentary. The result is a movie that feels intellectually ambitious but emotionally thin.

This imbalance is most evident in the film’s third act. After two acts of inventive world‑building and propulsive action, the narrative stalls. The climax drags, weighed down by tonal clashes between satire, melodrama, and action. Wright introduces dream sequences and unreliable perspectives (i.e. violent fantasies, stress dreams, manipulated footage) that add intrigue but destabilize the story and stakes. By the time the ending arrives, it feels cobbled together, lacking the catharsis the buildup promised.

Production designer Marcus Rowland deserves immense credit for the film’s look. The environments are futuristic yet grounded, avoiding the slick sterility that often plagues dystopian cinema. The world feels lived‑in, decayed, and believable. Combined with Wright’s kinetic direction, the film is visually captivating. Yet this polish is also part of the problem. For a story about desperation and decay, the film sometimes feels too clean, too sterile, too safe. The grit and unpredictability that should define this dystopia are smoothed over by Wright’s meticulous style.

The Running Man is a paradox: a film that is both exhilarating and frustrating, both relevant and shallow. Its first half is fantastic; immersive, bleak, and thrilling. Its second half loses steam, weighed down by exposition, underdeveloped side characters, and a climax that fails to deliver. Powell’s performance is divisive but undeniably committed, while Domingo and Brolin provide memorable turns. The action sequences are a joy, but too few to sustain the lengthy runtime.

Ultimately, the film is enjoyable, but it feels like a missed opportunity. With source material this rich and a director as inventive as Wright, one expects more than a polished, formulaic dystopian thriller. Instead, we get a movie that entertains but doesn’t linger, a spectacle that mirrors our own world’s obsession with entertainment but doesn’t fully interrogate it.

In a way, that’s the most unsettling part. Wright’s dystopia is frighteningly close to reality, yet the film itself succumbs to the same flaw it critiques: prioritizing spectacle over substance. The Running Man may keep us entertained, but it leaves us wanting more; more depth, more grit, more meaning. And in a world where corporations already dominate our screens, that feels like a missed chance to truly run with the story.

The Running Man was released in NZ cinemas on November 13, 2025

Find your nearest screening here

Review written by Alex Moulton