A VIEW FROM THE BRIDGE (2026)

Eddie Carbone is a Brooklyn longshoreman who works with his hands and lives by his own code. When he takes in two cousins straight off the boat, he offers them a roof and a shot at a better life. But when one falls for his niece, Catherine, it lights a fuse. Pride, jealousy, obsession — and the fallout is brutal.

Walking into Silo Theatre’s staging of A View From The Bridge, you would be forgiven for expecting a dense, word‑heavy drama. The promotional imagery leans into shadow and tension, and the synopsis hints at a story steeped in tragedy, migration, and moral collapse. What you do not expect is how stark the production is, how little it relies on theatrical clutter, and how much power can be generated from a stage that is almost bare. It is a reminder that when a company trusts its actors and trusts the writing, the result can hit harder than any elaborate set ever could.

Photo credit: Andi Crown 

Directed by Anapela Polataivao, a long‑time collaborator with Silo, this version of Arthur Miller’s classic feels like it has been stripped back to its bones. There is no ornamentation, no unnecessary movement, no attempt to soften the edges of Miller’s world. Instead, the production leans into the rawness of the text, allowing the emotional fractures of the Carbone household to echo through the space with startling clarity.

The story unfolds in a tight Italian American community on the outskirts of 1950s New York. Eddie Carbone, a longshoreman who prides himself on being a provider, welcomes two of Beatrice’s cousins into his home. They have arrived without legal documentation, hoping to earn enough money to support their families back in Italy. What begins as an act of generosity slowly unravels as Eddie’s protectiveness over his niece Catherine reveals itself to be something far more complicated. The arrival of Rodolpho, with his bright energy and unashamed charm, becomes the catalyst for a descent that feels both inevitable and horrifying.

Photo credit: Andi Crown 

What makes this production so striking is how it refuses to hide behind theatrical tricks. The set is essentially a raised square platform, surrounded on multiple sides by seating. Above it, suspended black cubes create a sense of confinement, as if the characters are living under a weight they cannot name. The only physical objects onstage are a chair and a phone. Everything else is carried by the performers, by the way they move, by the way they look at one another, and by the silences that stretch between them.

The design by Rachel Marlow and Bradley Gledhill uses canvas‑lined platforms and catwalks that allow performers to come and go, and light to seep through, in thin, controlled lines. It creates a world that feels porous, as if the characters are constantly exposed. The lighting never distracts. Instead, it sharpens the emotional temperature of each moment. Matt Eller’s sound design is equally restrained, relying on resonance and vibration rather than melody. The result is a soundscape that sits under the action like a pulse, tightening whenever the tension rises.

Photo credit: Andi Crown 

This minimalism places enormous pressure on the cast, and they rise to it with remarkable precision. Beulah Koale’s Eddie is the centre of gravity, and he plays the role with a physicality that is both familiar and deeply unsettling. He begins the play relaxed, almost casual, the kind of man who fills a room without trying. As the story progresses, his body tightens, his voice thickens, and his presence becomes something volatile. There are moments where he channels the barely contained fury of Jake Heke from Once Were Warriors, not in imitation but in emotional truth. It is the sense of a man who has never learned how to name his feelings, only how to enforce them.

Opposite him, Stacey Leilua’s Beatrice is a portrait of a woman stretched thin. Her performance is full of quiet strength, the kind that comes from years of holding a family together while slowly losing her place within it. Her frustration is palpable, but so is her compassion. She sees what Eddie refuses to see, and Leilua plays that awareness with heartbreaking restraint.

Photo credit: Andi Crown 

Hanah Tayeb brings a youthful brightness to Catherine, capturing the innocence of a young woman who is only just beginning to understand her own desires. Her chemistry with Arlo Green’s Rodolpho is light and playful, a welcome contrast to the heaviness that surrounds them. Green leans into Rodolpho’s eccentricities with joy, stretching syllables, laughing freely, and embracing the character’s theatricality. It is easy to see why Catherine is drawn to him, and equally easy to see why Eddie cannot stand him.

Jesme Fa’auuga’s Marco is the quiet force of the production. He spends much of the play holding himself back, keeping his emotions contained, and when he finally unleashes them, the effect is chilling. His final confrontation with Eddie is one of the most powerful moments of the night, not because of volume, but because of the weight behind every word and action.

Photo credit: Andi Crown 

Mata’afa Semu Filipo, as Alfieri, frames the story with a lawyer’s detachment. His narration initially feels stiff, almost too formal, but as the play progresses, that stiffness becomes part of the tragedy. He is a man who can see the disaster coming and is powerless to stop it. Dylan Thuraisingham’s Louis rounds out the ensemble, always present at the edges, grounding the world with small gestures that make the community feel lived‑in.

What surprised me most, as someone who walked in without knowing the full story, was how gripping the experience was. The opening narration made me worry that the production might lean too heavily on dialogue, but those fears vanished quickly. The pacing is deliberate, but never slow. The emotional stakes rise steadily, and by the time the final scenes arrive, the tension is almost unbearable. It does not feel like watching a play. It feels like watching real people unravel in front of you.

Photo credit: Andi Crown 

The themes of migration, belonging, and masculinity resonate strongly in a contemporary New Zealand context. The fear of outsiders, the pressure placed on men to be providers, the unspoken rules that govern family loyalty, all feel painfully familiar. Miller’s writing exposes the cracks in these systems, and Polataivao’s direction ensures those cracks are impossible to ignore.

What lingers after the final moment is not the violence, nor the betrayal, but the sense that this catastrophe could never have ended any other way. Every character is displaced, either physically or emotionally. Everyone sees the truth except the man who needs to see it most. The tragedy is not in the act itself, but in the long, slow march toward it.

Arthur Miller's A View From The Bridge is being performed at Auckland's Q Theatre from April 11 - May 3, 2026. Purchase tickets here

Review written by Alex Moulton

CATERPILLAR (2026)

When Dementia shows up unannounced and flips life on its head, three imperfect generations of a matriarchy are forced to unite if they want to survive.

Chelsie Preston Crayford’s Caterpillar is a film that understands the power of simplicity. It does not rely on elaborate plot twists or dramatic confrontations. Instead, it focuses on the quiet, everyday struggles that shape family life. This approach gives the film a sense of honesty that is both refreshing and deeply affecting. What begins as a modest domestic story becomes a moving exploration of love, responsibility, and the complicated ways people care for one another.

The film is set in Wellington in 2003 and follows three generations of women who share a home during a period of significant change. Their house feels lived in and familiar, the kind of place where every room holds memories and every conversation carries the weight of past experiences. This sense of place grounds the story and allows the emotional moments to feel natural rather than constructed.

At the heart of the film is Huia, played by Lisa Harrow. Huia is beginning to experience the early stages of dementia, and the film captures this with remarkable sensitivity. Her confusion appears in small, everyday moments. A forgotten word. A misplaced object. A sudden shift in mood. These moments are portrayed with a quiet realism that avoids sensationalism. Huia becomes increasingly isolated, yet absorbed in her fascination with monarch butterflies, and the film uses this motif to offer glimpses into her inner world. The butterfly sequences are gentle and poetic, providing a visual language for the disorientation she cannot express verbally. Some viewers may find these scenes slightly idealised, but they serve as a compassionate way of showing her experience.

Huia’s daughter Maxine, played by Marta Dusseldorp, is a filmmaker who has spent years trying to complete a project that has consumed her life. She is driven and passionate, but also overwhelmed by financial pressure and the emotional labour of caring for her family. Maxine’s storyline is one of ambition and sacrifice. She wants to create something meaningful, but her determination often leads her to overlook the needs of the people around her. Harrow brings a raw honesty to the role, capturing the tension between personal ambition and family responsibility with a performance that feels grounded and real.

The third member of the household is Cassie, the teenage granddaughter, played by Anais Shand. Cassie is searching for a sense of identity and belonging. She wants connection through friendships, romance, and creative communities. She is trying to understand who she is while navigating the emotional fallout of the adults’ choices. Shand’s performance is understated and natural, giving Cassie a sense of vulnerability that feels authentic.

What makes Caterpillar so compelling is the way these three storylines intersect. Each woman wants something different, and their desires constantly collide. Huia wants to hold onto her independence for as long as possible. Maxine wants to finish the film she has poured years of her life into. Cassie wants to feel seen and understood by the adults in her life. None of these desires are unreasonable, yet they are not able to coexist without conflict. The film understands this tension intimately. It shows how love can coexist with frustration, and how caring for someone can sometimes feel indistinguishable from resenting them.

Communication plays a significant role in the family’s unraveling. The film does not rely on explosive arguments. Instead, it focuses on the quieter forms of dishonesty. The things left unsaid. The truths softened or avoided. The omissions that seem harmless until they accumulate into something much heavier. These small fractures create a sense of inevitability as the story progresses. You can feel the conflict approaching long before it arrives, and that anticipation gives the film a bittersweet quality.

Despite the emotional weight of the story, Caterpillar rarely feels bleak. The butterfly imagery provides moments of beauty and calm. The warm colours and gentle movement offer a sense of hope, even as the characters grapple with loss and change. These scenes remind the audience that transformation, however painful, is still a form of growth.

The film’s simplicity is one of its greatest strengths. It does not try to overcomplicate its narrative or force its themes. Instead, it trusts the audience to recognise the universal experiences at its core. The fear of losing someone before they are gone. The frustration of feeling unseen. The longing to be understood. The guilt that comes with wanting something for yourself when others need you. These emotions are woven into the story with a light touch, making the film feel both intimate and expansive.

By the time the credits roll, Caterpillar leaves a lingering sense of reflection. It is not a film that offers easy answers or neat resolutions. Instead, it invites the audience to sit with the complexity of its characters and the tenderness of their relationships. It is relatable in a way that feels almost uncomfortable at times, but that is precisely what makes it so moving. The film understands that families are complicated, that love is rarely tidy, and that letting go is one of the hardest things we ever face.

Caterpillar may appear simple on the surface, but its emotional depth is unmistakable. It is a film that touches the heart with quiet precision and leaves a lasting impression.

Caterpillar is in NZ cinemas from May 14, 2026

Find your nearest screening here

Review written by Alex Moulton

PROJECT HAIL MARY (2026)

Science teacher Ryland Grace wakes up alone on a spaceship light-years from Earth. As his memory returns, he uncovers a mission to stop a mysterious substance killing the sun, and save Earth. An unexpected friendship may be the key.

Project Hail Mary begins with a simple but gripping hook. A man wakes up alone on a spacecraft with no memory of who he is or why he is there. The room is sterile, the silence is heavy, and the only company he has are the lifeless bodies of his crewmates. It is a stark opening that immediately sets the tone for a story built on mystery, isolation, and the slow, methodical process of piecing together the truth. Ryan Gosling plays Ryland Grace, a middle school science teacher turned reluctant astronaut, and he brings a gentle, slightly bewildered charm to the role that makes the early scenes feel grounded even when the stakes are cosmic.

The film uses a dual timeline structure, cutting between Grace’s present in deep space and the events on Earth that led to his mission. This approach mirrors the structure of the novel and gives the story a puzzle-like rhythm. We watch Grace rediscover his identity in space while simultaneously learning how he ended up there in the first place. The idea is strong, but the execution is uneven. The transitions between timelines can feel abrupt, and the Earth-bound scenes sometimes lack the energy of the space sequences. They provide important context, but they do not always deepen the emotional impact. The pacing in the first act is especially slow, with long stretches of scientific problem solving that feel more functional than dramatic.

Still, the film has a clear emotional core, and it begins to reveal itself once Grace encounters Rocky, an alien engineer from a distant star system who is facing the same extinction-level threat. Their meeting is the moment the film truly comes alive. Rocky is brought to life with impressive visual effects that strike a balance between alien strangeness and expressive warmth. His design avoids the usual humanoid shortcuts, giving him a distinctive silhouette and a tactile presence that makes him feel real. The filmmakers lean into his physicality, letting him move, gesture, and react in ways that are both unfamiliar and endearing.

The relationship between Grace and Rocky becomes the heart of the film. Their attempts to communicate are funny, awkward, and surprisingly touching. They build a shared language through sound, gesture, and trial and error, and the process feels organic rather than rushed. Their dynamic is full of small, human moments that make the larger stakes feel more personal. Grace teaching Rocky a fist bump is a standout example. It is silly, warm, and exactly the kind of detail that makes their friendship believable. The film’s humour flows naturally from their interactions, never undercutting the tension but giving the story a sense of life and personality.

Gosling’s performance is central to this. He plays Grace as a man who never expected to be a hero and still does not quite believe he is one. His scientific curiosity, his quiet resilience, and his occasional flashes of panic all feel authentic. He carries the emotional weight of the story without ever slipping into melodrama. His scenes with Rocky are some of the most engaging in the film, and the chemistry between them is strong enough to carry the entire second act.

Visually, Project Hail Mary is consistently impressive. The spacecraft interiors feel functional and worn, with a sense of realism that grounds the more fantastical elements. The cosmic landscapes are rendered with clarity and scale, giving the film a sense of vastness without overwhelming the characters. Rocky’s homeworld, glimpsed through shared memories and scientific analysis, is depicted with imagination and detail. The visual effects team clearly put thought into how an alien species might evolve under different environmental pressures, and the result feels both creative and plausible.

The film’s biggest weaknesses lie in its pacing and editing. The early sections take their time, sometimes too much of it, and the flashback structure occasionally interrupts the emotional flow. The Earth scenes, while necessary for exposition, rarely match the energy of the space sequences. They introduce political tension, scientific debate, and the global stakes of the mission, but they do not always deepen our connection to Grace. The editing choices sometimes feel like speed bumps, slowing the momentum just as the story begins to build.

Despite these issues, the film steadily gains emotional strength as it moves toward its final act. The bond between Grace and Rocky becomes the driving force of the story, and the film leans into that connection with sincerity. The climax is both thrilling and unexpectedly tender, focusing less on spectacle and more on the personal sacrifices required to save not just one world but two. The ending avoids the usual bombast of sci-fi blockbusters and instead delivers something more intimate and heartfelt.

What makes Project Hail Mary stand out is its sincerity. It is a film that believes in cooperation, curiosity, and the idea that friendship can form across impossible distances. It is a story about two beings who should have nothing in common but discover that they share everything that matters. The film’s humour, heart, and sense of wonder all stem from that central relationship, and it is what lingers long after the credits roll.

Gosling anchors the film with a performance that is both understated and emotionally rich. The direction balances spectacle with character, and the visual effects bring Rocky to life in a way that feels fresh and memorable. The pacing issues and uneven editing hold the film back from greatness, but they do not diminish its emotional impact.

In the end, Project Hail Mary is a sci-fi adventure with genuine heart. It is slow in places and occasionally clunky, but it is also warm, funny, visually striking, and anchored by one of the most charming interspecies friendships ever put on screen. It is a story about hope, resilience, and the strange beauty of connection, even when the sun itself is fading.

Project Hail Mary is in NZ cinemas from March 19, 2026

Find your nearest screening here

Review written by Jack Kemp

Edited by Alex Moulton

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

CRIME 101

An elusive thief, eyeing his final score, encounters a disillusioned insurance broker at her own crossroads. As their paths intertwine, a relentless detective trails them hoping to thwart the multi-million dollar heist they are planning.

Bart Layton’s Crime 101, adapted from Don Winslow’s short story, arrives with all the ingredients of a polished crime thriller. It has a seasoned detective on the edge of burnout, a meticulous thief planning one last job, an insurance manager caught in the crossfire, and a wildcard criminal who thrives on chaos. On paper, it promises a tense, character-driven cat and mouse story set against a neo noir backdrop. In practice, the film delivers a competent and occasionally gripping experience, though it rarely pushes beyond the familiar rhythms of the genre. It is a film that works well enough in the moment, even if it never quite finds the emotional or thematic spark that would make it linger.

The story follows Davis, played by Chris Hemsworth, an elusive thief whose reputation rests on precision, restraint, and a strict personal code. He is preparing for what he hopes will be his final and most ambitious heist. His path crosses with Sharon, an insurance manager portrayed by Halle Berry, whose own career frustrations and personal disappointments make her unexpectedly receptive to Davis’s proposition. Meanwhile, Detective Lou Lubeski, played by Mark Ruffalo, is closing in on the case. Lubeski is a man worn down by years of chasing criminals who always seem to slip through his fingers. His pursuit of Davis becomes a way to reclaim a sense of purpose that has been eroded by time, bureaucracy, and the quiet collapse of his personal life.

Complicating all of this is Orman, played by Barry Keoghan, a rival thief whose methods are far more violent and unpredictable. Keoghan leans into the unsettling qualities that have become a hallmark of his screen presence. He brings a jittery, unnerving energy that cuts through the otherwise controlled tone of the film. Whenever he appears, the story sharpens. His presence injects a sense of danger that the rest of the narrative sometimes struggles to generate on its own.

The dynamic between these four characters forms the core of the film. Each of them is exhausted in their own way. Lubeski is fighting the slow erosion of his ideals. Davis is trying to escape a life that has defined him for too long. Sharon is pushing against a career that has stalled. Even Orman, in his own twisted fashion, seems driven by a need to disrupt the world around him simply to feel something. The film positions them as people reaching the end of their patience, their ambition, or their illusions. This shared sense of midlife crisis gives the story a thematic throughline, even if the execution is sometimes uneven.

One of the film’s limitations is its decision to begin after Davis’s carefully constructed world has already started to unravel. We are told that he is a master thief who never leaves evidence and never harms anyone, yet we never see him successfully pull off one of these supposedly flawless heists. The film relies on exposition and the testimony of other characters to establish his reputation. As a result, the foundation feels slightly shaky. A more patient opening, one that allowed us to witness Davis at the height of his abilities, might have given the story a stronger emotional and narrative anchor. Instead, we meet him at a moment of decline, which makes it harder to appreciate what he stands to lose.

The performances are solid across the board, though the chemistry between the leads is not always strong enough to elevate the material. Hemsworth delivers a surprisingly restrained performance, leaning into Davis’s social awkwardness and obsessive tendencies. It is an interesting choice, though it does come at the cost of some charisma. Ruffalo once again proves adept at playing men who are frayed at the edges. His portrayal of Lubeski captures the moral fatigue of someone who cannot let go of a case even when everyone around him urges him to move on. Berry, unfortunately, is given less to work with. Sharon’s role in the story makes sense on paper, but the film never fully explores her inner life or her motivations. Berry does what she can, but the character feels underwritten, especially considering her talent and screen presence.

Visually, the film is confident. Layton and his team craft a world that blends grit with polish. The color palette leans into darker tones, giving the film a moody texture that suits its themes. At times, though, the aesthetic shifts toward something cleaner and more sanitized, which creates a slight inconsistency in the overall feel. The action sequences, particularly the car chases, are energetic and well executed. They add momentum, but they are not always essential to the plot. Some of them feel like attempts to inject excitement into moments where the emotional stakes are not fully developed.

The film’s biggest challenge is its emotional distance. The characters are well defined in concept, but their relationships and backstories never fully resonate. The script gestures toward deeper conflicts and personal histories, yet these elements rarely land with the intended weight. The result is a story that is engaging on a surface level but does not leave much of an imprint once the credits roll. The climax is serviceable, offering a tidy resolution to the central conflict, but it lacks the catharsis or surprise that might have elevated the film beyond its genre conventions.

Still, Crime 101 is not without its strengths. It is competently made, well acted, and paced with enough urgency to keep the viewer invested. Keoghan’s performance in particular gives the film a jolt of unpredictability that prevents it from feeling too safe. Layton’s direction is steady, and the adaptation captures the broad strokes of Winslow’s story even if it does not fully embrace the moral complexity that makes his work so compelling.

In the end, Crime 101 is a film that will satisfy viewers looking for a straightforward crime thriller with familiar beats and polished execution. It is not groundbreaking, and it does not aspire to be. It is the kind of movie that fills two hours comfortably, offering enough tension and action to hold attention without demanding much in return. It may not linger in the memory, but it delivers a competent and occasionally gripping experience while it lasts.

Crime 101 is in NZ cinemas from February 12, 2026

Find your nearest screening here

Review written by Alex Moulton

NO OTHER CHOICE (2025)

A man is laid off from the paper company he has worked at for 25 years. Over a year later and still jobless, he hits on a solution: eliminate the competition.

Park Chan-wook’s No Other Choice arrives with the kind of creative pedigree that immediately raises expectations. With Park directing, and a cast led by the magnetic Lee Byung-hun, the film promises a stylish and morally complex descent into desperation. In many respects it delivers exactly that. The craftsmanship is meticulous, the performances are layered, and the thematic ambition is unmistakable. Yet for all its technical strength, No Other Choice is a film that seems determined to keep its audience unsettled. Sometimes this works in its favour, and sometimes it becomes a barrier to engagement.

At the centre of the story is Yoo Man-su, a man who has spent twenty-five years shaping his identity around his job at a paper mill. He is the kind of worker who embodies loyalty and discipline. When an American corporation acquires the mill, Man-su refuses to fire the colleagues he trained and respects. His refusal results in his own dismissal. The firing is delivered with the sterile politeness of modern corporate bureaucracy, and the impact on his life is immediate and devastating.

Park presents this downfall as a slow collapse rather than a dramatic explosion. Bills accumulate. His family’s stability begins to crumble. Job postings appear, but every vacancy attracts a crowd of men who look and sound exactly like him. They are interchangeable, desperate, and shaped by the same system that has now discarded them. It is in this environment that Man-su reaches a disturbing conclusion. He decides that the only way to secure a job is to eliminate the competition. Not figuratively. Literally.

This premise could have been played as a brisk and darkly comic thriller. Park chooses a more uncomfortable path. Each action and decision is drawn out, chaotic, and riddled with complications. Man-su learns too much about his competition. He discovers their families, their struggles, and their disappointments. They are not villains. They are reflections of him. This emotional proximity complicates his mission and creates a sense of moral nausea that lingers throughout the film.

The tonal shifts begin early and never settle into a predictable rhythm. The first attempted murder collapses into a bizarre sequence involving mistaken identity and slapstick physicality. Later scenes plunge into much darker territory. Park seems intent on denying the audience any stable emotional footing. One moment the film invites laughter at Man-su’s ineptitude, the next moment it confronts the viewer with the bleakness of his situation and the violence he is capable of committing.

This instability is both the film’s most distinctive quality and its most significant challenge. Viewers who are familiar with Park’s genre-blending tendencies may find the constant shifts intriguing. Mainstream audiences, particularly those who already struggle with subtitles, may find themselves adrift. The film refuses to commit to a single identity. It is not a straightforward thriller, nor a pure comedy, nor a conventional drama. Instead, it occupies a space that mirrors Man-su’s own psychological state. He is confused, conflicted, and constantly on the edge of collapse. The film reflects that instability in its structure and tone.

Visually, the film is striking. Cinematographer Kim Woo-hyung delivers a series of inventive and sometimes audacious shots that keep the viewer engaged even when the pacing slows. The camera peers up from the bottom of a glass, stares out from the eye of a corpse, and finds unusual angles that heighten the sense of disorientation. Production designer Ryu Seong-hie complements this with environments that feel both authentic and symbolically charged. Homes appear comfortable until the cracks reveal themselves. Workplaces appear efficient until the underlying dehumanisation becomes clear.

Lee Byung-hun anchors the film with a performance that is as unpredictable as the narrative itself. He moves between simmering rage, awkward tenderness, and genuine menace with remarkable fluidity. One moment he appears bumbling and overwhelmed. The next moment he becomes genuinely frightening. This volatility makes him compelling to watch, even as his moral compass dissolves. He is not a hero and not even an antihero. He is a man cornered by a system that has no use for him, making choices that are indefensible yet tragically understandable.

The film’s most significant weakness is its pacing. At two and a half hours, No Other Choice stretches its material further than necessary. Scenes that should be tight and tense are allowed to sprawl. The first murder attempt, in particular, feels far longer than it needs to be. The sequence begins with promise but continues long after its narrative purpose has been fulfilled. The cumulative effect is a film that feels heavier than the story requires. Its momentum is repeatedly interrupted by indulgent detours.

Despite these issues, the film offers a sharp critique of modern capitalism. Park dismantles any lingering nostalgia for the industrial past. Workers who were once valued for their skill are now rendered obsolete by automation and corporate indifference. The men Man-su targets are not rivals by choice. They are casualties of a system that forces them into competition. The violence becomes a grotesque metaphor for the economic pressures they face.

Ultimately, No Other Choice is a film that rewards patience but demands tolerance for discomfort. It is visually inventive, thematically rich, and anchored by a magnetic central performance. Its refusal to settle into a single tone, combined with its deliberate pacing, makes it a polarizing experience. Viewers expecting a conventional thriller or a neatly packaged black comedy may find themselves frustrated.

Park Chan-wook has created something bold, messy, and memorable. Whether audiences embrace it or recoil from it will depend on their appetite for tonal chaos and their willingness to sit with a story that offers no easy catharsis. The film may not be universally accessible, but it is unmistakably the work of a filmmaker who is unafraid to push boundaries, even at the risk of alienating viewers who prefer their cinema more neatly categorised.

 

No Other Choice is coming to Aotearoa NZ cinemas February 19, 2026.
Find screenings here

Review written by Alex Moulton

IT WAS JUST AN ACCIDENT (2025)

An unassuming mechanic is reminded of his time in an Iranian prison when he encounters a man he suspects to be his sadistic jailhouse captor. Panicked, he rounds up a few of his fellow ex-prisoners to confirm the man's identity.

Jafar Panahi’s It Was Just an Accident is a film that lingers not because it delivers a tidy conclusion, but because it refuses to. It’s a quiet, stripped‑back work that leans into uncertainty, letting tension build in the pauses and unfinished thoughts. The film’s strength lies in its restraint. It never rushes or forces its characters toward emotional clarity. Instead, it sits with discomfort and trusts the audience to sit with it too.

The story begins with a small, almost forgettable moment: a man with an artificial leg pulls into a garage. Vahid, a mechanic played with raw vulnerability by Vahid Mobasseri, hears the squeak of the prosthetic and freezes. That tiny sound pulls him back into a part of his past he has never escaped. The recognition is instinctive rather than certain, and that fragile uncertainty becomes the film’s emotional spine.

Panahi builds the narrative through quiet conversations, long silences, and the kind of hesitant exchanges shaped by memory and self‑protection. The performances from Vahid Mobasseri, Mariam Afshari, and Ebrahim Azizi feel unpolished in the best way, as if the characters are speaking around their pain rather than through it. Their dialogue loops, falters, and circles back, capturing the way trauma reshapes language.

At its core, the film is about recognition; or the impossibility of it. It explores how memory can be both anchor and trap, how certainty erodes under pressure, and how people try to reclaim dignity after being dehumanized. Panahi never simplifies these ideas. He lets the characters sit with their doubt and their need for justice, even when justice is impossible to define.

The tension doesn’t come from action. It comes from the moral weight pressing down on everyone involved. Panahi keeps the camera close, often refusing to show what characters see or fear. That choice creates a constant sense of unease. You’re always aware of what’s missing, what’s obscured, what can’t be confirmed. The film becomes a study in how uncertainty shapes behaviour and how it corrodes the people who carry it.

There’s a deliberate minimalism to the storytelling. Scenes stretch just long enough for discomfort to settle. Conversations hover without resolution. The film isn’t interested in answers. It’s interested in the emotional terrain people inhabit when clarity is out of reach.

Panahi threads in a quiet commentary on power and its residue; how it’s used, how it lingers, and how it shapes people long after the moment of harm. The film never lectures. It simply shows how systems of control echo through the lives of those who survived them.

What makes It Was Just an Accident so gripping is its refusal to settle. It doesn’t build toward a grand revelation or a cathartic release. Instead, it leans into ambiguity, trusting the audience to sit with the same uncertainty the characters face. Some may find that frustrating, but the film’s honesty lies in that choice. It understands that some wounds don’t close neatly, and some questions don’t have answers.

The structure drifts in a way that feels intentional. The film moves through moments of tension, doubt, and flashes of dark humor. At times, the uncertainty becomes so overwhelming it borders on absurd, revealing how revenge can twist into chaos when certainty is impossible. These tonal shifts never undercut the seriousness of the story. They highlight how unstable the pursuit of justice becomes when the truth is slippery.

Panahi also weaves in subtle reflections on corruption and authoritarianism. The film shows how violence from those in power seeps into everyday life, shaping how people treat each other long after the original harm is done. The characters aren’t just confronting a man. They’re confronting a system that taught them to fear, to doubt, and to lash out.

The film ends the way it begins: with uncertainty. There is no moment where everything becomes clear. No revelation that resolves the moral dilemma. That ambiguity is the point. The film isn’t about the destination. It’s about the uneasy journey, the tension of not knowing, the ache of wanting justice in a world where truth is never solid.

Panahi has crafted something raw, honest, and stripped of ornamentation. It’s a story about people trying to reclaim their dignity, about the fragile line between victim and perpetrator, and about how easily certainty can harden into something dangerous. It’s not a film that tries to impress with spectacle. It’s a film that asks you to sit with discomfort and accept that some wounds never fully close.

It Was Just an Accident may not satisfy those looking for a clean narrative arc, but its power lies in its refusal to simplify. It’s a quiet, unsettling, deeply human work that stays with you precisely because it doesn’t tell you what to think. It leaves you where its characters are left: searching, questioning, and trying to make sense of a world where certainty is a luxury few can afford.

It Was Just An Accident is coming to Aotearoa NZ cinemas January 29

Review written by Alex Moulton

SENTIMENTAL VALUE (2025)

An intimate exploration of family, memories, and the reconciliatory power of art.

Joachim Trier’s Sentimental Value is not an easy film to pin down. It resists neat synopsis, unfolding instead as a meditation on family, grief, and the uneasy overlap between art and lived experience. At its center is the Borg family home, a structure that has witnessed decades of pain and intimacy, and which now becomes both a film set and a crucible for unresolved trauma. The result is a bilingual drama (spoken in Norwegian and English) that is at once languid in pace and emotionally piercing.

The story begins with sisters Nora (Renate Reinsve) and Agnes (Inga Ibsdotter Lilleaas) reuniting with their estranged father Gustav (Stellan Skarsgård), a once‑renowned director whose career has long since faded. Following the death of his ex‑wife, Gustav returns to the family home with a plan: to shoot his comeback film there. He offers Nora the lead role, a chance to embody her grandmother Karin, who committed suicide in the house after surviving torture during World War II. Nora refuses, unwilling to let her father mine her pain for art. Gustav quickly replaces her with Rachel (Elle Fanning), a young Hollywood star eager to work with him. This decision sets the stage for a fraught exploration of family wounds, artistic ambition, and the blurred line between healing and exploitation.

If Sentimental Value succeeds, it is largely because of its performances. Reinsve, who previously collaborated with Trier on The Worst Person in the World, gives a masterclass in controlled chaos. Her Nora is simmering with resentment, yet never reduced to caricature. In moments of silence, her face conveys more than dialogue ever could: the weight of betrayal, the pull of nostalgia, and the fear of repeating her father’s mistakes.

Skarsgård matches her intensity, portraying Gustav as both self‑aware and incapable of change. He knows he has failed his daughters, yet clings to the belief that art can redeem him. His charm is intoxicating, even when it is manipulative, and his desperation to remain relevant makes him both pitiable and infuriating. Lilleaas, as Agnes, offers a quieter counterpoint. Her calmness masks deep sorrow, particularly in a devastating scene where she reads her grandmother’s testimony of torture. Fanning, meanwhile, brings levity and perspective. As Rachel, she is the outsider who sees the family’s dysfunction more clearly than they do, and her presence highlights the cultural and generational divide at play.

The Borg family home is more than a backdrop; it is the film’s beating heart. Trier uses the house as a symbol of memory and fracture. A literal crack runs through its walls, the result of a construction error, but it also represents the fissures within the family. Gustav’s insistence on filming there forces the characters to confront the ghosts of their past. The house becomes a stage for grief, reconciliation, and confrontation, embodying the idea that trauma is inherited and embedded in physical spaces as much as in people.

At its core, Sentimental Value is about intergenerational trauma. Gustav’s mother Karin endured unimaginable suffering during WWII, and though she never spoke of it, the effects ripple through her descendants. Gustav’s attempt to turn her story into art raises uncomfortable questions: can filmmaking serve as therapy, or does it merely reopen wounds for the sake of narrative? Nora’s refusal to participate is both an act of defiance and self‑preservation, while Agnes’s quiet investigation into Karin’s past reveals the burden of inherited pain.

Trier also explores nostalgia; not as a trap, but as a potential source of growth. Gustav longs for the glory days of cinema, yet finds himself confronted by an industry that has moved on. His struggle mirrors the family’s inability to move past their origins. The film suggests that sentimentality, often dismissed as cloying, can be transformative when handled with honesty. Tender sibling moments, long gazes of recognition, and caustic confrontations all contribute to a portrait of a family learning, however imperfectly, to live with its scars.

The film runs 133 minutes, and its pacing is undeniably slow. Trier favors long takes, silences, and gradual revelations over dramatic twists. For some viewers, this will feel meandering, even frustrating. The narrative occasionally lacks urgency, and certain developments in the third act fail to deliver the emotional punch they seem designed to. The resolution, in particular, may strike audiences as too neat, letting Gustav off the hook when harsher consequences might have felt more earned.

Yet the languid pace also allows the film’s themes to breathe. The silences between characters speak volumes, and the slow burn of suppressed emotions creates a cumulative impact. Sentimental Value is less about plot than about atmosphere, memory, and the uneasy coexistence of love and resentment.

The strengths of Sentimental Value lie in its performances and thematic depth. Reinsve and Skarsgård, in particular, elevate the material, turning what could have been melodrama into something profound. The bilingual dialogue adds texture, highlighting the clash between cultures and generations. The symbolism of the house and its crack is powerful, grounding the film’s exploration of trauma in a tangible metaphor.

Its weaknesses are structural. The film is too long, and its pacing risks alienating viewers who crave narrative momentum. The ending may feel unsatisfying, offering reconciliation without fully addressing the harm Gustav has caused. These flaws prevent the film from reaching the heights it aspires to, but they do not negate its emotional resonance.

Sentimental Value is a film that lingers. It is not perfect, nor is it easy to summarize, but it resonates through its performances and its exploration of intergenerational trauma. Trier has crafted a drama that is both intimate and expansive, rooted in the wounds of personal history yet open to the possibility of growth. Its slow pace and occasional narrative shortcomings may frustrate, but its emotional evocativeness is undeniable.

For those willing to sit with its silences and absorb its atmosphere, Sentimental Value offers a rewarding experience. It is a film about the cracks that run through families, the ways art can both heal and harm, and the enduring pull of nostalgia. Cautiously positive is the right tone: this is not a flawless masterpiece, but it is a deeply intriguing work that captures the messy, unresolved nature of family life.

Sentimental Value is being released in NZ Cinemas on January 8, 2026

Review written by Alex Moulton