 Pedro Pascal and Vanessa Kirby in The Fantastic Four: First Steps © 2025 20th Century Studios / © and ™ 2025 MARVEL. Since the 2005 release of Tim Story’s messy sitcom-centric Fantastic Four, adaptations of Marvel’s first family never quite cracked the code for the superhero quartet. It took several decades, but director Matt Shakman (known for the MCU’s WandaVision television series) finally gives the Fantastic Four a cinematic journey with real stakes and an enthusiastic cast. Reed Richards/Mr. Fantastic (Pedro Pascal), Sue Storm/The Invisible Woman (Vanessa Kirby), Johnny Storm/The Human Torch (Joseph Quinn), and Ben Grimm/The Thing (Ebon Moss-Bachrach) get a retro-style spin in The Fantastic Four: First Steps, a giant leap towards a fresh start in the superhero world. The MCU pressed the creative refresh button at an incredibly opportune time. Having closed out Phase Five with surprisingly mature and emotional storytelling in Jake Schreier’s Thunderbolts*, the studio begins Phase Six on an optimistic back-to-basics note.
The Fantastic Four: First Steps doesn’t require baseball knowledge of a convoluted multiverse, nor does it indulge in the characters stumbling upon their superpowers. Set in 1960s New York and dipped in a futuristic palette, the film begins four years after the Fantastic Four embarked on their fated mission and became celebrities. Early scenes, such as the variety show sizzle reel celebrating the Fantastic Four’s accomplishments, indicate a seasoned team who have gotten used to all the attention. They also understand their unique abilities, from elasticity and force fields to super strength and pyrokinesis. But with great power comes great responsibility. The general public are head over heels for their heroes. The Fantastic Four are Earth’s only peacekeepers, and as astronauts, they represent a symbol of American heroism that was especially prevalent in the 60s. The film excels at conveying a sense of pride and propaganda around how the Fantastic Four are perceived. The group have managed to uphold an image of safety and security, presumably without missing a beat, over the course of four years. But the all-consuming space god Galactus (Ralph Ineson) and his Herald, Silver Surfer (Julia Garner) threaten to disrupt these godly pedestals, posing the question: what do heroes owe to the citizens of Earth? The Fantastic Four: First Steps approaches these questions with the subject of parenthood - how it changes the fabric of an entire being and alters the weight of the world. When Sue (Kirby) discovers she’s pregnant, the news adds worry and stress to her husband Reed (Pascal), who immediately begins to calculate whether the baby will be born with cosmic powers. His anxiety is balanced by Sue’s calm in the eye of the storm, which Kirby and Pascal play brilliantly in the film’s domestic-focused scenes. Pascal makes for a charismatic, sensitive, and conflicted Reed Richards; he carries a sense of guilt in not wanting his child to be like him. He always thinks of the worst case scenario for every problem, and it’s Sue who helps him through the moral crossroads. The two complement each other’s sensibilities to the point where a single look can drive the energy of a conversation. One particularly compelling scene - a discussion about Reed and Sue’s newborn child Franklin being the target of conflict - shows how Sue can quickly spot the analytical part of Reed’s brain and identify his train of thought. She swiftly shuts down an idea that at first upsets her, but ultimately places her into the heart and soul of this film. Those who have seen Kornél Mundruczó’s Pieces of a Woman will know that the birthing scene in First Steps is not Kirby’s first time playing a woman giving birth, but it is the first time in space. The zero gravity logistics of the sequence are visually engaging and immersive. But it’s the maternal fierceness in Kirby’s performance that elevates this moment into one of real humanity and poignancy. Rarely do we get such a primal moment depicted onscreen in a big studio piece to begin with, let alone in a Marvel superhero film. The scene pushes First Steps on a path of exploring weighty topics through a family-friendly superhero lens. Kirby’s performance also keeps the character grounded and avoids underlining familiar tropes where strong female leads are portrayed without the capacity for softness or vulnerability. The birth of Sue and Reed’s child explores how parenthood intersects with the pressures of being a superhero. The drive to protect baby Franklin, and the determination not to give up on society as a whole, balances everyday family scenarios with a genuinely threatening intergalactic force. The sheer scale and the deep, menacing voice of Galactus (Ineson) make him one of the more effective Marvel villains. He wants to devour the entire planet in ways that get personal for the Fantastic Four family. He goes after innocence, shown effectively with the character of Silver Surfer, also known as Shalla-Bal (Garner). She follows his every command and acts as a spokesperson for Earth’s demise, traveling to Times Square to deliver the ominous message. But there is more to Shalla-Bal than meets the eye, and Johnny (Quinn) finds a way to communicate with her for answers. Their dynamic adds some flirtatious banter and speaks to Johnny’s character: he’s a little naughty, insecure, and will do anything to protect his family. The retro-futurism world building, familial themes, and character-driven conflict set The Fantastic Four: First Steps apart as a contained story in a convoluted multiverse of superhero interconnectedness. The stylish production design captures a vibrant 60s Manhattan, from the presence of robot assistant H.E.R.B.I.E. to the mid-century inspired architecture and the flying Fantasticar. Additionally, Michael Giacchino’s stellar score gives dimension and personality to the story. Certain narrative explorations do feel incomplete — such as the lack of character development for Ben/The Thing (Bachrach). While Bachrach delivers a standout performance and shares fun banter with the cast, his scenes suggest a lot of material left on the cutting room floor. As well, when the general public start to turn against the Fantastic Four in the final act, the shift in devotion unravels far too suddenly and collectively to feel believable. When it comes to production value and emotional resonance, The Fantastic Four: First Steps never quite reaches the heights of the zero gravity birth scene. But the film wisely centres Sue Storm’s character throughout, which elevates a poignant emotional through line far more resonating than any CGI spectacle. At the core of First Steps is a family working together to stay connected to one another for a brighter future. Supported by the talented trio of Pascal, Quinn, and Bachrach, Vanessa Kirby shines as the heart and soul of this story.
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 Joaquin Phoenix and Pedro Pascal in “Eddington” If you thought “Beau Is Afraid” was divisive, Ari Aster has outdone himself with the anxiety-inducing “Eddington,” a political satire and contemporary Western set during the COVID-19 outbreak. Aster, who made his startling debut with “Hereditary” and mind-melting sophomore feature with “Midsommar,” has injected new energy not only into the horror genre, but the film industry at large. His genre-bending sensibilities contort what one would traditionally expect from, and perceive as, a horror piece. He finds fascinating creative avenues for exploring universal themes, from family dysfunction (“Hereditary”) and mental illness (“Midsommar”) to guilt-ridden generational trauma (“Beau Is Afraid”). The bizarre, sprawling odyssey of “Beau” in particular marked a bold change for Aster, compared to the more contained storytelling of his first two films. While Aster’s experimental ambition didn’t fully land with “Beau,” at least his choices exemplified bold filmmaking.
“Eddington” takes big swings not necessarily with boldness, but reckless audacity. Aster meticulously stays put in the chaos, nihilism, and uncertainty of when the pandemic first erupted. He reflects the environment - corrupt state politics, Black Lives Matter protests, police brutality, white supremacy, misinformation bubbles, unruly mask mandates, living on the Internet, performative allyship, and much more —at first with intriguing observation. The film begins with a compelling focus on how disconnected human beings have become, worsened through distorted social media platforms, and how individual perceptions can influence entire communities that are already on the brink of completely boiling over. But the more overarching ideas and character arcs Aster stirs into the pot, the more control he loses over where this film and its point are ultimately headed. The half-baked writing reveals a perplexing lack of engagement towards unpacking several themes. While clearly detailed and thoroughly researched in terms of portraying a very specific period of time, Aster stands too far back from the unfiltered lens. Dynamic as the performances are, compelling as the visual language is, and effective as the narrative buildup of tension may be, “Eddington” struggles to resonate beyond the point of spectacle. What the film does excel at, however, is provoke from all angles to depict how an entire society runs on completely separate belief systems, feeding into a shared nightmare that no amount of individual nostalgia can repair. Aster holds a funhouse mirror to today’s society with a satirical confrontation of contemporary hell. In the fictional town of Eddington, New Mexico during May of 2020, sheriff Joe Cross (an excellent Joaquin Phoenix) lives with his wife, Louise (Emma Stone) and her mother, Dawn (Deirdre O’Connell), whose conspiracy theories have created a sense of dread in their own home. Such was the case for several households in the early days (and the lingering aftermath) of the pandemic; misinformation not only caused extreme paranoia, but amplified some of the most dangerous platforms and gave permission to preach alternate realities. This dichotomy of connection and isolation is rampant throughout the film, kickstarting with Joe (Phoenix) in a battle against the town mayor, Ted Garcia (Pedro Pascal) about wearing masks in a pharmacy. Their early scenes together suggest unfinished business, along with a real “this town isn’t big enough for the two of us” Western energy, which Phoenix and Pascal play brilliantly. The film quickly branches into a broader scope of systemic issues including police brutality and racism, the police murder of George Floyd, and widespread protests among the Black community, as well as white fragility and reckoning from the perspective of privileged white kids. When the protests reach Joe’s front door, the film begins to unpack how his department — including officers Guy (Luke Grimes) and Mike (Michael Ward) — responds to Floyd’s death and the community’s protesting. There is a missed opportunity here in not engaging with this perspective on a more nuanced level. Aster leans heavily into satire and dark humour, which works fine for Facebook rabbit holes and benign political campaign ads. But the film uses far too many subjects as clumsy ways to push a story forward, especially one plot with a Black police officer that feels hollow, without making any insightful commentary or thematic exploration. The film works best when locked into the characters’ bottled emotions and how they each form individual pressure cookers. Joaquin Phoenix is an absolute wildcard of an actor, which makes him perfectly cast as sheriff Joe, as he has precisely the sort of energy that feeds into the character’s hidden rage. You truly never know what you’re going to get out of him, which Aster sharply emphasizes in a standout sequence of the mayor (Pascal) blasting Katy Perry’s “Firework” at a party, another pop icon feature in an Aster film. While not as strange as Mariah Carey’s “Always Be My Baby” needle drop in “Beau Is Afraid,” it’s certainly more intense, mainly thanks to Phoenix’s fascinating unpredictability as he navigates the character’s increasingly irrational and desperate behaviour. However inconsistently Aster’s ambitions translate onto the screen, he has crafted a compellingly and wildly imperfect film that depicts the horrors of humanity, a common thread in his work. While “Hereditary” and “Midsommar” live within the horror genre, the terrors of those stories lie in human conflict — in not having a support system for grief nor mental health, and how quickly those vulnerabilities become manipulated and twisted beyond repair. “Eddington” echoes a similar vibration with the scary fragility of the mind. All it takes is a single click for people to lose all sense of decency and rationale, whether it’s Louise (Stone) falling under the spell of a self-appointed saviour/cult leader (Austin Butler), or a white kid who fights for justice to impress a girl and quite literally overnight, morphs into a celebrity antithesis of the persona he once adopted. Aster also puts considerable care into the overall production of “Eddington.” Cinematographer Darius Khondji balances barren landscapes and phone screens with a sharp, revealing eye. Composer Daniel Pemberton finds an incredibly provocative rhythm, and his score is used at precisely the right times to emphasize tension. Aster’s visceral, atmospheric direction lends to the gradual build of suspense and paranoia, especially in a well-orchestrated shootout sequence in the final act. The sense of dread is absolutely palpable from the start, and only intensifies as Aster explores far more sinister and disturbing plot points, adding to the inescapable horrors that unfold in Eddington. “Eddington” will absolutely divide audiences in a way that feels both ambitious and reckless. Aster locks the viewer into overwhelming dread, societal unrest, and moral chaos, all through an uncompromising lens. For better or worse, he meticulously puts his vision onto the screen. But his thematic approach becomes far too repetitive to fully land as a satire or at least a thoughtful commentary. Eventually the film reaches a breaking point and poses the question, what is this all for? “Eddington” provides no solutions, only a tedious reflection with flashes of brilliance.  Eva Victor in “Sorry, Baby” The hardest and most tragic experiences in life are marked by small moments of spontaneous joy. Tiny interactions, whether befriending a cat, eating a good sandwich, or sharing a laugh with your best friend, can carry a lost soul towards a safer path. In “Sorry, Baby,” these vignettes define years of surviving and healing from sexual assault. Cinematic representations of this subject tend to centre the assault itself, whether explicitly showing how the violence happened or exploiting immediate reactions. “Sorry, Baby” resonates in the long-term aftermath, when time slows and the outside world melts away. Writer and director Eva Victor brings their singular vision to confront non-linear trauma with humanity and wit. One would be hard pressed to find a more compelling and confident feature debut this year.
Something bad happened to Agnes (Eva Victor). The “bad thing” unfolds through chapters of her life, told out of chronological order, starting with a glowing friendship in “The Year With The Baby.” Agnes, now an English literature professor, lives in a New England cottage full of unspoken memories and lifelong bonds. She and her close friend Lydie (Naomi Ackie) used to live here together when they were grad students. Lydie, now living in New York and expecting a baby, reunites with Agnes back in New England after years apart. Lydie’s presence instantly transforms the cottage from a place of isolation to one of comfort and familiarity. It’s implied that Agnes teaching at the same school she once attended might be uncomfortable. It’s implied why Agnes and Lydie’s joyous connection carries undertones of emotional heaviness, as though Agnes is frozen in time, and Lydie is moving forward. Victor sits in this fogginess with astounding clarity and a deep understanding of how to balance various tones, from series and somber to humorous and intimate. Victor takes a viscerally bittersweet approach to painful subject matter without ever trivializing the weight of Agnes’s trauma. The film emphasizes a journey of healing marked by the sort of comedy that happens effortlessly and derives from Agnes’s personality. The film delicately protects Agnes’s comedic bedrock, using humour not only as a coping mechanism but a prism through which she connects with the world. Whether it’s making a fool out of her inconsiderate doctor who questions why she didn’t go directly to the hospital after the assault, or questioning a pair of school administrators who claim to know what she’s going through simply because they’re women, Victor’s witty sense of humour shines bright. Additionally, Victor delivers one of the most exquisite and exceptionally human performances (and screenplays) of the year. Each and every nuance speaks to a fully realized character and story that quietly confronts the hypocrisy of systems that are heralded as supportive, but are in reality just diligently self-serving. Victor’s writing works to dismantle rules and regulations that don’t make sense; rules such as “your body is your body,” which calls into question, what happens when your body no longer feels like your body? The film’s academic setting also brilliantly juxtaposes how archaic educational institutions can be romanticized with the idea of being surrounded by inspiring literature, but are actually designed to systematically shut Agnes down at every plea for action. Darkly humorous as the scene between Agnes and the two school administrators is, the uneasiness and hopelessness in that room reverberate. Each and every frame of “Sorry, Baby” demonstrates Victor’s thoughtful directorial sensibility. They bring a deep understanding of how a single image — notably the exterior shot of a house as time passes from day to night —can vividly communicate how Agnes feels. Four years prior to “The Year With The Baby,” “The Year With The Bad Thing” chronicles Agnes’s grad-school chapter, when she is sexually assaulted by her student advisor Preston Decker (Louis Cancelmi). In choosing not to show the assault itself, instead placing the camera outside of Preston’s house through a passage of time, Victor maintains Agnes’s emotionality. It is crucial to believe Agnes without seeing what happens. Her words are enough, and she shares on her own terms - in the safety of her friend Lydie’s presence in one heartbreaking scene. This is the only time the viewer hears about what happened, and it is directly from Agnes. Reminiscent of a similar approach by Sarah Polley in 2022’s “Women Talking,” sexual assault does not need to be explicitly shown on screen to understand how the violence was committed, or that it happened in the first place. In “Sorry, Baby,” the viewer is frozen in time alongside Agnes as she leaves the house and drives home, illustrated in one of the year’s most powerful sequences. As much as “Sorry, Baby” explores the devastation of trauma, Victor also takes gentle care of the friendship between Agnes and Lydie. The film excels at depicting how an intimately powerful connection can bring so much safety to someone recovering from trauma in body and spirit. Sharing warm and inviting chemistry, Victor and Ackie chronicle an absolute gem of a friendship. They navigate emotional highs and lows, humour and sorrow, with the same level of care and conviction. From their first scene together, one can immediately sense that the two characters have gone through pivotal moments and share a deeply unwavering bond. In many ways, Agnes and Lydie’s friendship anchors the film and emphasizes the recurring themes Victor engages with, whether it’s unspoken connections or the long-term aftermath of healing. Every little detail, down to the inclusion of the cat, exemplifies Victor’s singular vision at play. In observing Agnes with her new feline friend, the film shows how intimate conversations can take place without a voice; she senses what the cat needs, and the cat senses emotions in her. Agnes’s moments with the cat define the few moments where she exists outside of herself, and begins to feel more attuned to her surroundings. A similar moment of exterior reflection arrives at the end of the film, in a deeply honest confessional that bad things will happen, and that Agnes can’t protect herself nor others from bad things happening. “Sorry, Baby” punctuates Agnes’s journey with an extensive vocabulary that lets healing take on many shapes - whether befriending a cat, eating a good sandwich, or sharing a laugh with your best friend. |
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