This review was originally published on Young Critic. Para leer en español, pulse aquí.

Despite some films being heralded as the saviors of theatrical rom-coms (think The Big Sick (2017), Crazy Rich Asians (2018), or Anyone But You (2023)), the domain has largely migrated to streaming with To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before (2018), The Kissing Booth (2018), and Tall Girl (2019) spawning various forgettable sequels. That hasn’t stopped studios from trying to throw in the occasional rom-com into theaters; the latest to try is One Night Only (2026).

One Night Only has an original premise that feels like a satirical take on the horror film, The Purge (2013). In that Ethan Hawke-starring movie, the government passed a law where all crime is made legal for one night a year. In One Night Only all premarital sex in the United States is banned except for one night a year. We follow two New Yorkers, pizza shop owner Owen (Callum Turner) and commercial jingles singer Allie (Monica Barbaro), two stranger romantics in a night of lust. Yet when Allie’s friend Jacinta (King Princess) leaves her early in the night and Owen’s girlfriend Malika (Maya Hawke, curiously another Hawke in a Purge-like world) decides she wants to hook up with a neighbor, Owen and Allie are left unmoored in the NYC night. Their stories weave in and out of each other, where they start of disliking each other, but inevitably can’t deny their attraction.

One Night Only is directed by Will Gluck (Easy A (2010), Anyone But You), who takes on a script by Travis Braun, which was featured in the Blacklist of most-liked unproduced scripts. Yet the original script reportedly underwent heavy re-writes by Gluck. The result is an interesting premise that is shoehorned into a rather tepid and predictable romantic comedy. The setting and the time constraint do much to break from the romantic mold that Gluck seems very keen to place the film in, and Braun seems to have taken heavy inspiration Martin Scorsese’s After Hours (1985), yet without the same daring and admiration for the grimy beauty of the Big Apple.

For a romantic comedy to work there have to be various factors that click: one is the casting of the leads and their chemistry: two is the dialogue and banter, and finally the stakes of the “will they won’t they,” you have to be incapable of imagining these people with someone else.

The casting for One Night Only is great on paper, two extremely attractive Hollywood rising stars. Yet despite their charm they never seemed to crackle with any irresistible aura. Barbaro has shown herself to be an incredibly talented actress, after her Oscar-nominated turn as Joan Baez in A Complete Unknown (2024) and similarly carries most of One Night Only with a charm and charisma like the best of romantic leads. Turner is solid in his role, yet he’s the type of star that Hollywood has been desperately trying to throw to audiences artificially (remember Jai Courtney?), but he hasn’t shown to have much range or has been pigeonholed in his roles. He first popped onto viewers’ radar as a secondary character in the Harry Potter spin-off Fantastic Beasts: The Crimes of Grindelwald (2018), when that saga fizzled out, he was placed in Oscar-bait fare like The Boys in the Boat (2023) which similarly went under the radar, and afterwards was placed as a lead in the Emmy-eyeing Apply TV series Masters of the Air (2024) which was under watched. In all his roles he’s been playing the same variant of arrogant and entitled alpha. One Night Only demands a bit more range of him, playing a square and uptight romantic, but I never bought his character. I kept expecting him to throw a small quip or smirk, revealing a suave nature instead. It’s no wonder he’s being considered to be the next James Bond, yet paired with the more arrayed abilities of Barbaro, he pales in comparison.

However, any romantic comedy with incongruous leads can be somewhat saved by good dialogue. Sadly, One Night Only doesn’t have that benefit, it falls into generic and bluntly expository territory, most notably in the first act where we’re inorganically recited character bios as if we were in a video game character selector. Braun and Gluck never transcend the cliched beats even in their song selection, which seems to be a Top 40 shuffle from 2014.

That leaves the stakes, which with a ticking clock structure in place promised to usher a solid risk for our central couple. Yet even here, the effect is diluted with a rather confusing flipflopping of the film’s stance on the night’s rules. One Night Only feels like it’s taking a political stance against government regulation of bodies (and honestly the actual premise of the film doesn’t seem crazily far-fetched in today’s America), yet it also appears to be undercutting itself on its celebration of the sexual freedom it intermittently portrays. The finale is incredibly confused, getting tangled and confused in defining and differentiating between love and sex. It would be a fascinating exploration and conversation to have, especially in a modern world where dating happens through apps, young people are having less sex, and the social media and porn are shaping expectations of bodies and intimacy. Yet, One Night Only seems to scamper away from any introspection, and ends up appearing to both condemning sex as unromantic and championing it as well. The result is that the stakes are never fully defined and by the end become inconsequential.

As it stands One Night Only is a rather tepid and harmless rom-com with a fun premise if poorly executed. The leads are attractive if unbalanced in their capabilities, and you end up with a midrange film that is unlikely to do any favors in reviving the romcom. Yet, it hooked me on a small personal avenue with the easiest of cliches: its setting.

I was born, grew up, studied, and worked in NYC until last year when I moved to Madrid, Spain. It’s been over a year since I’ve been in my hometown and simply seeing a pizzeria, bodega cat, grimy subway, or a character taking a Citi bike was enough to bubble up an irresistible nostalgia. It’s only when living abroad that you realize how much NYC is featured in films, with each frame becoming a pang of memory and reminiscence. You can for sure get crazy NYC nights that can feel like an After Hours or One Night Only, and I don’t think you become fully baptized as a New Yorker until you do. Because of this, with the setting that was probably motivated around tax incentives than creative choices, I felt like I was coming into a warm embrace of a cheesy and forgettable movie, but one that gave you the secret handshake of a childhood friend.

6.2/10

This review was originally published on Young Critic. Para leer en español, pulse aquí.

Superhero fatigue is all but confirmed at this point. Supergirl (2026) flopped, Wonder Man (2026) barely registered in TV viewership, and both Thunderbolts* (2025) and Captain America: Brave New World (2025) severely underperformed. Audiences now turn out only for stories that genuinely intrigue them, or for specific characters they’ve already taken a liking to, as they did with Deadpool & Wolverine (2024). That theory, that a shrinking handful of characters still hold sway in this genre, is about to be tested on arguably the most likeable superhero of them all: Spider-Man.

Spider-Man: Brand New Day (2026) is the 38th film in the Marvel Cinematic Universe and the fourth standalone Spider-Man entry in this live-action iteration. After the events of Spider-Man: No Way Home (2021) erased Peter Parker (Tom Holland) from the world’s memory, our friendly neighborhood Spider-Man now operates in complete anonymity, resisting the temptation to reconnect with his old pal Ned (Jacob Batalon) or his former flame MJ (Zendaya) for their own protection. That hard split between his two identities is put to the test when a mysterious new mind-controlling foe begins terrorizing New York and Peter’s powers start evolving in ways that both enhance them and strip him of control.

Thirty-eight films deep, the interwoven continuity that made the MCU feel revolutionary in the 2010s is increasingly difficult to hold together. Anyone who has managed to keep pace with recent Marvel output across both TV and film will start spotting inconsistencies and contradictions in Brand New Day almost immediately. It’s an unfair burden every new Marvel film now carries, where the obligation to wink at and set up a dozen other characters and narratives threatens to consume the runtime and leave little room for the story actually being told. Brand New Day, to its credit, manages this better than most.

Cretton finds his own groove and rhythm even inside that crowded narrative. This is no surprise: he also delivered one of the few genuinely satisfying and wholesome post-Endgame Marvel entries with Shang-Chi and the Legend of the Ten Rings (2021). Here, he grounds his hero by leaning on the Peter-versus-Spider-Man dilemma (admittedly a well-worn theme for this character) to dig into the personal side of things. And the shape of an individual story does emerge from beneath all the nudges and cameos (Hulk! Yelena! Scorpion!): a flawed villain, some genuinely intriguing supporting players who enrich Peter’s journey, and, crucially, the warmth this Queens-born hero has always carried, whether in his smallest quips or his most magnanimous sacrifices.

Cretton and screenwriters Chris McKenna and Erik Sommers, who co-wrote the previous Holland Spidey films as well, find real moments to push the character forward while still servicing fans. The film would have been better served by cutting some of those interconnected nods and giving its central story more air; the way it handles the memory wipe is by turns intriguing and extremely convenient. As it stands, the finished film feels slightly overstuffed at nearly two and a half hours.

Holland continues to demonstrate a grasp of and genuine care for this character that have made him the longest-serving Spider-Man cinema has yet produced. He plays Peter as enormously likeable while never hiding his flaws, particularly a self-sabotaging streak and a familiar hero’s dilemma. The supporting cast is strong too, especially the players who aren’t simply there for a cameo, though they get short shrift overall: only Jon Bernthal’s Punisher and Zendaya are given room to show any real depth. The villain suffers from the same problem. I won’t name them, since the marketing kept their identity secret, but that secrecy comes at a cost. Because the reveal is held back so long, the motivations and backstory arrive rushed, and the performer never gets enough screen time to sink their teeth in.

Cretton showed a real love for physical, tangible aesthetics in Shang-Chi, though that film still carried the inevitable CGI-heavy feel of any superhero blockbuster. With New York as a backdrop here (ironically, the film was shot almost everywhere but), it’s disappointing how often the greenscreen shows and how shoddy some of the CGI looks, leaving several sequences feeling closer to a video game than to live action.

That video-game quality bleeds into the narrative structure too. Brand New Day mirrors the recent PlayStation Spider-Man games in its mission-to-mission rhythm rather than committing to a cleaner, more focused cinematic shape. Yet even hauling all that MCU baggage, which increasingly reads as a liability rather than an asset for these films, Brand New Daystill lands as a fun, solid entry in this Spider-Man run. Holland keeps making the case that he’s the definitive screen version of the character, and he keeps you rooting for more adventures with your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man.

7.6/10

This review was originally published on Young Critic. Para leer en español, pulse aquí.

Christopher Nolan reached what looked like the apogee of his career with Oppenheimer (2023), a film that seemed to fuse every skill and instinct he’d spent a career honing. Following an achievement that grossed nearly $1 billion telling the story of a nuclear physicist, and that finally won Nolan his first Oscars, was always going to be a tall order. Undeterred, he raised the stakes further still, choosing to adapt the epic of epics: The Odyssey (2026).

The Odyssey is the Bronze Age proto-hero’s-journey tale by Homer (second, chronologically, only to The Epic of Gilgamesh), in which the Ithacan king Odysseus (Matt Damon), having won the decade-long Trojan War thanks to his ingenious wooden horse, sets sail for home only to be waylaid by cyclopes, witches, sea monsters, and a string of other misfortunes. Back in Ithaca, his wife Penelope (Anne Hathaway) and son Telemachus (Tom Holland) hold off a horde of suitors angling to claim the throne, chief among them the conniving Antinous (Robert Pattinson).

No synopsis does justice to a story this epic, one that nearly every work of Western fiction owes some debt to. Many filmmakers have found it unwieldy; Nolan’s decision to tackle it at all is a genuinely bold one. Length alone is a challenge, but so is holding fantastical elements inside a realistic setting, subverting audience expectations of Greek myth, and preserving the epic’s dark, often cynical undercurrent beneath what modern audiences expect to be a straightforward “hero’s journey.”

And yet, against considerable odds, Nolan pulls it off. He has delivered a comprehensive adaptation that doesn’t just march through the what of the story but genuinely interrogates the why. We get not only the chronology of Odysseus’s journey (told, in typical Nolan fashion, non-sequentially) but an excavation of the man himself: his impulses, his guilt, his greed, his trauma, all filtered through a fraught relationship to faith. Few texts have stayed as central to the Western canon as The Odyssey, and that’s not just because the story moves; it’s because of how much the poem yields to different readings, interpretations, and outright reinventions. Nolan brings his own thematic lens to it, one that lines up, curiously, with Oppenheimer‘s cynicism about men who turn their gifts toward violence and war. But he’s careful to leave enough of the original intact that viewers can bring their own frameworks to the film too, whether that’s a crisis-of-faith reading, a pacifist one, a historiographic one, a psychological, feminist, revenge, or even atonement lens. The film holds up no matter which of those perspectives you walk in with.

The technical craft, as with any Nolan film, is extraordinary. He again avoids CGI wherever possible, and the tangible sets, costumes, and practical effects go a long way toward making ancient Greece feel almost touchable. The monster and magic work in particular impressed me: bleak, grounded, and achieved through make-up, prosthetics, and forced perspective rather than a screen full of pixels. His Polyphemus, the cyclops, is a particular triumph, a design that looks torn from a cubist Picasso nightmare and will likely linger in your head longer than you’d like. Nolan seems to understand that the mind’s own imagination beats any special effect, so he keeps much of the film’s mysticism half-obscured in mist, right up to the edge of overuse without ever quite tipping into it.

Once again, Nolan has assembled a cast so stacked it feels like every actor in Hollywood wanted a piece of this. Some big names show up for barely a scene, evidence that nobody wanted to sit this one out: Elliot Page, Jon Bernthal, Lupita Nyong’o, Benny Safdie, and Logan Marshall-Green all turn up in blink-and-you’ll-miss-them roles. Of the supporting players with real weight, Hathaway’s Penelope stands out most: she plays the character’s depths with a naturalism that never tips into theatricality. Damon, as the title hero, carries the film capably too, swinging from honorable to impulsive to outright cruel while dragging behind him the weight of a war he can’t shake. But it’s here, in the film’s exploration of guilt and atonement, that Damon’s performance runs up against its limits. He’s an expert at the charismatic everyman, and even, on occasion, at conveying rot beneath the charm (The Talented Mr. Ripley (1999); The Departed (2006)), but he never fully commits to Odysseus’s uglier instincts, his selfishness, his greed. You can feel him pulling his hero back toward the light rather than letting him sit in the grey, morally compromised space the character is meant to occupy. It’s a narrow crack in an otherwise strong performance, but it’s precisely the crack that would have given Nolan’s character study its full emotional weight.

The Odyssey is a sprawling epic, and adapting something this sprawling inevitably means leaving things behind. Nolan does an admirable job compressing the whole of it, but the compression comes at a cost: certain islands and adventures blur past in a way that feels genuinely rushed rather than deliberately economical. The film covers a remarkable amount of ground, yet you can sense the connective tissue missing in places. Calypso (Charlize Theron), for instance, barely registers, and the land of the giants gets similarly short shrift, while the homecoming to Ithaca, anchored by a lovely staging of Odysseus’s reunion with his dog Argos, and the extended stay with Circe both get all the room they need to breathe.

Successfully adapting The Odyssey at all is an achievement, and the logistics alone must have been punishing. And yet the film is missing that one indelible image, the moment that tips it from very good into unforgettable. The arrow-through-the-axes sequence, one of the poem’s most iconic beats, goes by almost too quickly (the recent version in The Return(2024) staged it with considerably more force), and elsewhere you sense Nolan, for all his visual beauty, playing it a touch too safe: nothing here quite reaches the audacity of the dance number in Sinners (2025) or the closing image of raindrops on a pond in Oppenheimer.

In the end, Nolan’s gamble pays off. What we get is a genuinely convincing, absorbing adaptation of The Odyssey, one that provokes with its ideas, thrills with its adventures, and dazzles with its scale. What keeps it from standing alongside Nolan’s very best is a missing final gear, whether that’s a dimension of the protagonist left unexplored or a single cinematic moment daring enough to define the film. And maybe that’s fitting. What actually lingers once the film ends isn’t the visuals, or the score, or even the performances, but something Homer himself would probably appreciate most: the words, and the ideas underneath them.

8.6/10

This review was originally published on Young Critic. Para leer en español, pulse aquí.

Disney has reached the most cynical stage of its animated-remakes phase, deciding to start producing live-action remakes of films that came out less than ten years ago. Such is the complete lack of risk-taking appetite at the giant studio that we get a live-action Moana (2026) that doesn’t dare step far from the environs of the original, or attempt to say much of anything at all, save selling you the exact same product again.

Moana once again tells the story of the curious eponymous chieftain’s daughter (Catherine Laga’aia) of the Polynesian island of Motunui, who, when her people’s crops begin to fail, goes on a quest to restore a stolen goddess’s heart alongside the perpetrator, the haughty demigod Maui (Dwayne Johnson).

This remake of Moana (2016) was greenlit as one of the first projects Bob Iger took on after returning as Disney’s CEO. This, alongside Toy Story 5 (2026) and Moana 2 (2024), showcases how the man credited with turning Disney into the new behemoth of Hollywood has succumbed to a fearful and conservative instinct to stick to stories that are easily sold to audiences. This is partly to blame for the atrophying occurring elsewhere, as studios with less muscle decide to play it safe too. Frustratingly, time and again viewers are telling studio executives that they are tired of reheated leftovers of IP and want original new stories and voices, as seen with the craze in horror around Sinners (2025), Weapons (2025), Obsession (2025), and Backrooms (2026), or even with blockbusters such as F1: The Movie (2025) or Project Hail Mary(2026). Meanwhile, the likes of Supergirl (2026), Star Wars: The Mandalorian and Grogu (2026), and even Minions & Monsters (2026) flopped at the box office. Yet, as throughout the entire history of Hollywood, the film industry is a slow-moving beast that takes time to jump on trends, often only once they have already passed.

Thus with this remake of Moana we seem to get the last dregs of the remake craze that started with Cinderella (2015) and The Jungle Book (2016), both bringing new perspectives and tones to their stories, and reached its apogee with the frame-by-frame “live-action” remake of The Lion King (2019), which grossed over $1 billion worldwide.

This remake of Moana is the narrative feature directorial debut of Thomas Kail, the famed theater director who delivered recent classics like In the Heights and the phenomenon Hamilton on Broadway, and who had also cut his teeth in TV with Fosse/Verdon (2019). With the jump to Moana, Kail has better sea legs than most, yet you sense his shortcomings when it comes to painting on the big screen. In terms of strengths, Kail is more than an expert at staging a dramatic or emotional song without it coming off as cheesy or awkward, and he is adept enough in cinematic language to add movement and fluidity to these stagings.

Yet the jump from stage to screen proves harder in terms of his direction, which appears too theatrical for most of the actors, who are too big, with overarching facial expressions ill-suited to a film. Then there’s Johnson, who brings the character he originally voiced to life in human form, but who appears to be essentially doing his own thing, recycling his lines from the original in a slightly more tired delivery.

Then there are the noticeable technical shortcomings in Kail’s direction. It is one thing to be a small-time director who is then hired onto a huge Disney film, but to have such a big, effects-heavy studio film be your debut is sure to leave some growing pains. This is most noticeable whenever there is any use of greenscreen or “outdoor lighting.” Much of this version of Moana was clearly shot in a studio, and it shows, mostly due to the lighting, which is unnatural against clearly rendered greenscreen horizons, or horribly bright for “outdoor” scenes. The first scenes on the home island in particular have incongruous lighting on the actors’ faces, which, though supposedly lit by the sun and torches, instead have the unforgiving bright white glare of a dentist’s office.

Smart enough to realize that the original film was modern and perfect enough, Kail and screenwriters Jared Bush and Dana Ledoux Miller choose not to change much. In fact, I doubt any screenwriters ever got an easier paycheck, as this feels the closest to the Lion King remake in being a nearly shot-for-shot recreation of the animated version. This helps in not angering any purist fans, but also begs the question: if you’re not going to change anything, why remake it at all? The obvious answer is money, but the result is a film that was always going to end up paling in comparison to the original. One of the main fallacies is the fact that this remake keeps many sequences that are clearly only meant to be animated. The result is fight scenes and song numbers that use literal animation instead of attempting anything different or original with their human presence. The jump to live action also robs many of these moments of the liveliness of the animation, as well as its more vibrant colors and editing. This is most noticeable with Maui. While Johnson showcased an incredible acting range recently in The Smashing Machine (2025), for the energetic and insatiable animated Maui he can only come across as wooden and slightly ridiculous in the horrendous wig he is forced to wear.

Laga’aia fills some tough shoes in the role originated by Auli’i Cravalho, not only in the charisma and verve required, but in the spectacular voice the latter brought to key musical moments. Laga’aia is more than up to the task and, while Kail misdirects her into being too big at times, so that she comes across more as if she’s in a Disney Channel show than a feature film, she always felt like the character rather than an imitation.

In the end, while this version of Moana is enjoyable in parts, it is mostly because it is simply tracing over the bones and strengths of the original. Its real contribution is diluting the classic, coming across more like a good meal you reheated the next day, one that leaves you constantly reminded of the fresh meal you enjoyed so much more, and wondering when Disney will stop reheating its best and start taking a risk to cook up something new instead.

5.7/10

This review was originally published on Young Critic. Para leer en español, pulse aquí.

Despite kickstarting and financially sustaining an entire new animation studio, the Despicable Me and Minions films devolved from Oscar-nominated fare into entries that barely meet the legal definition of a movie. Illumination and Universal had resorted to cashing in on the supremely memeable and merchandisable Minions characters, making them the centerpiece of films that barely featured a plot and were instead an amalgamation of poop and fart jokes in the poorest of taste. Not since Despicable Me 2 (2013) had there been a decent, let alone good, movie in the franchise, and so on the seventh entry into this series the hopes were very low for Minions & Monsters (2026). Yet the film proves that one should never prejudge anything.

Minions & Monsters finds the yellow, banana-obsessed Minions searching throughout history for an evil master to serve. In 1920s Hollywood, they decide to take a crack at the movie industry and become stars of the silver screen. However, when sound enters the industry, their gibberish talk proves a death knell for their cinematic hopes. Thus, the creative Minions James and Henry (all voiced by director Pierre Coffin) take matters into their own hands and attempt to make a monster movie themselves, by conjuring real-life monsters into the world.

Minions & Monsters is a drastic creative turnaround for the franchise. Yet I can’t quite tell what caused the change. The film features the same creative team as past entries, with Coffin and Patrick Delage in the director’s chair and Brian Lynch co-writing with Coffin. Only John Powell as the composer was a new addition (and the soundtrack is noticeably good). Yet it’s as if the creative team finally found a story they were genuinely excited to tell, instead of an obligatory film to sell Minions merchandise. You can sense the love of film and old Hollywood in every frame, peppered with Easter eggs and homages. There are references as obvious nods to Casablanca (1942) and Citizen Kane (1941), character stand-ins for Weinstein-type Hollywood power broker brothers (voiced by Jeff Bridges), and deep cuts of classic sequences from Buster Keaton’s Steamboat Bill Jr. (1928) and Charlie Chaplin’s Modern Times (1936). The humor has also become more elevated, perhaps inspired by those latter two comedic titans, as the film leans more on slapstick and wit instead of bathroom, kindergarten-level gags.

Minions & Monsters also has a recognizable arc, plot, and distinguishable characters. They aren’t necessarily complex or original, but they carry the film through its narrative beats with pace and structure. There are still narrative missteps, such as a side plot involving an alien robot named Dort (voiced by Jesse Eisenberg) that is as random as it sounds, and seems added more to pad the runtime to an even 90 minutes than to serve the story. The film’s Lovecraftian-Cthulhu monster Goomi (voiced by Trey Parker) is a forgettable addition, and only the all-eyed orange monster of the posters brings any sense of a memorable showdown, along with some funny commentary on a mass of “eyeballs” consuming all of Hollywood.

Minions & Monsters doesn’t reach the emotional depth or animation quality of the first two Despicable Me films, yet it is the closest that any of the turgid sequels have come. At the end of the day, it’s a rather enjoyable time at the movies, with jokes that land and film references galore for cinephiles to enjoy. As astonishing as it is to write: this Minions movie is worth the bananas of admission.

7.0/10

Para leer en español, pulse aquí.

It has been more than a year since yours truly, Young Critic, moved from the US to Spain. While this has allowed me to flourish in certain ways, it has also constrained the publishing of reviews to the release schedule in Europe, which frequently means receiving smaller films months after their original US release. This has surprisingly proved one of the more difficult adjustments of moving to a new country for me, yet one learns to live with the differing schedule (I refuse to stoop to pirating films). However, my patience had not been tested on the level of the delay for Obsession (2025). The small horror film has become a box office and cultural phenomenon, arguably the cinematic event of the year. After months of critical discussion (while doing my best to stay away from spoilers) and old friends and family gushing about the experience of watching it, the film has finally arrived in Spanish theaters.

Obsession is the story of shy music store clerk Bear (Michael Johnston), who is secretly in love with his outgoing co-worker and friend Nikki (Inde Navarrette). When Bear stumbles upon an esoteric store while searching for a small gift for Nikki, he finds a One Wish Willow toy, which promises to make one wish come true if you break it. When Bear is unable to confess his feelings to Nikki on a drive home one evening, he breaks the stick and wishes for her to love him more than anyone else in the world. As tends to happen in a horror film, the wish comes true, but the lesson of “be careful what you wish for” soon comes to the fore. Nikki starts becoming infatuated and servile toward Bear, who at first is spooked, if also enjoying having his lifelong crush hanging on his every word. Yet Bear soon finds that Nikki’s infatuation is tinged with obsession and co-dependency that grows increasingly unnatural and creepy.

Obsession is yet another film this year from a director who started on YouTube, following Iron Lung (2026) by Mark Fischbach and Backrooms (2026) by Kane Parsons. Obsession is from the mind of Curry Barker, a relatively veteran aged 26 compared to Parsons’ 20. This young crop of filmmakers is not so much revolutionizing film through their craft, as talented as they are, but rather tapping into a cultural nerve that has made Gen Z the most moviegoing generation this year. It is a true cultural shift, one that is seeing original fare attended by audiences once again while mainstream franchises like Star Wars: The Mandalorian and Grogu (2026) and Supergirl (2026) are left in the dust. Who knew that to get young people to go to the movies, you should simply have young people make the movies themselves?

While Backrooms proved a gripping horror debut with an incredibly immersive quality, Obsession operates on many more levels, touching on a subject even more relatable to any young viewer: relationships. As with any great story, it can be read and enjoyed differently depending on which layer you engage with. The surface-level horror is gripping, unexpected, and genuinely off-putting in the best way, yet it is the deeper layer that truly rattled me, bringing echoes of personal experiences and friends’ relationships to the fore. Obsession shows how through small acts of emotional manipulation and guilt, Bear cedes his autonomy and personal space until it is too late and the escalation of threats and toxicity grows unbearable. What made me shiver were not the climactic violent scenes as much as the micro-toxicities: not being able to get out of bed at night, or love-bombing gifts that leave you feeling indebted to your partner. These are signs not of love, but of need and addiction, ones that indulging in only makes things worse and an exit even harder. It is those elements that echo most and are more likely to leave your stomach churning as you walk out of the theater.

Obsession can also be read through several other lenses. A feminist reading might see the domination of a female body by male desire as reflecting a great deal of the current state of America, particularly with Bear functioning as an empathetic yet recognizable incel stand-in. Another feminist reading might address the trend of tradwives, who purport to embrace a servile role to men in today’s society, and whom Obsession presents as manipulated and brainwashed while the real woman suffers on the inside. I could frankly write a dissertation on the different angles and readings I found hinted at within the film, which range from mental illness to Egyptian mythology (those cats and Bastet… just saying), and even the world of the subconscious and dreams. Clues are littered throughout that will keep you up at night piecing them together. I got home discussing the film and two pieces then clicked into place, remembering a twisted reading of “Hansel and Gretel” and discovering the message it was sending that sent a shiver down my spine.

Trying not to fall too far down the rabbit hole of deciphering the symbolism, it’s safe to say that Obsession is a rich text, one that Barker has crafted with an expert hand. His cinematic skills extend beyond the symbolic to the technically adept. His horror and suspense are built with real craft, earning his jump scares, and while he leans heavily on music to sustain his unsettling mood, it proves effective in the key moments. Most importantly, Barker crafts characters with depth and genuine stakes. Within the first ten minutes we grasp the history of these characters and mourn it when it begins to change. Bear is certainly a flawed man with manosphere-adjacent urges, but you never sense that he acts from malice, and this allows us to see a flawed, sympathetic, if ultimately selfish character. We are placed on his side and root for him to succeed, perhaps because we recognize a certain regret and selfishness of our own.

Made for just under $1 million, Obsession manages to look far better in its effects, makeup, and overall sense of dread than many films exponentially larger in scale. Barker largely achieves this through pure creativity, particularly in lighting. I was constantly unsettled by the simple choice of keeping much of Nikki’s face in shadow, with only her eyes glinting out in an otherwise ordinary conversation. The use of her face in shadow also works on a symbolic level, as a mask that this new Nikki wears, and as an unsettling way of keeping us guessing: is she awake? Is she menacing? Is she now just a silhouette to be possessed, perhaps in more ways than one? It is a showcase that creativity can never be bought, and that innovative brilliance is hard to constrain.

Working with a small budget, Barker relied on friends and newcomers for his cast. Johnston, is his roommate, and is great in the lead, letting us see Bear’s desperation and greed while still making us sympathize with him. Yet it is Navarrette who is the true standout, commanding the entire screen. Not only does the role of Nikki require the American actress to shift into exaggerated, heightened emotions and uncomfortable, messy scenes, she also delivers a screen presence that dominates even the scenes she isn’t in. Hers is not only a physical performance but an emotional one, too: Nikki is a torn person, caught between the real woman being hidden and the fantastical one conjured by Bear’s wish, and Navarrette manages to hold both simultaneously.

I’ve arrived late to the Obsession conversation, yet despite the impossible hype that had built over months of hearing about its cultural impact in the States, the film lived up to every expectation and then some. Richly written by Barker, expertly directed and crafted as his debut, and anchored by an indomitable performance by Navarrette, Obsession is a film that will haunt you less through its genuinely spooky images than through the echoes of your past relationships that seep into you as the credits roll and keep you obsessed about this film.

9.0/10

This review was originally published on Young Critic.

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The DC superhero universe has been immersed in bad timing throughout the last three decades. After jumpstarting the superhero genre with Superman (1978) and Batman (1989), the studio fell behind as Sony surfed the initial rise of the genre’s popularity with Spider-Man (2002) and its sequels, and later Marvel became Hollywood’s crown jewel with its cinematic universe. Playing catch-up with overstuffed and incongruous films such as Batman v. Superman: Dawn of Justice (2016) and Justice League (2017), DC essentially rebooted itself under new studio leadership, poaching a Marvel talent to become its guiding light in James Gunn. Despite having a creative mind and film director behind the new universe, this new DC world arrives at a time of ingrained superhero fatigue, amid another studio ownership change, and with yet another rushed and incongruous creative vision. Superman (2025) was the kickoff to this new universe, and while Peacemaker (2021-2025) season 2 proved an intriguing second chapter, it’s the new Supergirl (2026) that marks the true second cinematic entry into Gunn’s new superhero playground.

Supergirl is the second film in the new DC universe and follows the eponymous superhero, another Kryptonian survivor named Kara (Milly Alcock), who isn’t a big fan of staying on Earth with her virtuous cousin Clark Kent (David Corenswet) and instead visits other planets and their alien inhabitants, whose red suns allow her powers to dial down and let her get drunk and enjoy herself. Accompanied always by her superpowered dog Krypto, the reluctant hero Kara finds herself entangled in a revenge quest by the young Ruthye (Eve Ridley) against the nihilistic and heavily pierced raider Krem (Matthias Schoenaerts).

Supergirl is the first film to which Gunn has handed off the creative reins fully, to screenwriter Ana Nogueira (her first feature script) and prolific director Craig Gillespie. Gillespie is no stranger to mainstream fare, having helmed the Disney villain film Cruella (2021), an enjoyable if largely forgettable romp. He has always felt more at home in grounded, more independent territory, such as in his breakout film Lars and the Real Girl (2007) or I, Tonya (2017). His cadence, tone, and sense of humor are similar to Gunn’s in those films, yet not every director is able to maintain their style and signature tone on large studio productions. Because Gunn decided to drop into a ready-made universe rather than build it one film at a time, this proves a crushing weight for Supergirl. The result is that Nogueira and Gillespie flee from exploring much of Gunn’s universe and choose instead to fly off to disposable planets and characters unlikely to become meaningful additions to the connected universe.

A self-contained film can work wonders in place of blunt exposition and sequel setup. Sadly, Supergirl doesn’t take much advantage of this either. There is the semblance of an arc in the reluctant hero becoming a plain do-gooder, yet it’s a tired beat and one that you don’t sense the filmmakers have any real interest in exploring. There isn’t much sense of verve or passion in exploring this world and these characters; instead it almost feels like an assignment that, while delivered competently by checking all the necessary boxes, appears to have been more of a narrative and creative chore than an exciting new step in a colorful world.

Even the social commentary, wherein the raiders are shown to be manosphere exaggerations of masculinity who enslave women for procreation, is treated with a sideways glance rather than as a true opportunity to explore these dynamics with a female superpowered protagonist. The question of gender doesn’t seem to be addressed in any meaningful way beyond that obligatory contrast, which allows this Supergirl to slot in alongside the rest of the female superheroes whose empowerment is illustrated as “they’re just as violent as the boys.” The alternative isn’t to be a damsel in distress or a clichéd girlish stereotype; it could instead explore the moral greyness of it all, and dare to examine the oversimplified gender dynamics (and sexualization) that comic books have long applied to female characters. Perhaps that is too much to ask of a DC film, yet one grows frustrated that Supergirl has so little to say or add to the conversation.

The film is aided by a committed cast, with Alcock leading the way. The young Australian wowed audiences in her breakout role in House of the Dragon (2022-), and it’s clear why Gunn wanted to put her on the big screen immediately. Alcock brings an effortless charisma and charm that win viewers over instantly, and her ability to deliver cheesy one-liners or reveal a Kara of greater depth than her generic backstory is a genuine saving grace of the film. Schoenaerts, meanwhile, has been given one of the most flat and binary villains in a superhero film since Thor: The Dark World(2013), yet is having such a blast that he instantly imbues Krem with a merciless foreboding and nihilistic glee that made me genuinely shiver in certain scenes. The sad waste of the film is Jason Momoa, who plays the immortal bounty hunter Lobo but barely appears in two scenes and could be removed entirely without the narrative changing at all.

The creative design of the various worlds continues to hold up from Gunn’s previous work, from the alien character design to the costuming and props, showing a spark of originality that is sorely needed here. In fact, I found myself more absorbed in deciphering a creature’s anatomy in several scenes than in following much of the plot. Sadly, a great deal of this creative energy is watered down by the overuse of CGI, which once again ranges from dizzying fight sequences to entire locations that are clearly on a greenscreen, with even our characters occasionally looking slightly unfinished when floating in space.

In the end, Supergirl is yet another stumble in this nascent DC universe. I wasn’t the biggest fan of an overstuffed and disorganized Superman, and this follow-up feels both rushed and passionless, leading me to wonder whether the current creative leadership has much of a story to tell with these characters. Gillespie is drowned by the studio machinery, and a lackluster script squanders much of what is otherwise the entirely praiseworthy work of Alcock in the lead role.

4.8/10

This review was originally published on Young Critic.

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The original Toy Story trilogy holds a special place in my heart, with the first film being that one movie I would endlessly rewatch on VHS with no sense of fatigue, utterly enraptured by its world and characters. Disney capped off the story beautifully in 2010 with Toy Story 3, yet as with the recent trend of Hollywood franchises, continued revisiting it to wring out further profits. This resulted in Toy Story 4 (2019), a film I enjoyed, but which has aged poorly in my eyes in terms of memorability. I have genuinely forgotten most of its plot and only remember the finale, which seemed to cement the end of the Woody and Buzz story. Nevertheless, more profits can be made, and we have now received Toy Story 5 (2026).

Toy Story 5 is the first film not centered on Woody (Tom Hanks) or Buzz Lightyear (Tim Allen) as the main character. Instead, it focuses on the cowgirl doll Jessie (Joan Cusack), who has taken over the leadership of the toys belonging to her kid, Bonnie (Scarlett Spears). The instigating incident of the film is the introduction of technology, specifically a tablet named LilyPad (Greta Lee), which becomes addictive and toxic for Bonnie as she stops playing with her toys altogether. This sends Jessie on a journey that brings her face-to-face with her painful past and abandonment issues stemming from her original owner, Emily, and along the way she meets new toys who challenge her blanket rejection of all technology, such as the potty-training toy Smarty Pants (Conan O’Brien).

Toy Story 5 is directed by Pixar veteran Andrew Stanton and co-directed by McKenna Harris in her feature directorial debut. Stanton has delivered some of Pixar’s classics, such as A Bug’s Life (1998), Finding Nemo (2003), and WALL-E(2008). With Toy Story 5, Stanton and Harris manage to deliver a story that feels like a more congruent and natural progression for our characters than the forgettable, harmless Toy Story 4. Because the film centers on Jessie’s arc, which was already a layered and intriguing one earlier in the franchise, it has the emotional heft required to anchor a new film. This isn’t to say Toy Story 5 reaches the heights of the original trilogy, but it does feel more like a genuine companion piece that adds narrative value to the series, rather than the glorified fan fiction that Toy Story 4 often felt like.

Yet for the first time in an obvious way in a Pixar film (a studio usually better at hiding its more blatant commercial calculations), you sense the studio’s interference in the filmmaking process. Woody and Buzz are clearly the two iconic characters of the Toy Story franchise, yet their stories seemed to have been definitively closed out in Toy Story 4. In this immediate sequel, you sense that the creative minds behind it are trying to move on from them as central characters, yet they are incongruously and repeatedly shoehorned into the narrative in ways that never meaningfully affect the plot. Woody returns to help with the central challenge via one of the laziest plot contrivances imaginable, and Buzz is little more than a shadow hovering over the story’s events. It feels increasingly obvious that neither of them was meant to appear as much as they do, getting in the way of Jessie’s story instead. Yet in order to put them on the poster and sell tickets, Stanton and Harris appear to have been forced to find ways to include them. The same is true of a cute, if distracting, side plot involving a crate of Buzz Lightyear toys washed ashore on a deserted island. This subplot feels more like a Pixar short interspersed within the feature than an organic part of the narrative, and the toys eventually become deus ex machina devices that pull our characters out of unwanted situations in increasingly convenient ways.

It is this fluff that both unnecessarily pads the runtime and dilutes the otherwise strong central narrative of Jessie’s story. Pared down, Toy Story 5 is a genuinely thoughtful look at the dilemma of technology and children, a debate currently being waged in legislatures, academia, and healthcare systems around the world. Pixar delivers a nuanced take that doesn’t seek to cast things in black and white or deal in absolutes, but rather approaches the issue through the lens of tools that, used the right way, can enhance a child’s life, and used the wrong way, can prove incredibly harmful. This debate plays out on multiple levels, accessible to both adults and children, once again showcasing Pixar’s remarkable skill at servicing both audiences in parallel.

Pixar also retains all of its signature quality in its animation style, which once again proves breathtaking and an absolute marvel to take in, from the rendering of hair to reflective surfaces and every type of material in between. The voice cast is strong as always, with the welcome additions of O’Brien and Craig Robinson among the more notable new presences. Even Pixar’s witty humor at its best is retained here in large part.

In the end, Toy Story 5 proves to be a weightier and more narratively satisfying entry than Toy Story 4, yet it never reaches the heights of the original trilogy. The film is uneven, weighed down by incongruous character inclusions and subplots that dilute rather than add. Its social commentary on technology is well argued and thoughtfully presented, arriving at a mature conclusion while also delivering a core message about how all relationships, past and present, hold value. Just because a relationship ends doesn’t mean it didn’t help you grow, or give you joy and happiness along the way. That increasingly seems to be my own feeling toward the Toy Story franchise, one who’s new entries I still enjoy today, but whose great value and impact in my life I find myself viewing more and more in the rearview mirror.

7.3/10

This review was originally published on Young Critic.

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Despite a varied career making iconic films across genres and mediums, Steven Spielberg appears most comfortable and at ease within science fiction, and more specifically with films about aliens. Two of his earliest films, Close Encounters of the Third Kind (1977) and E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial (1982), are among the most famous in his filmography, and he has revisited that territory in films like War of the Worlds (2005) or, in a more oblique way, Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull (2008). After having slowed his filmmaking pace considerably (two films in the last nine years), the American master has decided to return to his familiar alien trappings in Disclosure Day (2026).

Disclosure Day follows an attempt to leak the existence of extraterrestrials to the public against the government’s wishes. Daniel Kellner (Josh O’Connor), a key leaker, is on the run with crucial information from the clandestine government agency WARDEX, headed by the ruthless Noah Scanlon (Colin Firth). In parallel, Margaret Fairchild (Emily Blunt), a weather reporter for an NBC affiliate in Kansas City, starts developing strange abilities, such as speaking languages she has never studied fluently and even uttering guttural, clicking sounds on-air, which alarms both WARDEX and the leaking organization Daniel works for, headed by the unflappable Hugo Wakefield (Colman Domingo).

The film marks the first collaboration between screenwriter David Koepp and Spielberg since Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull. Both seem to steep themselves in the nostalgic storytelling style and structure of Spielberg’s earliest work, which was always enraptured with curiosity and wonder. The clearest blueprint appears to be Close Encounters of the Third Kind, to the extent that Disclosure Day feels almost like a remake of it. Both feature human characters who become fixated on a message from aliens that they alone are receiving, and who, despite government efforts at suppression, come to believe they must find answers for themselves and for the world.

While Close Encounters was a more compact film in how it examined a single man and the effect this new obsession had on his fracturing family (itself a reflection of Spielberg’s own childhood), Disclosure Day makes use of a larger budget and technological advances to expand its scope in turn. Yet herein lies one of the film’s missteps: by taking a greater distance and assembling a more crowded cast, it dilutes the character depth and emotional investment in their journeys. There is no obvious reason why Daniel and Margaret couldn’t have been condensed into a single protagonist, which would have allowed the film to delve deeper and spend more time developing that character. Instead, everything feels bigger more for its own sake than for any particular reason, and as a result the attachment to the narrative stems more from sci-fi curiosity than from caring much about any of the characters.

This shallow approach also affects the performances, which, while inhabited by talented actors, are left miming a single emotion apiece. Blunt maintains a breathless deer-in-headlights expression for the entire runtime, O’Connor plays a monotone paranoia throughout, and even the reliably great Firth is reduced to little more than dull grumbling of all his lines. Ironically, this works against the film’s central theme. That theme isn’t a commentary on the Epstein files, nor a soft launch of actual alien disclosure, as some online conspiracy theorists have suggested, but rather an argument that our distrust of human connection stems from a fractured and insular sense of truth. Spielberg and Koepp propose that rediscovering a shared truth would be enough to help bridge the divides that have grown so deep, but they dress this idea up in a fun sci-fi premise. Yet the irony is that the commonalities of humanity are nowhere to be found in the stark caricatures that populate the film.

Even with a weaker script and constrained performances, Spielberg maintains a level of craft that is undeniable. The director and his team seem incapable of making a bad-looking film, even if they tried. The camerawork, editing, costuming, stunt work, and even the score by the now-unretired John Williams are all undeniable in their meticulous craft, and together help reinforce the nostalgic register that Disclosure Day brings to Spielberg’s body of work. It genuinely feels, in the best possible way, like watching a film from decades ago.

In the end, Disclosure Day is a competently made alien movie, one that is practically a remake of Close Encounters of the Third Kind, yet also one that is more diluted and flatter than that 1977 classic. As an example, while in Close Encounters, the aliens communicate through music, a brilliant idea that shows a common language that all emotional beings possess, Disclosure Day has them communicate through the worn-out concept of math, instead. While Spielberg retains flashes of brilliance and his childlike sense of wonder, you are more likely to come away wanting to revisit his earlier alien films than to give this one a second viewing once you walk out of the theater.

6.9/10

This review was originally published on Young Critic.

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While satirical movies have shown promise under the Lonely Island troupe of Andy Samberg, Jorma Taccone, and Akiva Schaffer, with the likes of Popstar: Never Stop Never Stopping (2016), Chip ‘n Dale: Rescue Rangers (2022), and The Naked Gun (2025), the genre hasn’t really been revitalized. At least not to the level kickstarted in the early 2000s by Scary Movie (2000), which both generated the boom and brought about its own demise with its increasingly turgid sequels. Yet despite a thirteen-year gap since Scary Movie 5 (2013), the franchise has been brought back, with the original creative team of the Wayans brothers on board, in the confusingly titled Scary Movie (2026).

Scary Movie‘s confusing title pokes fun at the fact that some horror sequels are now titled the same as the first film while being a further entry, such as Scream (2022) and Halloween (2018). Just as with the 2000 original, this newest entry uses the structure of the 2022 Scream entry as its basis to spoof the current horror genre. We get returning characters from the franchise, such as paranoid protagonist Cindy (Anna Faris), her best friend Brenda (Regina King), and the returning brothers, weed-obsessed Shorty (Marlon Wayans) and queer-curious Ray (Shawn Wayans).

While Scary Movie starts off as a direct spoof, closely following the Scream sequel and taking advantage of the legacy-sequel craze that has taken over many horror franchises, after the first act it gets sidetracked and unspools. The problem with any satire, especially one that aims to be meta, is that it’s hard to maintain a consistent narrative and character arcs that viewers can take seriously while also poking fun at it all. It isn’t impossible, however, as The Naked Gun made clear last summer. That Liam Neeson-led film was a rapid-fire series of jokes and asides that nevertheless followed a throughline and maintained character consistency.

With this Scary Movie, as with the later sequels that preceded it, the main flaw is the gradual loss of focus on that consistency. The entire second act feels like a mashup of parody skits of recent horror hits, be it The Substance (2024), Terrifier 3 (2024), or Longlegs (2024), that lead nowhere and would leave the story exactly the same if they were cut out. The result is a film that, while starting promisingly, feels more like a compilation of crammed-in Wayans sketches, trying to get laughs less from joke construction than from how many references they can include.

That’s not to say there aren’t laughs in the film; I certainly cracked a cackle a few times in the theater. However, the joke-to-laugh ratio is incredibly low, as most of the gimmicks fall flat or are outright boring. Mercifully, there aren’t too many running gags that drag on forever and simply make you cringe, the way the spawned spoofs of Epic Movie (2007) or Superhero Movie (2008) devolved. Yet the humor gets increasingly crass and lazier, so that the best reaction it starts to generate is a single raised eyebrow at a punchline.

It was sweet to see the original cast largely back together (Elizabeth Ashley is one of the few not to return), yet they are somewhat sidelined, as the film suffers from what many other legacy sequels do: overstuffing itself with a near-identical younger generation meant to mirror the older actors from the first films. This is the case with Olivia Rose Keegan and Savannah Lee Nassif, who play Cindy’s daughters. The result is that every character feels like a cameo rather than getting much time to shine. Faris in particular isn’t able to delve into the physical comedy that was so prevalent in her character in previous entries.

In the end, Scary Movie is a disappointing reunion of the original cast and creative team, offering little commentary on the horror genre of today and instead largely going through the motions, approaching the lesser sequels of its series in their lack of memorability and humor. This is largely due to an increasing lack of structure, continuity, or any common thread, which grinds the pace to a halt. There are a few good laughs here, but certainly not enough to merit sitting through the entire runtime. The franchise had been shelved for a reason, and sadly this new entry doesn’t make the case for restarting a series that frankly doesn’t have much to say or laugh at.

3.7/10

This review was originally published on Young Critic.

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As filmmaking equipment and software have become more accessible, and platforms for content distribution such as YouTube cheap and easy to use, it’s surprising it has taken this long for a class of YouTube filmmakers to make the jump to the big screen. The last year has seen creators such as Chris Stuckmann, Mark Edward Fischbach, and Curry Barker debut feature films that showcase an adeptness with the medium and have studios perking up their ears at this overlooked bench of cheap and young filmmakers. Yet the biggest splash of this new crop is 20-year-old Kane Parsons, who was chased by a studio rather than pitching himself, to turn his creepy YouTube videos into the horror film Backrooms (2026).

Backrooms is a mystery-box film wherein a failed architect and furniture salesman, Clark (Chiwetel Ejiofor), in 1990 in Santa Clara finds that by stepping through a wall in his store’s basement he enters a strange maze of yellow-wallpapered rooms. This eerie space seems to twist and turn into oblivion, featuring random, half-sunken furniture and objects, with a geometry and architecture that is just slightly off. Clark, who is depressed and lonely, attempts to convince his therapist Mary (Renate Reinsve) of his incredible discovery, but when she doesn’t believe him he ventures into this world himself. Yet, he might not be alone in those hallways.

This is Parsons’ first feature film, and while he began shooting almost straight after graduating high school, the technical and acting adeptness on display is astounding. It can be tempting to attribute these successes to the more experienced crew and cast, yet a director is the key component in making sure all these different teams work together to form a cohesive whole, and Parsons showcases a clear fluency in the language of film, so that Backrooms feels like an authored project.

From its first scene, Backrooms grabs viewers’ attention, using multiple filmmaking techniques and playing with expectation and anticipation. The use of grainy camcorder and POV footage brings a further element of claustrophobia and immersion, making viewers feel as trapped in this perspective as the characters within the hallways. The use of sound, too, gives you the faintest of muffles that will have you paranoid about whether that was a sigh or an unfamiliar footstep. The elements of tension and fear are dialed to perfection by Parsons, who plays with his audience as he wishes.

Building a narrative around a mystery-box concept, where the plot revolves around a central mystery, is an extremely risky proposition. While it is likely to rivet audiences keen to know the answers, if you keep building with more mysteries and inexplicable occurrences you are setting viewers up to be disappointed if these aren’t all answered satisfactorily (just ask J.J. Abrams). That risk is present in Backrooms, where the mysteries and oddities become a toxic allure and you begin to wonder how they will all be threaded together. The answer is a blunt translation of the symbolism involved, which permits a cop-out of explaining it all away.

The heavy-handed exposition of what the backrooms represent is hammered home repeatedly as a metaphor for the human mind. It is spelled out with extreme hand-holding in an early scene, where Mary explains that wounded people begin to throw up walls against the outside world and then get lost within their own protected maze. And then again through audiobooks, direct conversations, and various exposition dumps toward the end. While this doesn’t diminish Backrooms or the curious puzzle of the human mind it portrays, the redundant explanations do become tiresome, as Parsons seems afraid that someone will miss the point of the film.

With that loss of trust, you also lose the hints and references littered throughout that would guide you toward solving the mystery yourself: the nod in the yellow wallpaper to Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s short story “The Yellow Wallpaper”; the references to Daedalus and how his labyrinth was made so complex to contain a monster that even its architect couldn’t navigate it; and the production design references to M.C. Escher and his lithograph Relativity. These could have been winks to eagle-eyed and patient viewers in a more restrained film that trusted its viewers, yet they fall by the wayside as mere Easter eggs given the more overexplained version we receive.

The true champion of Backrooms is the production design, which goes above and beyond in creating real sets that truly feel like cubism meeting suburban ennui. I can already imagine the escape rooms being crafted in its image. They prove absolutely crucial to the story, both thematically and almost as a character. The premise is a simple one of empty rooms, yet it is the choices within them that count: an incongruous wall, a pile of broken chairs, or a tiny door fitted with three doorknobs. Every element unsettles viewers, making them shift in their seats as an everyday object is placed in an unnerving manner.

Parsons assembles a talented cast for his first feature, and while Ejiofor and Reinsve are solid in their roles, you can sense that the film is more focused on its mystery-box element than on showy or meaty scenes for them. A climactic exchange toward the end has them interacting more awkwardly than cathartically, leading to a slight dampening of the central message of confronting one’s inner walls.

As with any mysterious threat, the more you find out about it the less scary and intriguing it becomes, and while the answers in Backrooms aren’t necessarily disappointing, they can’t live up to the incredibly tense mystery that preceded them. A lot of mystery is also left in the air, whether because of the juicy potential for sequels or because Parsons wants to suggest that one will never fully uncover all the mysteries of the mind. I suspect a bit of both.

For a debut feature it is as strong a calling card as one could ask, with Parsons showcasing a prodigious talent behind the camera. The central mystery remains intriguing, but while its overexplained themes may dull the film’s edge for some viewers and the finale provides answers that can’t quite live up to the heightened expectations, Backrooms is still a gripping, immersive, and refreshingly good time at the movies.

7.5/10

This review was originally published on Young Critic.

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Music biopics have been revived and proved largely winning for studios, especially when delivering soft, fan-service narratives that function more like concert films than any real character study. Such was the case with the bland but mega successful Bohemian Rhapsody (2018), or the likes of Straight Outta Compton (2015), Elvis (2022), or Bob Marley: One Love (2024). The same hasn’t been true for films attempting a deeper character study and taking creative risks in how they present their story, such as the brilliant but underseen Rocketman (2019) or Better Man (2024). With a character as renowned and complicated as Michael Jackson, the material was there to make an intriguing film. Yet under the control of his estate, we get a safe hagiography in Michael (2026).

Michael follows the career of Michael Jackson from his days as the roughly ten-year-old lead singer (Juliano Valdi) of his family group the Jackson 5, under the rigid and sometimes abusive eye of his father Joseph (Colman Domingo), to his later solo career as an adult (Jaafar Jackson) with a burgeoning string of hits. The film goes up until 1988, conveniently omitting the start of the sexual abuse controversies that came to define his legacy and character.

Michael Jackson was undoubtedly one of the biggest stars in the history of music, arguably commanding his own era of world domination between The Beatles and Taylor Swift. With such a ubiquitous musical icon, practically everyone has formed memories of his figure, mystique, and music. Yet the reality of his character has always been more complicated, surrounded by child sexual abuse allegations which, while never legally proven in court (he reached settlements with some accusers and was acquitted at another trial in 2005), he never convincingly explained away either. When asked why Jackson had been sleeping in the same bed as a child unrelated to him, his response was: “Why can’t you share your bed? The most loving thing to do is to share your bed with someone.”

In an increasingly dour world, it can prove incredibly tempting to want to focus on the image that brings joy, yet to blind oneself in hagiography also flattens the complexities of the artist and person at hand. It takes an effort to grapple with both images of Jackson in a fan’s mind, yet it is a duty to do so as a society. To make a film about Jackson’s music only would be like making a film about Harvey Weinstein and focusing solely on his brilliance as a producer.

Yet with the Jackson estate overseeing the entire film from its inception, it was unlikely that this film would contribute to that important conversation. Instead, it presents itself as some of the most blatant commercial propaganda in years.

The film is directed by Antoine Fuqua, who has shown himself to be a capable director of midbudget films such as Training Day (2001) and more mainstream fare like The and The Equalizer (2014) and Magnificent Seven (2016). Yet Fuqua strips out any critical eye and, while shooting with a professional visual style, delivers a rather bland Wikipedia summary of Jackson’s musical life, with the slightest semblance of a character arc in Michael seeking independence from his father.

Herein lies one of the film’s main issues: it shirks from conflict of any kind, portraying Joseph Jackson as the film’s sole villain, while everyone else, from record producers to managers to lawyers (who coincidentally have a material interest in the Jackson estate), is portrayed as a loving companion who never pushed back on anything Michael proposed. It is also rather notable how many omissions litter Michael’s life: the elimination of several siblings, including pop megastar Janet Jackson (at her request not to appear); the “We Are the World” phenomenon; and his relationships with other celebrities such as Diana Ross, Brooke Shields, and even Martin Scorsese, who directed his short film for “Bad.” Everything is crafted in such a clinical way, with the sole purpose of showing Michael as an asexual saint who was abused by his father and had a natural interest in young children and toys, that it feels rather repulsive in its commercial whitewashing (no pun intended).

Jackson could prove a fascinating character study: child prodigy, abuse survivor, a man navigating an arrested development, succumbing to dark impulses of sexual control over children, all while performing and writing some of the most beloved hits of all time. Yet the film shirks from any complicated questions or answers, to the point that Michael comes across as a flat blank slate who doesn’t do drugs, have any romantic partners, or display any moments of anger or error. This seems to apply to every character in the film, who all feel like cardboard cutouts of the people they represent, with the single exception of Joseph, who is given the role of villain but from whom Domingo extracts the first semblance of depth and complexity in the entire film. His Joseph is a man who drills his kids to save them from poverty, and whose abusive and tough stance molds them into the disciplined artists they become. It doesn’t make him a good father, but it isn’t the simple “black or white” (pun intended) narrative the script had in mind on paper.

As for Jaafar Jackson in the lead role (in another sign of the potential lack of objectivity, he is Michael’s nephew, the son of his brother Jermaine), he is given little to dig into in his debut, but does rather well in the imitation and physical concert scenes, so that you at times genuinely believe you are watching Michael moonwalk.

The film is largely plotless, with Fuqua letting entire songs play from beginning to end to pad the runtime, and scenes seemingly stitched together from the positive highlights of Michael’s life (his monkey Bubbles! The “Thriller” music video!) without any semblance of an arc. The runtime drags accordingly, as you have little sense of where the film is going and realize it has nothing much to say beyond an unsubtle proposal of Michael Jackson sainthood.

In the end, Michael is a rather shoddy PR job that, while dull and shamelessly selective in how it tells its subject’s story, fills its runtime with enough of Jackson’s hits to essentially become a greatest-hits listening party. While the film has already crossed $700 million globally at the box office, I hope that while people continue to enjoy his music, they won’t let this revisionism prevent them from doing the harder work of looking at the entirety of who Michael Jackson really was.

4.5/10

This review was originally published on Young Critic.

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Even the best film purists find it hard not to judge a movie by its cover and form an opinion about it beforehand. Yet every so often a film comes along that shames you for having judged it harshly, showcasing that all art, no matter how silly or commercial it might seem, deserves a chance to be considered and watched. Such is the case this year with The Sheep Detectives (2026), whose marketing campaign did it no favors by portraying it as a tacky family film. How wrong they were.

The Sheep Detectives follows a pretty straightforward whodunnit plot that the title explains. A loving shepherd in rural England, George Hardy (Hugh Jackman), who reads to his sheep, treats them as equals, and prefers the company of animals to humans, is murdered. Several townsfolk appear to have a history and a grudge against George: the innkeeper Beth (Hong Chau), a rival shepherd (Tosin Cole), and the daughter he gave up for adoption and recently reconnected with, Rebecca (Molly Gordon). Given the ineptitude of the village cop Tim Derry (Nicholas Braun), however, the sheep take it upon themselves to solve the mystery, led by the clever Lily (Julia Louis-Dreyfus) and the patient Mopple (Chris O’Dowd).

The film is adapted from Leonie Swann’s 2005 novel Three Bags Full, with a screenplay by Craig Mazin, the mind behind Chernobyl (2019) and The Last of Us (2023). The director, Kyle Balda, comes primarily from animation, having delivered the lackluster Minions (2015) and Despicable Me 3 (2017). Nevertheless, a confluence of just the right creative forces seems to have come together to create one of the most heartwarming films since Paddington 2 (2017).

The Sheep Detectives has a whimsical setup and could easily have fallen down the Minions path of lowest-common-denominator humor, with pratfalls and fart jokes, yet Mazin is measured and adept at keeping a tight pace and a steady but never overwhelming use of gags. The humor leans more on British wit than physical comedy, and Mazin isn’t afraid to delve into deeper themes within this family film.

Despite death being a major theme in classic Disney films, it is rarely explored in family fare today. Only Coco (2017) and Soul (2020) appear to have handled the matter, and with a warm and cuddly approach. The Sheep Detectives eases viewers into the conversation, introducing the concept to the young lambs and then developing its characters as a showcase of how to process grief and the memory of loved ones. The film isn’t afraid to confront the issue directly and can shock viewers, not through imagery, but through certain character decisions that deliver mature yet gentle life lessons to younger viewers.

Much credit must also go to Balda, who with his technical team crafts a colorful and vibrant portrait of a small English town that feels both cozy and sinister at the same time. As with its British feel-good companion film Paddington 2, the use of color is particularly striking, with playful and sometimes plot-specific use of sweaters, flowers, and shop signs.

As for the mystery itself, it isn’t the most complex or convoluted. It couldn’t be too complicated for young viewers to follow, yet it isn’t dumbed down to the point of boring adults with predictability.

The sheep themselves, who follow the talking-animal route, are rendered entirely in CGI, yet to an astounding degree. For a budget of $75 million, the visual effects that The Sheep Detectives delivers are jaw-dropping: the texture of the wool, the animal eyes, and even the chips in certain rams’ horns feel genuinely lifelike.

The Sheep Detectives also carries a stacked cast, from Jackman in a small but crucial role, to the array of suspects, and a particularly delicious Emma Thompson as George’s impatient estate lawyer, who steals every scene she’s in.

In the end, The Sheep Detectives is one of the warmest, most fulfilling, and most endearing family films I have seen in a long while, one that had absolutely no right to be this good given its marketing and premise. Yet it goes to show that when talent comes together in front of and behind the camera and the creative juices start flowing, it doesn’t matter what the story is. It matters how you tell it.

This review was originally published on Young Critic.

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Despite featuring more hours of content and story than film, television has traditionally been a faster production medium. This was largely due to smaller budgets and less effects-heavy storytelling, which allowed audiences to receive new seasons every year. As the streaming wars poured cash into TV, however, we began seeing grander scope, with budgets and visual effects beginning to rival those of the big screen, and production times to match. Game of Thrones (2011–2019) began delivering seasons every two years, Stranger Things (2016–2025) had us wait nearly four between seasons, and The Mandalorian (2019–2023) likewise spaced out its entries. The risk is that audiences grow tired and move on, or simply forget their fervor for the story altogether. While The Mandalorian was a huge hit in its first two seasons in 2019 and 2020, the decision to make a film more than half a decade after its peak is questionable at best. Yet here we are with Star Wars: The Mandalorian and Grogu (2026).

Star Wars: The Mandalorian and Grogu follows on from the three seasons of the titular characters: the bounty hunter Din Djarin (Pedro Pascal), who works for the newly reconstituted New Republic as it rebuilds a democracy from the ashes of the defeated Galactic Empire, and Grogu, the 2019 internet sensation known as “Baby Yoda,” who is Djarin’s ward and a fledgling Force-wielder. The film follows an assignment from a New Republic colonel (Sigourney Weaver) who wants to hunt down a fugitive Imperial general. Along the way, Djarin and Grogu become entangled with the notorious Hutt crime family, who want his help recovering a missing heir (Jeremy Allen White).

The Mandalorian and Grogu is directed and co-written by series co-creator Jon Favreau, working again alongside fellow Star Wars TV mastermind Dave Filoni. The film carries through the look, feel, and tone of the show with relative ease. The issue, however, is that it feels suspiciously like a condensed fourth season rather than a film with a cinematic structure of its own. When jumping from TV to the big screen, audiences expect the scope of story and character to expand to match the enlarged canvas. Season 2 of The Mandalorian, by contrast, featured far more epic emotional stakes and story beats. The result is a film that feels forced onto the big screen, cashing in on the last Star Wars property that still held some goodwill from viewers. The Mandalorian and Grogu feels small for the canvas it is inheriting, and a timid story that never dares step outside its comfort zone or deliver genuine stakes means it also feels inconsequential.

By cramming a slew of story beats and new characters into a still lengthy two hours and twelve minutes, Favreau and Filoni appear to have abandoned any interest in character development and world-building in favor of fight sequences. This gives The Mandalorian and Grogu a video-game feel: extended sequences feature Djarin fighting off hordes of enemies, and the only dialogue consists of updates on fetch quests and directions to the next fight. In fact, the entire film feels remarkably video-gamey, complete with boss battles, armor upgrades, chase sequences, new weapons unlocked, a water level, and a sequence in which you play as a sidekick. One wonders whether this was originally conceived as a Star Wars video game hastily adapted for the big screen. The bottom line is that despite it being seven years since the last theatrical Star Wars film, Star Wars Episode IX: The Rise of Skywalker (2019), you don’t feel any urgency to return to this galaxy far, far away, because this particular film has nothing much to say or add.

Disney’s coffers, however, are adept at attracting top talent, and alongside Favreau’s push for more practical effects, it was refreshing to see a blockbuster employ more puppetry, real sets, and actual stunt work rather than defaulting to CGI for everything. There is still a vast amount of CGI characters and environments in The Mandalorian and Grogu, yet the artisan work put into tangible sets and puppets in select sequences is genuinely appreciable.

That attraction of top talent extends to Ludwig Göransson, who composed the already iconic theme for the show. Göransson expands on his original work here, including some new and forceful themes that showcase him as one of the most gifted composers working today. The Swede has yet to produce a forgettable score or one in which he fails to take risks. His new work in The Mandalorian and Grogu is not only something I would happily listen to at home, but it crucially helps elevate what are otherwise generic fight scenes.

While his face is covered by a helmet for much of both the film and the show, Pascal as Djarin is impressively in command of his character. Playing behind a mask is a considerable challenge for any actor, yet through head tilts and nods alone you sense Djarin’s every raised eyebrow or suppressed smirk. It is impressive work using one’s entire body to convey character and emotion.

In the end, The Mandalorian and Grogu feels like a rather choppy fourth season crammed into a film. The technical craft is still present and often marvellous, but you sense a lack of ideas, urgency, and scale that severely dilutes the story and its enjoyability. Disney appears to have exhausted its last exciting Star Wars property in its desperation to squeeze every last drop from the franchise. One can only wonder how much further they will push it.

5.3/10

This review was originally published on Young Critic

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Nostalgia is the main selling point in Hollywood nowadays, whether because executives are yearning for a golden age of cinema gone by, or because it appeals to a “safe bet” mentality of packaging content for viewers with guaranteed recognition. This seems to be driving every project greenlit by the major studios, which have moved on from chasing IP to simply digging up any minor hit of the past. Perhaps this is why the newest Avengers film will essentially play on the very recent golden years of Marvel, or why television networks are reuniting old casts with little actual story to tell (Malcolm in the Middle: Life’s Still Unfair (2026); And Just Like That (2021–2025)). In film, the examples pile up: Michael (2026) is a recent case showcasing how putting old musical hits on screen is enough to sell tickets. The latest to receive this treatment is The Devil Wears Prada 2 (2026).

The Devil Wears Prada 2 doesn’t follow the sequel novel written to the best-selling semi-memoir. Instead, it tells its own story to reunite the characters of the first film, twenty years on. Andy (Anne Hathaway) is now a renowned investigative journalist working for a small paper in New York; Emily (Emily Blunt) is an executive at Dior; and Miranda (Meryl Streep) and Nigel (Stanley Tucci) continue in their same roles at fashion magazine Runway. When an embarrassing puff piece in the magazine turns out to be concealing sweatshops in the fashion world, Andy is brought in by Runway’s parent company to run the features section of the magazine. The old assistant thus returns to face a toxic Miranda, who has had Andy reluctantly installed as a colleague.

The first The Devil Wears Prada (2006) offered a playful window into the high-fashion world that somewhat smoothed the edges of the memoir it was based on, taking less of an axe to the Anna Wintour stand-in Miranda and showing her as a mean but rather complicated boss. By stepping outside the original memoir, however, The Devil Wears Prada 2 is both liberated and unmoored from the confines of that source material. As such, this sequel feels less like an immersive look into the high-pressure and unforgiving world of fashion and more like an airy vehicle for good intentions and fan fiction.

The Devil Wears Prada 2, while still steeped in the fashion world (it is replete with cameos ranging from Marc Jacobs to Donatella Versace), seems most intent on the journalistic side of the “fashion magazine” premise. Andy is portrayed as an intrepid reporter writing necessary if under-read pieces. The first two acts are essentially a study in the struggle for written journalism to remain relevant to both its corporate bosses and its readers, as the closure of fellow outlets echoes ever closer and panic and survivalist instincts begin to overwhelm Andy. This would have made for a rather intriguing and satisfying sequel, even if it never digs deep into the nuances of modern journalism. Yet in the third act, the film suddenly remembers that it also has to be a “fashion” film: it relocates to Milan and launches into a melodramatic series of twists and turns that feel more like Tumblr fan fiction from 2008 than the organic behavior of these characters. Many of the decisions and conversations in this third act never feel real, Miranda’s edges are softened, and Andy becomes a caricature. The result is a rather vapid finale, with a confusing solution proposed to save both fashion and journalism: find yourself a billionaire patron.

While looking down at the cheap nostalgia-baiting that The Devil Wears Prada 2 offers fans of the first film, it’s hard to resist the incredibly talented cast assembled once again. We simply don’t get enough of Tucci on film, and I sincerely hope he offers his services more to the big screen. Blunt, a far bigger star in the twenty years since the first film, has a supporting role that is rather one-note, yet she breathes an air of complexity into it. Hathaway is at her most bubbly, in the kind of energetic performance I had sorely missed after she took increasingly dark and dour roles following her Oscar win for Les Misérables (2012). I hope we get a more balanced set of Hathaway roles going forward, as her comedic skills remain impeccable. Yet the true heart and soul of a Prada film is Streep, who slips back into Miranda’s silver bob with an ease that makes you genuinely believe the character has returned. Every arch of an eyebrow or subtle sigh of judgment steals the spotlight in her every scene. Hers is a presence that permeates the entire film, so that even in the more uncharacteristic moments piled on toward the end, you never see Streep come through but rather Miranda herself grappling with them.

The costumes remain original and vibrant, though I was not as dazzled as by the first film’s selections, since original costume designer Patricia Field chose not to return. While the nostalgia and the intriguing journalism angle carry you through the harmless first two acts, the third act lost me with its incongruity with the rest of the story and its overreliance on melodramatic tropes and implausible character decisions. In the end, this sequel is a glittery watch as it comes down the catwalk, but you are soon to forget it once it has struck its pose and turned away.

6.6/10

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Despite starting with a promising run, Illumination has devolved into the kind of corporate factory that caters to the lowest common denominator of entertainment. While the first Despicable Me films were original and creative, parent company Universal leaned less on story and character and more on the breakout commercial potential of the Minions, spawning some of the most plotless and empty animated films in years. Their other franchises haven’t fared much better: Sing uses hit songs as a thread to sell tickets with little else; The Secret Life of Pets is a watered-down imitation of Toy Story (1995) with a disturbing amount of violence for a family film; and The Super Mario Bros. Movie (2023) seemed to be the pinnacle of corporate filmmaking. While that first film played it safe and was a billion-dollar hit, it was harmless enough. With the new sequel, however, Illumination has stooped to a new low.

The Super Mario Galaxy Movie (2026) finds the protagonists of the previous film, plumbers Mario (Chris Pratt) and Luigi (Charlie Day), and Princess Peach (Anya Taylor-Joy), searching across the galaxy for the kidnapped Princess Rosalina (Brie Larson), the key to Peach’s past and the mother of the stars. The culprit is Bowser Jr. (Benny Safdie), who seeks to avenge and liberate his father, the villain of the previous film, Bowser (Jack Black), imprisoned in miniature by our heroes.

The Super Mario Galaxy Movie is helmed by no less than four directors: Aaron Horvath, Michael Jelenic, Pierre Leduc, and Fabien Polack, all returning from the previous film. This alone confirms that the film isn’t pursuing a single creative vision so much as checking boxes at the behest of corporate bosses. As such, it feels more like the ramp-up of a marketing campaign, with the story revolving around how many new characters it can cram into the runtime (new toys to sell), how many costume changes and power-ups our characters can undergo (collectible toy variants), and how many winking references to their own products it can make before my eyes roll out of my head (other characters wearing Mario pajamas, carrying Mario plushies, wearing Mario aprons, and so on).

The first film certainly had this kind of corporate catering, but its relatively pared-down story allowed the characters and plot to breathe slightly, letting a personality emerge, largely thanks to Jack Black’s always-energetic voice performance. There was also an intriguing, if unrealized, potential in the story of brotherhood between Mario and Luigi that would fit perfectly in a family film. These bright spots are drowned out by the barrage of content, winks, characters, and settings that The Super Mario Galaxy Movie wants to introduce, leaving every character feeling more like a cameo than an inhabitant of a creative world. Even a surprising voice role from Glenn Powell is given a passing glance as the film rushes to the next piece of merchandise it wishes to sell you.

Throwing inordinate amounts of money at a film’s creative elements won’t always yield quality, but the same can’t be said for the technical ones, which showcase Illumination as the only true rival to Disney and Pixar in terms of animation quality. The Super Mario Galaxy Movie is vibrant with color and texture, enhancing the cartoony video game aesthetic of its characters while also showing off hair and water effects with genuine panache. The same must be said of the score by Brian Tyler, a winning blend of existing Mario themes given a cinematic twist, which enlivens nearly every scene.

Yet with such a shameless framing of the film as a “product” and “content,” there is little that is genuinely enjoyable or entertaining here. It isn’t that The Super Mario Galaxy Movie is horrendous so much as simply forgettable from one scene to the next, playing it so safe that it risks nothing: no jokes, no twists, no deeper message. The result is a meal of empty calories that you’d rather your kids not feed on too much.

4.7/10

This review was originally published on Young Critic.

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Despite the success of Andy Weir’s novel “The Martian” on the big screen with the Ridley Scott and Matt Damon film of the same name, it has taken more than a decade for another of Weir’s novels to be adapted. This one, again featuring a solitary and witty astronaut in space, is the crowd-pleaser Project Hail Mary (2026).

Project Hail Mary opens on Ryland Grace (Ryan Gosling), a man waking up from a coma with memory loss, who finds himself the sole surviving member of a spaceship crew. Through flashbacks, Ryland remembers he is a microbiologist and middle school teacher who gets roped into a planet-saving mission by the stern Eva Stratt (Sandra Hüller) after alien microbes start eating the sun. Ryland finds himself on a mission to discover where these microbes come from and how to stop them.

Project Hail Mary marks the directorial reemergence of Phil Lord and Chris Miller, who, while remaining active as producers, had not directed a film since The Lego Movie (2014). While their films have been mainstream hits before, Project Hail Mary is the biggest budget and canvas the duo has ever worked on, at over $200 million. Yet the jump in scale has not fazed them, but rather unlocked greater bounds of their creativity.

Project Hail Mary is a perfectly calibrated crowd-pleaser of the type that seems to have disappeared as algorithms have increasingly segmented audiences into ever smaller, devoted niches. Even the vaunted comic book movies of the past few decades aimed more at a young male audience than at all four quadrants. As such, Project Hail Mary is a refreshing return to wide appeal. Yet calling something a “crowd-pleaser” can appear derisive, as if it were a project dumbed down for the masses. That is the genius of Weir’s books: they trust their audience. While the book certainly goes into more depth and detail, Project Hail Mary doesn’t hold back from anchoring its story on microbiological plot points and trusting viewers to grasp basic scientific facts. As a result, the film doesn’t lose the signature selling point of Weir’s stories, which is their commitment to scientific accuracy and plausibility. It makes the depictions of alien life and the challenges undergone all the more immersive and intimate.

As with The Martian (2015), much of the narrative is told through the protagonist’s inner monologue, which for a film necessitates someone talking to themselves in a charming manner. Damon did this to great effect in The Martian, and Gosling is more than up to the task in Project Hail Mary, oozing with charisma and likeability. Appearing as an everyman is a difficult skill for movie stars to pull off, and Gosling doesn’t necessarily come to mind when casting for it, yet the Canadian actor proves so adept in his comedic timing that it’s impossible not to fall for Ryland within the first ten minutes. It proves key as he carries us through all the scientific jargon and emotional beats, largely by himself. There is, however, a key companion I won’t go into too much due to spoilers, which captures the hearts of viewers and proves a crucial foil to Ryland’s quips.

Phil Lord and Chris Miller have shown themselves to be incredibly colorful, quite literally, in their filmmaking, mixing their winning humor with a visual palette that makes their films pop. This is taken to the next level with Project Hail Mary. Alongside cinematographer Greig Fraser (Dune, 2021; Zero Dark Thirty, 2012), the film is an absolute marvel to behold, using color in enlivening ways: from red space suits to a planet with a swirling green aurora. Even more mundane elements, like the red lighting inside the spaceship or its warning flashes, are deployed in ways that are quietly breathtaking.

In the end, Project Hail Mary feels like the savior that cinemas had long been awaiting: a popular, inspiring, and entertaining film about kindness and bravery that never preaches, enveloping you so warmly that you leave the theater with a smile on your face and a spring in your step. Who says crowd-pleasers should be looked down upon?

8.2/10

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Pedro Almodovar has an incredibly distinct style, in both his narrative tone, which plays with the melodramatic, as well as with his visuals and sets, which are vibrant and alluring. While the Spaniard has been making films for over four decades with this consistent signature style, he’s undergone several evolutions. He started as part of the “Movida Madrileña” cultural movement, with an extroversion of the artistic and social freedoms in democratic Spain. This evolved into an introversion as he began to explore elements of his and Spain’s past, looking at guilt, trauma, and memory in films such as All About My Mother (1999), Bad Education (2004), and Volver (2006). He seems to have undergone yet another evolution in the last few years, from introspection to reflection of himself as an artist and the legacy he is leaving. This began with Pain & Glory (2019) and now finds a spiritual sequel in Bitter Christmas (2026).

Bitter Christmas is a Russian nesting doll set of Brechtian stories. We begin with film director Raul Rossetti (Leonardo Sbaraglia) who is at a loss of what to make for his next film in 2026, and focuses his next script on the character of Elsa (Barbara Lennie), a film director facing a creative drought in 2004 (coincidentally a pivotal year in Almodovar’s evolution), who in turn begins to reflect on her life. The film shows both stories unspooling as both (or all three?) film directors start inspiring themselves on reality and the vulnerable moments of close friends and lovers; to the point that their creative process becomes a set of intersecting spirals, where you’re unsure where the fiction begins and ends.

Bitter Christmas is Almodovar’s strongest film since Pain & Glory, as his brief interlude into English-language fare proved rather stale with his signature wit and humor lost in translation. His latest is a return to incredible form and continues this latest stage of a reflective approach to his own process and life as a filmmaker. As such he is delivering his most vulnerable self as he divulges his deepest insecurities and demons on the screen. Bitter Christmas is also Almodovar’s most “academic” film in the sense that it’s a fascinating deconstruction of Almodovar’s own narrative style; which we see consists of a varied amount of guilt and pain, mixed with the ubiquitous theme in his filmography of irrational desire (is there any other kind?). Almodovar chooses to delve into the why and how of the creative process, as well, tugging and battling with his fictional characters in the meta narrative, of multiple levels of film directors attempting to overcome creative ruts and show something honest instead; call it Almodovar-ception.

At the root of Bitter Christmas is a debate of the ownership of stories. Almodovar has been credited with being such an all-encompassing director, that his name alone conjures up a style. Yet you sense an internal culpability in Almodovar, as he finds a toxic relationship in owning his films’ stories. The narrative in Bitter Christmas revolves around who controls whom, which character’s tragedies can be used for inspiration, and how the Quixotic delusion creatives have to impose control in their lives mirrors what they do on the page. It is explored and depicted in an unvarnished manner, to a stunning degree, especially considering how obvious Almodovar is placing himself as a surrogate with the characters of Raul and Elsa.

Yet this academic reading of Bitter Christmas doesn’t mean Almodovar isn’t able to also keep his signature melodramatic and Sirk-ian plot, we get his usual idiosyncrasies, from Elsa’s boyfriend (Patrick Criado) who is a fireman by day and stripper by night (yes, you read that right), a climactic moment occurring in an impeccably color-coded living room listening to rancheras (touchingly from the late Chavela Vargas, whose career Almodovar had helped revive), or Alberto Iglesias’ dramatic score with swooning strings. This latter element proves key to the meta reflection of the Manchegan’s filmography, as die-hard Almodovar fans will notice Iglesias reuses themes from previous films, such as Talk To Her (2002).

I was pleased to see expanded roles for Sbaraglia and Aitana Sanchez-Gijon (as Raul’s longtime assistant) as they had featured in bit roles in Pain & Glory and Parallel Mothers (2021). In Bitter Christmas they get a chance to show off their underused talents with the centerpiece being a confrontation in the finale, where you begin to note that they might be two sides of the same person. The exchange is amongst Almodovar’s greatest scene of dialogue in his filmography. Lennie is another particular standout, nearly stealing the entire film with her remarkable ability to withhold so many conflicting emotions in her face, hinting emotion to viewers with a teasing eyebrow twinge. Lennie is one of the finest Spanish actresses working today, and I’m glad Almodovar has had her join the ranks of Almodovarian women.

Bitter Christmas is Almodovar at the top of his game, showing himself as an artistic genius in complete control of his medium. It’s true that the film does begin to drag in its final act, but the Spanish auteur himself acknowledges this cheekily, by having his fictional screenwriter think of ending the film thirty minutes before. When it comes to such an intimate story, where you sense deep vulnerabilities, dilemmas, and creative debates are being exorcised, the only answer for any good writer, is to keep on writing. And please, Pedro, never stop.

8.9/10

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Like much of the other Disney brands, Pixar’s reputation was severely hurt by the insatiable quotas for “content” in the Streaming Wars, to populate Disney+. The result was that the once pristine animation studio began to turn to easy stories, choosing quantity over quality. The studio had already begun to show creative fatigue as it started to heavily focus on sequels in the mid-2010s, with Finding Dory (2016) and Incredibles 2 (2018) as forgettable examples. This reached a fever pitch after the pandemic, when then-Disney CEO Bob Chapek forwent theatrical releases altogether for Pixar films, which in turn began to cater to lower standards of storytelling. Sure, the films were still cute and enjoyable, but have the likes of Luca (2021), Lightyear (2022), or Elio (2025) stuck in your memory? This seems to be changing: Disney has slowed down its overall production, and the latest Pixar release reinjects the brand with creative verve and emotional appeal.

Hoppers (2026) is the story of environmental activist and university student Mabel (Piper Curda), who, in a bid to stop a highway construction from destroying a beloved glade, uses experimental technology at her school to transfer her mind into a realistic, robotic beaver that can communicate with animals. As the rebellious Mabel ventures into nature and tries to rally animals to retake the glade, she discovers that the natural world is not what she expected.

The premise sounds more creatively contorted than it actually is, with co-writer and first-time director Daniel Chong making each outlandish decision feel organic and earned. Chong delivers the best and most enlivening Pixar film since Coco (2017), complete with the studio’s trademark humor, its dual track of adult and children’s entertainment, a stellar animation style, and real emotional punch. The bones of the story remain simple and winning: at its core, this is a coming-of-age tale about a girl discovering how to use her voice and where to place her values. The film never takes the predictable route, finding the shortest narrative path between story beats without pretending to wander toward an obvious answer. The pace is steady and quick, making the runtime breeze by and keeping you genuinely intrigued by where it’s going.

That snappy pace matches the return to witty Pixar humor, sorely missing from recent films, which felt dumbed down to suit only small children. The brilliance of Pixar’s comedy has always been its observational simplicity. It’s impossible not to chuckle at a beaver approaching some stairs, pausing to place its hand on the railing before heading down, or at a background exchange between two gossiping deer: “...and she was coming out of someone else’s burrow!” It’s neither overdone nor too sparse, keeping a steady smile on your face throughout.

The film also treats its characters with a depth and nuance that is rare in today’s children’s fare, which tends to draw sharp lines between the good guys and the bad. In Hoppers, clear-cut villains are largely absent: Mayor Jerry (Jon Hamm) pushes for the beltway yet is shown to be a decent person. It is only in the third act that the film surrenders to a binary good-and-evil framework, which, while effective for dramatic purposes, does soften a central message about trusting in the goodness inside all people.

That goodness is what I was most taken by, especially as it relates to the film’s political leaders. Both the mayor and the beaver king (Bobby Moynihan) deeply care about their subjects and constituents, and while perhaps misguided in some of their plans, act from neither greed nor malice. It is a rather necessary portrait of political leadership at a time when the real world is offering scant examples.

The finale draws on a steady build-up of emotional investment, to such successful effect that I couldn’t hold back tears in the climactic scene. Hoppers is one of the first Pixar must-sees in nearly a decade, and its creative daring and touching warmth deserve to be celebrated on the big screen.

8.5/10

Oscar Sunday is almost here. Here are a few of my picks for the night:

Best Picture Will Win: One Battle After Another Should Win: One Battle After Another Could Win: Sinners

Best Lead Actor Will Win: Michael B. Jordan (Sinners) Should Win: Wagner Moura (The Secret Agent) Could Win: Timothée Chalamet (Marty Supreme)

Best Supporting Actress Will Win: Amy Madigan (Weapons) Should Win: Teyana Taylor (One Battle After Another) Could Win: Teyana Taylor (One Battle After Another)

Best International Film Will Win: Sentimental Value (Norway) Should Win: It Was Just An Accident (Iran) Could Win: The Secret Agent (Brazil)

For the full breakdown across all 24 categories, head over to the blog: youngcriticmovies.com/post/2026-oscar-predictions