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

DIE MY LOVE (2025)

Grace, a writer and young mother, is slowly slipping into madness. Locked away in an old house in and around Montana, we see her acting increasingly agitated and erratic, leaving her companion, Jackson, increasingly worried and helpless. 

Lynne Ramsay’s Die My Love is not a film that invites comfort. It is a cinematic descent into the rawest corners of human experience, a work that strips away the protective layers we often place around motherhood, love, and identity. To watch it is to be pulled into a vortex of unease, where silence weighs heavier than dialogue and every gesture carries the tremor of suppressed anguish.

At its core, the film follows Grace, played with astonishing ferocity by Jennifer Lawrence. Grace is a new mother living in rural isolation with her partner Jackson (Robert Pattinson). Their home is unfinished, their relationship strained, and Grace’s sense of self is unraveling. Ramsay does not present her as a figure of noble suffering. Instead, Grace is volatile, abrasive, and often difficult to like. Yet Lawrence’s performance ensures that her breakdown feels painfully authentic. She embodies the disorientation of a woman alienated from her own life, a mother whose bond with her child is both grounding and suffocating.

Photo credit: Kimberly French

What makes Die My Love so unsettling is its refusal to offer easy villains or heroes. Jackson is not cruel, nor is he oblivious in the caricatured sense. He is simply absent; emotionally, physically, and spiritually. His long stretches away at work leave Grace alone, and his attempts at connection fall short. His parents hover at the edges, concerned but ineffectual. The film resists the temptation to assign blame, instead presenting two flawed people caught in circumstances neither can navigate. This ambiguity is part of Ramsay’s brilliance: she forces us to confront the reality that suffering often has no neat source, no single antagonist.

The film’s structure mirrors Grace’s fractured psyche. Ramsay employs impressionistic storytelling, jumping through time and blurring the line between reality and hallucination. Scenes bleed into one another, creating a sense of disorientation that places the audience squarely inside Grace’s perspective. Cinematographer Seamus McGarvey reinforces this with a claustrophobic 4:3 aspect ratio and grainy 35mm texture, making the film feel like a distorted home movie. The effect is suffocating, as though we are trapped inside Grace’s collapsing world.

Photo credit: Seamus McGarvey

Emotion in Die My Love is primal. Ramsay captures moments of feral intimacy; characters clawing at each other, collapsing to the ground in carnal chaos, as well as raw eruptions of despair. Happiness, when it appears, is wild and untamed; misery is equally unfiltered. This animalistic quality underscores the film’s refusal to sanitize human experience. Ramsay is not interested in polite portrayals of motherhood or domesticity. She is interested in the chaos, the mess, the moments that society prefers to keep hidden.

Lawrence’s performance is the film’s gravitational center. She moves through emotional registers with fearless precision, capturing vulnerability, cruelty, humor, and despair in equal measure. Her portrayal is unpredictable, magnetic, and unforgettable. Whether mocking Jackson, imitating the family dog, or hurling herself through glass, she commands attention. It is a performance that refuses to let the audience look away, even when the truth is uncomfortable.

Photo credit: Kimberly French

Pattinson, by contrast, plays Jackson with restraint. His exasperation is palpable, his silence familiar. Together, their interactions capture the quiet tragedies of miscommunication; the unanswered questions, the sullen silences, the disconnect that grows with time. These moments are recognizable to any couple, regardless of circumstance, and they ground the film’s more impressionistic flourishes in lived reality.

Sound plays a crucial role in amplifying Grace’s turmoil. The barking of the family dog, the cries of her baby, and the clash of music; from nostalgic tunes to heavy metal, create a soundscape that mirrors her inner chaos. Ramsay uses sound not as background but as a weapon, heightening discomfort and unease.

For mainstream audiences, Die My Love will be a difficult watch. It is not funny, nor romantic, nor uplifting. It is unapologetically uncomfortable, challenging viewers to confront aspects of motherhood and womanhood that are rarely depicted onscreen. The image of a mother consumed by despair, cold and unlikable, is unsettling. Yet Ramsay insists on its validity. She asks us to reconsider our assumptions, to acknowledge that motherhood is not always a source of joy, and that women are allowed to be flawed, angry, and broken.

Photo credit: Kimberly French

The film’s meandering structure can feel punishing. Scenes stretch on, tension builds, and the audience sits in suspense, waiting for release that never comes. Grace’s decline is relentless, her perception of reality increasingly indistinguishable from hallucination. Is she suffering from postnatal depression, psychosis, or simply the crushing weight of isolation? Ramsay offers no definitive answer. The ambiguity is part of the film’s power, leaving us unsettled and uncertain.

Yet despite its difficulty, Die My Love is profoundly human. It captures the messiness of life, the flaws of its characters, and the rawness of emotion with unflinching honesty. It is a film that demands contemplation, that lingers in silence, that refuses to be forgotten.

Photo credit: Kimberly French

Ramsay has crafted a work of empathy, not sympathy. She does not ask us to like Grace, but to understand her. She does not offer answers, but questions. She does not soothe, but confronts. Die My Love is a film that hurts, that unsettles, that resonates. It is a reminder that cinema can be more than entertainment; it can be an exposed nerve, a mirror to our darkest truths, and a challenge to our deepest assumptions.

Leaving the theater after Die My Love is not like leaving most films. There is no chatter, no laughter, no easy debrief. There is silence. The audience sits with what they have seen, grappling with its weight. It is not a film that entertains, but one that confronts. And in that confrontation lies its power.

Die My Love is released in NZ cinemas from November 27
Find your nearest screening here

Review written by Alex Moulton

THE RUNNING MAN (2025)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Find your nearest screening here

Review written by Alex Moulton

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