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

BLOKE OF THE APOCALYPSE (2025)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Review written by Alex Moulton

SHELBY OAKS (2025)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Review written by Alex Moulton

DANGEROUS ANIMALS (2025)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Review written by Alex Moulton

THE CONJURING: LAST RITES (2025)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Review written by Alex Moulton

WEAPONS (2025)

When all but one child from the same classroom mysteriously vanish on the same night at exactly the same time, a community is left questioning who or what is behind their disappearance.

Zach Cregger’s Weapons arrives with an air of expectation, following the success of his earlier horror feature Barbarian. Where that film thrived on shocks and unexpected turns, Weapons takes a different path, opting for a slow, layered build that blends mystery, crime drama, and ultimately supernatural horror. It is a film designed to unsettle its audience, and while it may not satisfy everyone, it achieves a rare quality in contemporary cinema: genuine unpredictability.

The story begins with a deeply disturbing event. In the small American town of North Brenton, seventeen third-grade children vanish from their homes in the middle of the night. The scale of the disappearance is staggering, and the community is immediately plunged into grief, fear, and suspicion. Only one child, Alex, played by Cary Christopher, remains. His survival and the reasons behind it become one of the central mysteries. From this premise, Cregger constructs a narrative divided into chapters, each told from a different perspective. It is not a straightforward crime drama but a fractured account of events that slowly pieces itself together.

The first chapter introduces Josh Brolin’s character, a father whose young son is among the missing. His performance is one of the film’s highlights. Brolin leans into raw obsession, portraying a man consumed by grief, rage, and a desperate need for answers. The camera often lingers on his face, capturing the mix of fury and hopelessness that defines his journey. It is a performance that feels both frightening and sympathetic, embodying the kind of flawed determination that anchors the film in real human emotion.

The second major perspective is that of Julia Garner as Justine, a teacher caught in the aftermath of the tragedy. Garner delivers a strikingly layered performance. She is burdened with guilt, attacked by her community, and haunted by her own inability to protect her students. Her arc explores how quickly suspicion can turn towards those in positions of responsibility, even when they themselves are victims. Through Justine, the film touches on themes of blame, collective trauma, and the fragility of trust.

Cary Christopher deserves equal recognition. As Alex, the one boy left behind, he captures a haunting mixture of innocence and burden. He is too young to fully understand the magnitude of what has happened, yet he carries the weight of being the lone survivor. His interactions with both Brolin’s father and Garner’s teacher add layers of complexity, reminding viewers that children in stories like these are not just symbols of innocence lost but characters in their own right, forced to navigate overwhelming trauma.

Cregger’s choice to structure the film as a series of shifting perspectives pays dividends. Each chapter withholds certain information, forcing the audience to stay alert and piece together the narrative themselves. Unlike many thrillers that tip their hand too early, Weapons remains elusive. It offers fragments and glimpses, but never enough to predict the full outcome, until the film is ready for it's bid reveal. This structure keeps tension alive across the film’s runtime and prevents the early sections from becoming stagnant.

Visually, Weapons is atmospheric. The cinematography leans into a subdued, gritty aesthetic that feels reminiscent of Stephen King’s worlds: small towns with dark secrets, shadowed interiors, and a creeping sense that something unnatural lurks just beneath the surface. There are moments of startling imagery: glimpses of twisted clown-like makeup, unsettling door camera footage, and lingering shots of quiet suburban streets that feel anything but safe. The result is a world that appears ordinary on the surface but hums with menace underneath.

The film’s sound design enhances this dread. Silence is used with precision, broken by sudden noises that jolt both characters and viewers. The score avoids excess, instead drawing out unease with sparse instrumentation and drawn-out tones. Together with the visuals, the audio design helps create a mood that is tense without being overwhelming, a slow tightening of the screws rather than an immediate assault.

Where the film becomes divisive is in its final act. After carefully sustaining the atmosphere of crime mystery and psychological drama, Weapons pivots into supernatural horror, revealing the true forces behind the disappearances. For some viewers this is the bold payoff that the story has been carefully building toward, expanding the narrative from local tragedy into cosmic terror. For others, it feels like a departure, trading in subtle unease for familiar horror tropes.

Personally, the final chapter feels both invigorating and frustrating. On one hand, it provides an escalation that is undeniably dramatic, turning quiet dread into outright nightmare, with a karmic resolution. On the other, it leaves many questions unresolved. The mystery that carried so much weight throughout the film is not fully explained, and viewers who crave concrete answers may find themselves unsatisfied. The sense of dread remains, but the intellectual closure is lacking.

This issue ties into the broader experience of Weapons. It is a film that thrives on tension, uncertainty, and dread, but it does not deliver clarity or abundant action. If you enter hoping for a horror film packed with set-piece scares, you may feel underwhelmed. If you hope for a neatly tied mystery, you may find the lack of depth in its answers frustrating. Yet the very refusal to conform to expectations is also what makes the film stand out.

What lingers most after watching is not a particular jump scare or a shocking twist, but the atmosphere of grief and paranoia. Cregger explores how a community collapses in the face of unexplainable tragedy, how suspicion corrodes relationships, and how desperation drives people to extremes. These human elements remain grounded even when the story turns supernatural. That balance, between the ordinary pain of loss and the extraordinary terror of otherworldly forces, gives the film its unique character.

The performances elevate the material. Brolin, Garner, and Christopher are all outstanding, and the supporting cast contribute convincingly to the portrait of a fractured town. Even when the story risks slipping into the unbelievable, the actors keep it tethered to real emotion.

Weapons is a film that deserves recognition for its ambition and its ability to sustain suspense. It is refreshing to see a horror-mystery that withholds rather than overexplains, that chooses mood over spectacle, and that challenges viewers to stay engaged. While the lack of resolution and limited action may frustrate, the strengths outweigh the flaws. It is a film that lingers, unsettling in ways that straightforward horror rarely achieves.

Cregger may not have delivered a perfect film, but he has crafted one that is bold, unnerving, and memorable. Weapons is less about the answers than the experience of asking questions in the dark. For viewers willing to embrace uncertainty, it offers a chilling and rewarding journey.

Weapons was released in NZ cinemas on August 7, 2025
Find your nearest screening here

Review written by Alex Moulton

MARY: THE BIRTH OF FRANKENSTEIN (2025)

A terrifying re-imagining of the night Mary Shelley became the mother of horror.

How does a young woman in the early 19th century, burdened with grief and surrounded by towering egos, give life to one of literature’s greatest monsters? Auckland Theatre Company’s Mary: The Birth of Frankenstein wrestles with this question in an original and unsettling production that combines historical fact with theatrical imagination. It is a slow-burning drama of rivalry, seduction, philosophy, and anguish, culminating in a storm of sound and light that shakes both stage and audience.

The story begins in 1816 at the Villa Diodati, perched on the shores of Lake Geneva. The house is drenched in darkness and perpetual rain. This was the “year without a summer,” when the eruption of Mt Tambora had cast Europe into a strange global cooling. For Lord Byron, Percy Shelley, Mary Godwin, Claire Clairmont, and John Polidori, the foul weather left them confined indoors. What might have been idle nights of diversion instead became an explosive crucible of artistic daring, sexual politics, and existential fear.

Photo credit: Andi Crown

The production fixes itself in a single set, the grand parlour and library of the villa. There is a staircase leading to an internal gallery, so characters can move above and around each other, yet never truly escape. The effect is both claustrophobic and theatrical, a sense of elegant confinement where personalities clash and emotions ferment.

At the centre is Mary Godwin, played with sharp emotional clarity by Olivia Tennet. She is only 18 years old, but already carries more sorrow than many twice her age. Her grief over the loss of her child shadows her every action. Around her orbit dangerous Lord Byron (Tom Clarke), hedonistic and magnetic; Percy Shelley (Dominic Ona-Ariki), passionate yet cruelly unfaithful; Claire Clairmont (Timmie Cameron), volatile and consumed by jealousy; and John Polidori (Arlo Green), neurotic and unsteady.

Photo credit: Andi Crown

It is Byron who sparks the famous challenge: each guest must write a ghost story. What begins as a game quickly descends into something darker. The parlour becomes a cauldron of lust, bitterness, intellectual one-upmanship, and private betrayals. Characters circle one another like predators and prey, each seeking dominance, affection, or validation.

Tennet’s Mary is compelling because she does not begin in strength. She is hesitant, fragile, and overlooked by the men around her. Yet as rivalries and philosophies clash, she hardens. Slowly, she seizes the creative force denied to her, even as the men dismiss her voice. Her arc mirrors the act of creation itself: violent, painful, and defiant. By the end, she emerges triumphant yet scarred, carrying with her the seed of Frankenstein.

Photo credit: Andi Crown

The production is not so much a ghost story as it is an exploration of how one is written. Sayer’s script and Driver’s direction frame creation as both act and ordeal. To create is to confront loss, anger, ambition, and fear. It is also to test boundaries of power, gender, and mortality. The play suggests that monsters are not found but made, and that in order for Mary to create her monster she must step into monstrosity herself.

This is heightened by the historical backdrop. Mary Shelley’s life had been shaped by loss from the start. Her mother, feminist philosopher Mary Wollstonecraft, died soon after childbirth. Her father William Godwin raised her in an environment of radical thought, yet she remained constrained by society’s dismissal of women’s voices. By the time she entered Byron’s villa, she had already been disowned, impoverished, bereaved, and betrayed. Her creation of Frankenstein was not a flight of fancy but the expression of a young woman who had endured more than her share of grief and fury.

Photo credit: Andi Crown

For ninety minutes, the production simmers. Dialogue is rapid, laced with rhetoric, poetry, and barbed philosophy. It takes time to adjust to the tempo, yet once the rhythm is caught the interplay between characters becomes electric. The audience is invited to watch these figures trap each other with words and seductions. Each debate and quarrel raises the stakes, building a mood of unease.

Then comes the brief interlude, and with it, the explosion. Lights strobe, sound roars, lasers cut through the air, and the set itself shifts and transforms. What has been a chamber piece erupts into a phantasmagoria. The final section lasts only a quarter-hour, yet it is the exclamation mark on the long buildup. Creation, destruction, fear, and madness collide in an assault on the senses.

Photo credit: Andi Crown

It is striking to see horror performed so effectively in theatre. Without film’s editing and close-ups, the tools must be different. This production leans into shadow, into partial glimpses, into noises that erupt without warning. Figures are obscured, lights flash unpredictably, and the room itself seems haunted by the emotions it has absorbed. It is not horror in the sense of jump scares but horror as dread, unease, and the realisation that human beings can be the monsters they fear.

Mary: The Birth of Frankenstein is not just a retelling of a famous period in literary history. It is an exploration of how anger, loss, and desperation can give birth to creation. It is about a young woman surrounded by those who doubt her, carving her own space in defiance of them. It is about how one must sometimes become monstrous to bring forth something that will outlast mortality.

Photo credit: Andi Crown

The Auckland Theatre Company has delivered a work that feels both intimate and epic, one that begins as a drawing-room drama and ends as a gothic storm. At its heart is the reminder that Frankenstein was never just about a stitched-together creature, but about the very human impulse to make, to challenge, to overreach, and then to recoil at what we have wrought.

In this production, Mary Shelley’s monster is not yet alive, but we watch the moment of its conception. It is a moment born of grief, rivalry, and rebellion, and it makes for theatre that is as unsettling as it is exhilarating.

MARY: The Birth of Frankenstein is being performed at the Auckland's ASB Waterfront Theatre from 21 Aug - 7 Sep 2025.
You can purchase tickets here

Review written by Alex Moulton

28 YEARS LATER (2025)

A group of survivors of the rage virus live on a small island. When one of the group leaves the island on a mission into the mainland, he discovers secrets, wonders, and horrors that have mutated not only the infected but other survivors.

Danny Boyle's 28 Years Later is not just a horror film. It is a haunting meditation on survival, memory, and what remains of humanity when everything else is stripped away. While the infected still provide the backdrop for a landscape of dread, much like The Walking Dead, they are not the true centre of this story. Instead, the film turns inward, looking at the choices people make when the world collapses around them, and how those choices shape identity, belief, and the possibility of redemption.

The story begins in chaos. In a small Scottish town, young Jimmy stumbles through the streets as a new outbreak unfolds around him. The infected (barely recognisably human) snarl, bite, and chase with wild-eyed abandon. But Boyle doesn’t linger here. The focus shifts abruptly to a quieter, though no less tense, setting: a small island off the coast of Scotland. Here, a community of survivors lives in a precarious balance. Their lives are marked by joy and fear in equal measure—bonfires, laughter, and celebration co-exist with strict boundaries and the unspoken terror of what lies beyond the stone causeway.

Among the islanders is Jamie, played with rugged complexity by Aaron Taylor-Johnson. He’s a father first, a man still trying to cling to something solid in a world that offers very little of it. His son, Spike (a breakout performance by Alfie Williams), is twelve years old and on the cusp of adolescence. Jamie takes him across the tidal causeway to the mainland; a sort of rite of passage, but one tinged with recklessness. They are armed only with bows and arrows, and they move through the ruins of the world like deer in a predator’s forest. The decision, unapproved by Spike’s mother Isla (Jodie Comer), immediately raises questions: What does survival mean if it comes at the cost of safety? And what lessons does a father teach when the world no longer has rules?

The infected have evolved. The fast ones, sinewy and nude, are still recognisable from earlier entries in the franchise. But now there are others. The “Slow-Lows” are grotesquely bloated, dragging themselves through the muck. Most terrifying of all are the Alphas; larger, stronger, smarter. One, known as Sampson (Chi Lewis-Parry), dominates with brutal strength, tearing victims apart with animalistic force. These new creatures are terrifying, but they also reflect something deeper: they are the monsters we might become, not simply the ones we fear.

Boyle, working again with cinematographer Anthony Dod Mantle, crafts action sequences that are chaotic and gripping. The camera jolts and races with an urgency that feels almost physical. But Boyle also knows when to pause. When to let the silence settle. Moments of stillness allow philosophical questions to bubble up; questions of identity, ethics, and what kind of future can be imagined after so much has been lost.

Alex Garland’s screenplay explores these themes with both ambition and restraint. The narrative is structurally simple: Spike follows his father to the mainland, returns to help his sick mother, and then leads her on a journey in search of a cure. Yet this simplicity is deceptive. The story is loaded with symbolic moments and subtle commentary on trust, power, and the legacy of trauma. Spike’s journey is less about fighting infected and more about reconciling the myth of his father with the reality of his choices. Jamie, once a heroic figure in his son’s eyes, becomes complicated; at times harsh, at others vulnerable, but ultimately flawed.

Jodie Comer’s portrayal of Isla adds emotional weight. She’s a woman unravelled by anxiety and illness, unsure whether her symptoms are psychosomatic or the onset of Rage. In one of the film’s most powerful scenes, Isla comes face to face with an infected woman. Instead of violence, there is a moment of mutual recognition. Humanity, fragile, flickering, persists even here.

The second half of the film sees Spike taking initiative. No longer the boy led by his father, he becomes the one who leads. With his mother in tow, he ventures across the devastated landscape in search of a doctor, Dr. Ian Kelson (Ralph Fiennes), a recluse whose reputation is part rumour, part warning. Fiennes brings an eerie calm to the role. Kelson is more philosopher than physician, espousing cryptic truths and reflecting on the Latin phrase “memento mori”, a reminder of death’s inevitability, and perhaps the need to make peace with it.

While Boyle’s direction ensures momentum never flags, the film makes space for contemplation. The contrast between the noise of action and the quiet of introspection gives 28 Years Later a rare depth. The world-building is detailed and textured, from the resourcefulness of islanders turned farmers and hunters, to the strange juxtapositions of relics from the past; like the haunting reappearance of an old iPhone or recognisable landmarks now decaying under moss and rot.

The final act sees Spike returning to the island with a new perspective. He is no longer willing to accept the myths that have shaped his upbringing. His goal is no longer survival in the traditional sense. Instead, it is healing—finding answers for his mother, and possibly, a future that doesn’t involve fear as the default setting.

Yet for all its high-concept ideas and moments of beauty, 28 Years Later is not without its rough edges. The film sometimes struggles to fully explore its big themes. The idea of the UK as a quarantined zone, abandoned by the rest of the world, is compelling, but underdeveloped. The suggestion that global politics simply turned away from the suffering is raised, but not deeply examined. Similarly, the ethics around the infected are posed but not always fully pursued; are they still human? Do they deserve empathy? 

Still, these imperfections do not take away from the film’s emotional resonance. Boyle and Garland are not offering answers as much as they are posing questions. What does it mean to protect someone you love when the world no longer functions? How do we rebuild when the tools we once relied on are gone or corrupted?

28 Years Later succeeds because it is more than just a continuation of a franchise. It is a film that respects its origins but is not beholden to them. It offers action and horror, yes, but also a story rooted in character and consequence. It is, at heart, a coming-of-age tale. A boy discovers the world is broken, and instead of turning away, he steps into it.

That may be the film’s quietest triumph: showing that in the midst of rage, ruin, and ruinous memory, there can still be something worth fighting for. Not survival. Not even victory. But the fragile hope of something better. And that, in the world of 28 Years Later, is more terrifying (and more beautiful) than any monster.

28 Years Later was released in NZ cinemas on June 19, 2025

Review written by Alex Moulton