 Oscar Isaac in Frankenstein “My person was hideous and my stature gigantic. What did this mean? Who was I? What was I? Whence did I come? What was my destination? These questions continually recurred, but I was unable to solve them.” It is hard to overstate the impact of Mary Shelley’s gothic literary masterpiece, Frankenstein (The Modern Prometheus), which she completed writing at just eighteen years old. Referred to as the birth of science fiction, Frankenstein was written at a time of social change. Thinkers of the Romanticism movement, which peaked in the 19th century when Frankenstein was first published, embraced the emotional depth of humanity. In challenging Enlightenment notions that the universe was controllable, the Romantics underlined the beauty in the unknowable. Such ideals can be found in Victor Frankenstein’s obsessive pursuit of scientific discovery, and in his creature’s intense expression of individuality. Shelley’s timeless tale of creation and abandonment has seen several adaptations, but none as all-embracing of its layers than Guillermo del Toro’s Frankenstein. It felt written in the stars that del Toro, who has always approached monsters with an empathy to understand them, would make Frankenstein’s creature feel truly alive in the modern sense. Echoing themes of fatherhood and belonging, del Toro stitches together an adaptation from deeply personal threads. Beneath the nightmarish imagery, at the heart of Frankenstein is a drama about a misunderstood being in search of a companion. Shelley’s sensibilities can be found in del Toro’s gorgeously crafted vision; he challenges you to confront the unknown, the psychological torment of abandonment, the refusal to appreciate what you have created, all through a lens of compassion and forgiveness. As the film’s tagline goes, there are two sides to every story. Frankenstein explores the central characters, Victor Frankenstein (Oscar Isaac) and The Creature (Jacob Elordi), as two sides of the same coin, both representing the complexities of humanity. Split between ‘Victor’s Tale’ and ‘The Creature’s Tale,’ the film underlines a mirror dynamic of love and loathing, speaking to a father and son dynamic as the connective tissue between them. Tormented by the loss of his mother Claire (a truly unrecognizable Mia Goth), Victor wishes to conquer nature by reanimating the dead. His all-consuming ambition freaks out the medical science community, but intrigues Henrich Harlander (Christoph Waltz), a rich dealer who finances Victor’s experiments, including that of animating The Creature. It’s not that Victor has created an otherworldly monster, but rather an extension of his monstrous and manic arrogance. Thinking he can play God and govern the will of another being, Victor refuses to acknowledge the humanity of his own creation. He abandons “it” out of horror and disgust, putting The Creature on a painful path of isolation. The tenderness of Frankenstein lies in The Creature’s chapter. He embodies conflicting emotions of love and loathing towards his creator, who has given him both life and unspeakable torment. But he cannot live, not truly. The Creature’s aliveness — his initial childlike needs, his development of emotional intelligence, his desire for companionship — is met with rejection. Victor refuses to create a companion that would make the journey more tolerable, and The Creature spirals out of control to exact revenge. It’s easy to identify with The Creature’s vulnerability and yearning to find out what he’s made of, thanks to a magnificent collaboration between del Toro and Elordi. With del Toro’s earnest interpretation of monsters as outsiders, and Elordi’s transcendent performance as a lost soul, the Creature’s tangled emotions come alive. The DNA of Frankenstein echoes throughout del Toro’s past work, in which he often explored how real monstrosity is not of the physical kind, but of an inhumane soul. Remnants of The Creature and Victor’s relationship can be found from such contrasts between The Pale Man and Captain Vidal in Pan’s Labyrinth, and The Amphibian Man and Colonel Strickland in The Shape of Water. In del Toro’s Frankenstein, it’s not just the fear of the unknown that drives Victor’s cruelty, but the refusal to accept responsibility for what he has brought into the world. Del Toro leans into a compelling father and son dynamic, best conveyed in the film’s closing scenes, when The Creature’s vengeful hunt for Victor reaches some emotional closure. Their conversations aboard an Arctic ship play out as a family drama full of pain and forgiveness. Isolated from the environments that shaped them, all that’s left is the complex humanity of both characters, which Isaac and Elordi devour. Isaac’s Victor has a manic rock star energy, as though the laboratory is his stage to create a legacy. One can feel the blind ambition pouring out of his character; even the assembling of The Creature, typically painted in a menacing and fearful light from previous adaptations, is given more exuberance with Alexandre Desplat’s vibrant score. There are glimmers of hopefulness in bringing life into the world that are immediately stamped out by Victor’s cruel disdain for his creation. Isaac creates a humanity-centred portrayal that adds layers to the “mad scientist” persona often attributed to Victor Frankenstein. A testament to Isaac’s charisma, he can make the most propagating speeches feel genuinely groundbreaking, and brings an electric energy through his character’s movement. It’s a stark contrast to the moments of Victor in the Arctic, at the hands of The Creature’s suffering. He’s a withering, disillusioned shell of the egotistical man he once was. Isaac perfectly captures Victor’s haunted, reflective body and soul in those moments. Jacob Elordi personalizes a classic role in the most vulnerable and tender of ways. Frankenstein’s monster is a character many think they know; for starters, he is often mistakenly referred to as the titular role. In del Toro’s Frankenstein, he is emphasized as the abandoned outsider who yearns to belong. He is the newborn learning the ways of the world. He also embodies horror through acts of violence, as he kills innocent beings in a vengeful hunt for Victor. The Creature’s Gothic tragedy is brought to life by an extraordinary Elordi, whose portrayal is both threatening in stature and gentle in spirit. His vulnerability, voice work, and movement add a tremendous emotional through line to The Creature’s chapter. Among his most impressive moments are when The Creature befriends a blind man (David Bradley) at a cottage in the forest, and learns of human nature by observing the family that lives there. There’s immense comfort and heartbreak from Elordi’s “Friend” line delivery, and on top of the emotionality of this character, the actor creates a sensory experience using his physicality. The most widely known image of Frankenstein’s monster, flat-headed and bolt-necked, can be traced to Boris Karloff’s portrayal in 1931’s Frankenstein (followed by 1935’s Bride of Frankenstein and 1939’s Son of Frankenstein). Del Toro’s vision, brought to life by Kate Hawley’s unique costumes and Mike Hill’s creature design, stays truer to the book. The Creature’s stringy hair and mummy-like appearance, in addition to Elordi’s soulful eyes, also evoke comic artist Bernie Wrightson’s gorgeous illustrations for the 1980s novel edition of Frankenstein. Wrightson’s influence can be spotted throughout del Toro’s film, from the layered costuming to the detailed production design by Tamara Deverell (Nightmare Alley). As can be expected from any del Toro production, he has a brilliant eye for visuals. He also has a team of frequent collaborators, like composer Alexandre Desplat, who understands his aesthetic. Desplat’s sweeping score breathes life into the film, and sometimes subverts expectations of a scene (such as Victor’s assembly of The Creature). Cinematographer Dan Laustsen (The Shape of Water; Crimson Peak; Nightmare Alley) brings out the realism and emotional focal points in grand set pieces. Victor’s towering laboratory, complete with an elaborate round window, feels handcrafted from top to bottom and all corners. The laboratory is a neat example of how well Laustsen plays with sun light against shadows. Using a lot of practical lighting, he gives the film a modern feeling, underlining the contemporary themes of this story. The film also highlights effective colour palettes attributed to each character, such as The Creature’s cool blue tones and Victor’s bright red accents. An especially striking pop of colour is Claire (Goth) in a bright red gown as she descends the stairs of an ominous castle. Goth, who also plays Elizabeth Lavenza (a romantic fixation of Victor and The Creature), is the picture of gothic horror elegance in this film. The gowns accentuate Goth’s ethereal presence throughout, as a character of empathetic curiosity and transparency towards The Creature. While Goth has a fleeting dual presence in the film, she moves like smoke. She has a lingering impression that carries when she’s not on screen, in part because she embodies the film’s heart, treating The Creature with the care that Victor was responsible for. Not all of the ambitious imagery lands. The film’s Arctic opening sequence has an oddly artificial look. The special effects and fight choreography put the film’s visual language off to a distracting start. The glossy sheen disappears once Victor’s chapter begins, however, the recounting of his story brings up issues of pacing and an overstuffed plot. Not only does Victor’s perspective become slightly reiterative, but his interactions with Harlander (Waltz) are simplistic and dull. Thankfully, the film picks up steam with The Creature’s chapter - this is where the adaptation feels most alive. As Shelley does for the reader, del Toro encourages the viewer to question perspectives, and recognize moral ambiguity as opposed to good versus evil. Guillermo del Toro’s Frankenstein reimagines the novel in a both literal and imaginative sense. It’s straightforward in its themes and characters. It’s indebted to Shelley’s world-building, occasionally to a fault when certain inclusions go under explored. By embracing a multi-layered narrative structure, which humanizes The Creature, del Toro keeps a fire burning for profound questions that the novel proposed, particularly around the responsibility of a creator, and the consequences that stem from such abandonment on an emotional and societal level. Above all, Frankenstein radiates earnestness. Victor and The Creature, personalized through a father and son dynamic, echo the film’s core theme of atonement. With deep respect for the source material and an understanding of its timelessness, del Toro brings his passion project to life by wearing his heart on his signature sleeve. Guillermo del Toro’s Frankenstein arrives in select theatres on October 17, followed by a Netflix release on November 7.
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 Daniel Day-Lewis in Anemone Eight years ago, Daniel Day-Lewis starred as Reynolds Woodcock in Paul Thomas Anderson’s Phantom Thread, a playfully stitched disruption of polite society…among many other elements (PTA is a consistently proven master of interconnected storytelling). Day-Lewis’s presence on screen has been deeply missed since then. While rumblings of retirement had emerged around the time Phantom Thread was released, it was only a matter of time before a new role tempted him back into the craft. A truly enticing role can bring nearly any actor out of hiatus. Anemone is indeed for the hungry boy. It’s a monologue-heavy drama without the excessive wordiness, relying more on the actor’s facial expressions and body language to convey his reclusive character’s interiority. Day-Lewis, who has blessed us with one acting masterclass after another, is back with something more personal, by nature and design. Not only is he the star, executive producer, and co-writer on Anemone; the film marks the feature directorial and screenwriting debut of his son, Ronan Day-Lewis. The pair navigate experimental terrain as they weather emotionally gruelling familial storms in Northern England. While the story buckles under the weight of heavy symbolism, there’s a great deal of compelling narrative tension bubbling underneath.
Anemone begins with a brace for impact. Jem (Sean Bean) says a prayer to himself and briefly comforts his wife, Nessa (Samantha Morton), before venturing out into the woods to reconnect with his estranged brother, Ray (Day-Lewis). It’s not exactly a reconciliation, but a reawakening on the horizon when Jem ruggedly appears at Ray’s doorstep, and is simply let in. For a while, both brothers sit in silence, drifting towards a haunted past, where Ray begins his first of a few killer monologues. He recites as though performing a soliloquy under a spotlight on stage, and Jem listens as though sitting front row in the dark. The dialogue is transporting. The creaking and crackling of Ray’s cabin, enveloped by violent winds, ground them in the present. Yet, there is something otherworldly about the location; it’s prone to the most vivid apparitions, as Ronan Day-Lewis would go on to explore. Back in civilization, Nessa (Morton) and her teenage son Brian (Samuel Bottomley) sit in a similarly loud silence of unspoken trauma. While often isolated from each other, they share the thundering storm of Ray’s past hanging above them. Years ago, Ray had left his family behind. Now, Jem has gone to lure him out of the woods and back home to confront personal demons head on. Unraveling at a slow burn, the film sits in discomforting environments and bleak atmospheres. The direction and writing excel at emphasizing that there is no easy way out here. Rocky roads and punishing weather have stirred a storm in Ray, and Daniel Day-Lewis immerses himself into the character’s deeply wounded frame of mind. The film’s official premise — an exploration of complex ties between brothers, fathers, and sons — acts as a loose framework for director Day-Lewis to experiment. He goes for a shrouded character study in a fight against nature and its harsh elements. And of course, his vision is in excellent hands. Naturally, the actor’s return builds more than enough anticipation to pique curiosity. Day-Lewis keeps the momentum going as he devours a handful of monologues, making each line feel as though it’s just come to him, right then and there. The introductory monologue in Ray’s cabin sets a painful tone, as he draws from a devastating memory of abuse. With remarkable control, Day-Lewis brings the character’s emotionality and interiority to the surface, while holding space for his co-star to react. Jem’s character is the break in the storm. He’s not necessarily there to verbally or physically engage, but his presence attracts the attention of his brother’s pain. Like moths to a flame, as the saying goes. The narrative setup initially suggests that this story will follow two brothers patching up their grievances with each other. But Jem’s character feels written as the ignition for Ray to restart. Jem is the catalyst for a turning point for how Ray has dealt with severe guilt and shame all these years. In a standout scene of Ray punching Jem, the violence feels random at first, until the realization that Ray’s anger is pointed towards being made to confront the contemporary. The film is a double-edged sword in its use of imagery and symbolism. On the one side, Anemone excels at making you feel the environment on a visceral level, from the vivid cinematography to the impactful sound design. On the other hand, the film relies heavily on symbolism and stormy weather to evoke a level of tension that Daniel Day-Lewis’s performance already does, just in physicality alone. Notably, the film’s second half features a glowing apparition that leans slightly frustrating in its ambiguity. Additionally, whereas Ray’s character unravels with a thoughtful slow burn, the writing of Nessa and Brian’s characters back home is more repetitive in the themes they convey. Anemone hinges on the brilliance of Daniel Day-Lewis to communicate a world of pain from the get-go. The film’s opening minutes speak volumes about Ray’s shielded wounds, bottled frustration, and decades worth of distance from his family. And in the shrouds, it’s not the imagery that provides clarity, but Day-Lewis’s performance. Not only does he masterfully illuminate Ray’s trauma, but he conveys the character’s newfound path to healing in real-time, bringing raw pain to light. With each new monologue comes another personal revelation, and his work gives the story new texture. While Anemone takes wobbly turns, in its experimental nature of figuring out what works and what doesn’t, the astonishing acting masterclass at its core paves a reliable path to follow. Focus Features and Universal Pictures Canada will release Anemone nationwide on October 3.  Emma Thompson in Dead of Winter If the idea of Emma Thompson channeling Frances McDormand’s Marge Gunderson from Fargo sounds intriguing, the action thriller Dead of Winter will satisfy your curiosity. Thompson, one of our greatest acting treasures, plays a badass lone traveller who fights against harsh elements to save a life. Slipping into character and embracing the setting, she echoes McDormand’s “Oh yah?” through an endearing “Oh all heck,” complete with the Minnesota accent and all. Thompson’s wit and authenticity bring warm layers to an icy survival thriller that stumbles through cliches, but reaches a surprisingly heartfelt ending. In between tidying up violent messes, Barb reminisces about love and loss, acting as the film’s memorable core.
Set in a snow capped northern Minnesota, Dead of Winter follows a widow named Barb (Thompson), as she travels to her favourite lake for an ice fishing trip. This lake, a gem of the natural world, holds a special place in her heart; she had spent a lot of time there with her late husband, Karl (Paul Hamilton). While en route, Barb gets lost among the backroads and stumbles upon a remote cabin in the woods. She asks an incognito man for help. He begrudgingly gives out directions, while she catches a blood-splattered patch of snow in the corner of her eye. Barb continues on her journey and reaches the lake, but the audience quickly gets wind that trouble is afoot. It’s just a matter of when the danger will strike, and director Brian Kirk wastes no time getting the bloody snowball rolling. While on the icy lake, Barb witnesses a teenage girl named Leah (Laurel Marsden) running for her life from a gun-wielding kidnapper nicknamed Camo Jacket (Marc Menchaca). Isolated and without cell service, Barb draws on instinct and resilience, realizing that she is the girl’s only hope for survival. After rushing back to the cabin, Barb discovers a new threat — the kidnapper’s wife nicknamed Purple Lady (an excellent Judy Greer), is the mastermind. Greer’s character is a former medical worker who is desperate to have a surgical procedure done, and plans on using Leah as her patient. Armed and murderous, Purple Lady goes on a relentless hunt to eliminate her new target: Barb. If these nicknames elicit some chuckles, there’s a bit more humour where that came from. First-time screenwriters Nicholas Jacobson-Larson and Dalton Leeb find darkly comic veins in a tensely wrapped high-stress environment. Whether it’s Barb cracking jokes to herself while sewing up a gunshot wound, or Purple Lady (Greer) and Camo Jacket (Menchaca) veering towards a comedy of errors with their clumsiness, Dead of Winter plays lighter than expected. It certainly breathes glimmers of personality into the film’s generic plot and pedestrian direction. But the humour ultimately becomes more of a hindrance than a gift. It often clashes with the dramatic elements, creating an odd mishmash of tones and undermining tense standoffs between characters. The film attempts to balance the kidnapping plot with a character study of Barb. Flashbacks to young Barb (played by Thompson’s real-life daughter, Gaia Wise) and young Karl (Cúan Hosty-Blaney) paint a sweet portrait of a blossoming romance. The flashbacks add context for Barb’s everlasting love, making her journey all the more poignant. Her interiority is far more compelling than the cold-hearted patch of violence she runs into, though Greer injects stirring intensity and genuine intimidation into the picture. But the film plays to the melody of Thompson’s screen presence, through and through. Thompson’s emotionality as a performer is a major source of comfort for the audience. She devotes as much attention to the physicality of her character as she does the essence. The end result is a nuanced, assured portrayal of a woman whose intentions are crystal clear, and whose open heart travels beyond fear and directly into the eye of conflict. However difficult it is for her to fight against harsh elements and murderous plots, she doesn’t quit. It’s refreshing to also consider that Barb is not portrayed as miraculously invincible. She stumbles and panics her way through, which helps to ground her character’s scenarios. While Thompson has a strong grasp on Barb, Dead of Winter as a whole feels half-realized. The character study, the kidnapping of Leah, and the medical motivations behind Purple Lady’s actions fall short of a thrilling blend. But at the very least, the film finds strength in the motto Barb lives by: we don’t quit. However underwhelming the plot devices and uneven the tone, the story builds onto real stakes for the character. In this chilly, choppy action piece, Barb is given a surprising and memorable ending, made all the more impactful by one of our greatest performers.  Lily James in Swiped The online experience is absolutely horrific for women. Sexual harassment, death threats, cyber bullying, body dysmorphia, hate speech, and more denigrating content have fed into an incessantly dangerous environment. It’s not just the perpetrators and their deceptive personas causing harm. Online platforms and apps are also complicit in breeding misogyny and toxic masculinity, whether by design (in a male-dominated tech industry), or by practice. Social media has completely changed the way we interact with one another, and it has made dating in this digital age all the more precarious. Bumble CEO Whitney Wolfe Herd aimed to rewrite outdated gender roles with a female-empowered dating app - on Bumble, women make the first move. Her rise to billionaire status is depicted in Rachel Lee Goldenberg’s Swiped, a film that too often swipes left on what makes its subject so interesting.
Whitney (Lily James) wanted to make the world a better place. Her first business venture was selling bamboo tote bags to areas affected by the Deepwater Horizon oil spill. She also volunteered at orphanages around Southeast Asia, where she got the idea to create a program that connects likeminded people together. Ready to make her mark in the tech industry, and eager to meet potential investors, she runs into Sean Rad (Ben Schnetzer), the co-founder of a startup company that throws ideas to the wall in the hope that one of them will stick. Sean immediately hires Whitney as the company’s marketing director for a new dating app, which Whitney would go on to name Tinder. After months of market research and pitching to universities, she helps turn the app into a worldwide success. With her professional and personal life soaring, Whitney seems on top of the world. She starts dating one of her colleagues, Justin (Jackson White), who can’t contain his jealously when Whitney officially becomes a Tinder co-founder alongside him. Justin’s mean-spirited behaviour takes an even darker turn when they break up, and his harassment starts to affect her work environment. When she does speak up, she is bullied into silence, further illustrating why women don’t feel comfortable standing up for themselves. One of the film’s biggest strengths is the depiction of toxic masculinity, particularly in the pre-#MeToo era, that has poisoned the corporate culture and forced women out of the decision-making rooms. This will strike a chord not only relative to the tech industry, but across all industries where women are harassed and undermined at every turn. As the only woman in the room at Tinder, Whitney feels pressure not to cause any trouble, adhering to the expectation that women ought to be grateful for holding high-ranking positions, and that putting up with harmful behaviours is “part of the job.” The story of Swiped may be based on noteworthy subject matter, but the film falls flat in its execution. The writing glosses over nuanced conversations in favour of a by-the-numbers biopic approach that cherry picks the highlights of Tinder’s success, Whitney’s downfall, and the creation of Bumble. The film takes an incredibly rushed, straightforward path in depicting her accomplishments and shortcomings. While she created Bumble to foster an environment where women support each other, she herself liked being the only woman invited to the table at Tinder. In contributing to the toxicity to feel like “one of the guys,” she neglects the work of her friend and colleague (a very underwritten role played by Myha’la). The film does very little to challenge Whitney’s lack of support for women during the Tinder chapter, and inexplicably rushes through her development of Bumble, which leaves behind an underwhelming conclusion. The strongest element of Swiped is Lily James’s performance as Whitney. James brings compelling charm and gravitas to the role. She excels at conveying both the ambition and vulnerability that the tech industry, and specifically her male colleagues, feed off. From workplace misogyny and corporate greed to targeted harassment, James navigates the film’s thematic foreground while also creating a grounded person to root for. James also does not shy away from Whitney’s contradictions; a particularly effective scene reveals that she chose to climb the corporate ladder at Tinder without bringing other women alongside her. But her talents are ultimately wasted in a limited character study. The real Whitney had no involvement in the film due to an NDA agreement that prevents her from discussing anything pertaining to Tinder. As a result, the film continuously defines her by the corporate role she plays, falling short of grasping the nuances of who this woman is. While James turns in a reliable performance, and the themes reverberate with a greater reach than the tech and dating spaces, Swiped stumbles as both an effective character study and biopic. Goldenberg’s generic direction and a cliched screenplay approach Whitney Wolfe Herd’s legacy with half-hearted curiosity. By cherry picking her greatest achievements and lowest moments on a strictly professional level, the film limits its narrative and creative scope. Wolfe Herd’s character becomes neglected outside of her involvement in the apps that are, ironically, designed for people to understand each other on a more personal level.  Stellan Skarsgård and Renate Reinsve in Sentimental Value When Joachim Trier made The Worst Person in the World, he captured the intricacies of life in just over two hours of screen time. On every rewatch, the film feels like a miraculous discovery all over again. Trier is so deeply present with the story, and so specific in conveying one woman’s experience as she searches for meaning, that he manages to reflect “The Worst Person in the World” back onto the viewer in a universally warm embrace. Whether you’re in your twenties or not, whether you’re navigating romantic relationships or career paths, forks in the road of adult life are achingly relatable. Trier’s grounded approach keeps his characters in constant motion. There are no neat and tidy resolutions to conflict. The emotionality sneaks up on you, which carries over into Sentimental Value, his latest film co-written by Eskil Vogt. It’s a tender, witty chronicle of a family brought closer together by art, history, and a house full of painful memories.
For years, filmmaker Gustav Borg (Stellan Skarsgård) has been estranged from his daughters Nora (Renate Reinsve) and Agnes (Inga Ibsdotter Lilleaas). Nora is an actress who suffers from anxiety attacks before going on stage to perform. She has her methods for getting through the nerves, like asking one of the stagehands (played by Anders Danielsen Lie) to slap her. While Nora eventually finds her mark on stage, and her performance is met with rapturous applause, her personal life feels adrift. She carries a palpable sadness with her, which turns into anger when on the subject of her father. Nora’s sister Agnes, who as a child starred in one of their father’s most acclaimed movies, leads a more grounded life. Agnes has a family of her own and appears more level-headed. While they have a shared childhood experience, the two sisters have different relationships to their father, who had abandoned them when they were kids. Years later, at their mother’s wake, Gustav walks back into their lives as though no time has passed. This bleak setting brings the family together by way of reckoning, with Gustav returning to the damage not to resolve, but to understand. Making matters more depressing, Gustav reconnects with Nora in the hope that she’ll agree to star in his next film, which is based on a Borg family tragedy. He makes it clear that she’s the only one who can play the role. She refuses to read the script, wanting no part in the project. Casting takes an unexpected turn when Gustav attends a festival screening for one of his movies. Sat in the audience is Hollywood movie star Rachel Kemp (Elle Fanning), who connects with him and accepts the role Nora had turned down. Gustav encourages Rachel to dye her hair brown and use a Norwegian accent. Studious and talented as Rachel may be, her performance by admission feels stilted. Unable to get a proper read on the character, she seeks answers from Nora on the art of being. When art is made personal, it can hold a very powerful mirror to the people whose lives are being reflected. For the characters of Sentimental Value, art evokes reconciliation and becomes the foreground for healing. In one of the most exquisite scenes, Agnes urges Nora to read an excerpt from their father’s script that he’s shooting. Agnes knows that the words on the page will resonate with Nora far more than any conversation with Gustav would (Nora and Gustav have difficulty communicating, and artistic expression is their bridge). The scene is a gut punch of self-reflection, and an intimate glimpse into the bond between two sisters. Nora questions how Agnes managed to turn out fine, having grown up in the same painful household. Agnes felt protected and safe because she had Nora. But who did Nora have? Renate Reinsve and Inga Ibsdotter Lilleaas play out the scene tremendously, as they transport you back in time to their layered childhood perspectives. This moment reinforces what the film is truly about: the ghosts that children inherit from their parents. The movie within a movie is a remarkable framework for the characters to reevaluate what they all mean to each other, and lift some of those invisible weights. The film also travels through time with the Borg family home in Olso. This beautiful home of bright red accents, surrounded by trees, looks like a picturesque fairytale. Trier makes the house a narrative focal point, using voiceover narration to unearth the history within its walls. You could feel the weight of the past in its architecture. The house reflects generations of life; no matter how many renovations are made, it will forever carry the memories of the people who once lived there. And when a house no longer feels like a home, it will lose its sentimental value. The belongings become objects, and the rooms become confines. There’s a fascinating dynamic at play between the characters and this house. Gustav walks in like a friendly ghost, passing through with unintentional harm and unaware of his haunting impact. Nora walks into her past, frozen in time. Agnes hovers someplace between attached and detached; she has made a new home for herself, but there are certain things that still carry sentimental value. Sentimental Value is home to such lived-in characters, giving the actors an incredible framework to fill in their own portrayals. Trier crafts a true ensemble here; this is every bit Skarsgård’s film as it is Reinsve’s and Lilleaas’. From their interior conflicts to their messy shared path towards forgiveness, their relationship dynamics define the heart of the story. Reinsve is a brilliant performer who makes acting look effortless on screen. Since reaching international stardom with The Worst Person in the World, followed by compelling roles in A Different Man and Armand, Reinsve is one of the most exciting actors working today. As Nora in “Sentimental Value,” she runs the gamut of a fully realized character whose knack for acting stems from a desire to escape. Reinsve has an especially vulnerable moment at the beginning of the film, when Nora experiences a breakdown backstage just minutes before a performance. Playing her sister Agnes, Lilleaas too makes acting look effortless. You simply cannot take your eyes off her character, as she carries her childhood experiences in a different way compared to Nora. Agnes is often the picture of composure and brings a grounded quality to the family dynamics, as the keen observer of Nora and Gustav’s artistic expressions. Lilleaas delivers a quietly impactful performance that builds to a moment of boundaries drawn with her father, when he expresses wanting the young version of himself in his movie to be played by Agnes’ son Erik. It’s an outstanding moment that invites curiosity as to how Agnes feels about having starred in one of her father’s movies many years ago, and the lingering impact of that experience. Adding to the brilliant ensemble, Elle Fanning shines as the celebrity outsider to the Borg family. It’s also refreshing to discover the depth of Rachel’s character as she navigates the challenge of taking part in such a personal project, while wanting to be seen and heard for her talent. Skarsgård delivers a career-best performance as Gustav, walking a fine line of contradictions to bring remarkable realism into the role. He’s not a villain for his past, nor is he a hero for being a changed man in the present. His character speaks to a thoughtful mediation on how art can help process emotions and reflect the truth back onto oneself. With Gustav being a filmmaker, wanting to cast his daughter as the lead of his new movie, Trier finds a creative way to depict a parent setting the stage for their child to follow. Additionally, through Gustav’s character, the film engages in some pointed criticism of how audiences engage with art today. From prickly press junkets and “Tik-Tok trolls” to the pressure of making a relevant movie, Skarsgård relishes in those moments of frustration. It’s not uncommon to want something as soon as someone else wants it, especially in a sibling dynamic. The feeling is captured in a moment shared between Agnes and Nora, as they go through family belongings, eventually reaching a vase. Nora appears disinterested in the vase at first, until Agnes expresses wanting to keep it. Sentimental Value so profoundly communicates the fear of losing something, or someone, that you didn’t think mattered so dearly or that you wanted so much. When Nora does grab the vase — in a rush on her way out of the house, knowing that Gustav is about to enter — it’s as though she still needs that piece of her family to hold onto, as she heads on a spirited path of figuring out life.  Pamela Anderson and Liam Neeson in The Naked Gun © 2025 Paramount Pictures Laugh-a-minute comedies are rare gems these days, and Akiya Schaffer’s The Naked Gun shines as one of the rarest of them all, joining the original Police Squad crew. This legacy sequel pays homage to the classic Leslie Nielsen pictures, harkens back to the goofy mind of Mel Brooks, evokes major 90s nostalgia, and stands out with a contemporary spin. It’s been decades since a film has elicited so much hysterics - not just chuckles, but tears of laughter - and it’s a soothing balm for the soul. With the perfect casting of Liam Neeson and Pamela Anderson, whose on-screen chemistry sizzles in every frame, The Naked Gun is a comedy goldmine. From deadpan deliveries and silly visuals to an absurdist courtship montage, the slapstick humour brings much-needed spoof energy back onto our screens.
The story opens with a pre-credits bank robbery sequence that mirrors the tensity of any decent bank robbery in any film. It’s a fitting start for The Naked Gun, as this is a film that takes silliness seriously and commits to the bit with a deadpan slant. The jokes are marvellously crafted, the visual gags are appropriately goofy, and the wordplay inspires straightforward delivery. The opening sequence parodies the tone of films like The Dark Knight (pulling from the robbery heist) and the Mission: Impossible franchise (using a silly mask reveal to introduce Neeson). Driving the plot here is a piece of machinery literally called a P.L.O.T. Device. It’s sought after by tech billionaire Richard Cane (Danny Huston) to set humanity back by manually turning everyone into angry bots who want to fight one another. Only one man can save the world from evil billionaires - the world’s silliest crime fighter, Lieutenant Frank Drebin Jr. (Neeson). He’s the fumbling son of, you guessed it, the original detective made famous by Nielsen’s genius performance. When Drebin Jr. and his partner, Captain Ed Hocken Jr. (a scene stealing Paul Walter Hauser), stumble onto a car crash, the crime scene reveals a connection to Cane’s evil billionaire scheme. Meanwhile, a side plot introduces the luminous Beth Davenport (Pamela Anderson), a true-crime novelist who seeks Drebin Jr.’s help in finding her brother’s murderer. The moment Neeson and Anderson first appear on screen together, a new Hollywood power couple is born. They complement each other with a warm, endearing energy and ride the wavelength of poker-faced comedic timing. Anderson has several standout moments including a jazzy stage number, a clever bit about a detective’s chair, and an Austin Powers-style shadow innuendo. Neeson’s capacity for deadpan comedy can be traced back to the 2011 British mockumentary Life’s Too Short, created and written by Ricky Gervais and Stephen Merchant. Neeson plays himself in a cameo appearance that involves him demanding to do improvisational comedy alongside Gervais, Merchant, and Warwick Davis (Davis plays a fictional version of himself as the series protagonist). It would come as no surprise if Neeson’s cameo had anything to do with getting cast in The Naked Gun, as he nails the serious aloofness that makes for an entertaining spoof. The film makes it clear that Neeson is no Nielsen; there’s a bit of dialogue about the character wanting to follow in his father’s footsteps, but to be unique at the same time, and Neeson delivers on both tall orders. He may not possess the utter cluelessness of not even knowing a gag is happening in the first place, a magical quality of Nielsen’s work. But Neeson, who brilliantly plays the role straight, brings a slant of intensity that makes the character feel like his own iteration. Director and co-writer Akiva Schaffer (the filmmaker behind Popstar: Never Stop Never Stopping, Chip ‘n Dale: Rescue Rangers, and the iconic Lonely Island music videos) strikes a fun balance between acknowledging how ditzy the humour is, and letting that humour breathe without it feeling overtly self-aware or forced. Not every single joke lands. Some, notably a car sequence involving sandwiches and bowel movements, are stretched far too thin. But with several jokes on offer, plus hidden gems in the background that will resurface upon re-watches, the comedy is fiercely consistent. The film finds a sweet spot between recurring jokes and throwaways; a standout repeat gag involves a revolving handout of coffee cups given to Neeson and Hauser at increasingly absurd times. Additionally, the dialogue showcases an amusing range from quick wordplay (“UCLA?” “I see it every day. I live here.”) to impassioned pleas about how good The Black Eyed Peas (especially Fergie) and Buffy the Vampire Slayer are. Co-written by Schaffer, Dan Gregor, and Doug Mand, the screenplay shows a strong attention to detail in the foreground and background; clever visual gags, genre-bending set pieces, and an absolutely hilarious romantic montage-turned-evil Jack Frost horror sequence. The 80s and 90s nostalgia of The Naked Gun — perfectly distilled into a needle drop of Starship’s Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now and a random cameo by the animated paperclip guide named Clippy (created by Microsoft Office 97) — thankfully isn’t heavily relied upon. The film leans into several modern critiques, whether playing on the dangers of technology or making clowns out of toxic masculinity. But there’s also just enough nostalgic energy to evoke a yearning for more dumb comedies that take the craft seriously and fully embrace silliness. The Naked Gun is the exact dose of goofiness the genre needs more of. While the film excels as a legacy sequel, the biggest lesson studios ought to take from its success is to give original comedies the green light. We’ve gotten a few gems in film and television this year, from Lawrence Lamont’s One of Them Days to Apple TV+’s The Studio. The Naked Gun serves as a reminder that its very brilliant existence comes from an original creation.  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.  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.  Ana de Armas in “Ballerina” What does it mean to “fight like a girl?” For generations, this phrase always carried negative connotations. Fighting like a girl implied weakness, inadequacy, and humiliation. From the world of John Wick, “Ballerina” stands out by challenging this stereotype and reframing the phrase with an empowering embrace. Led by a compelling new character named Eve (played by a badass Ana de Armas), the film echoes a resonating lesson about leaning into your own strength, rather than letting your opponent dictate the fight. This film puts up a fight to prove worthy as a successful addition to Wick’s world, and hits almost every mark. While the story follows a bare bones structure, and some of the key characters feel wasted, the visual world-building and Eve’s origin story shine. In a bloody fun battle of fire and ice, “Ballerina” maintains core themes of the franchise and expands on action-packed lore with plenty of creative kills.
Taking place during the events of “John Wick: Chapter 3 - Parabellum,” “Ballerina” introduces us to Eve Macarro (de Armas) and establishes a fresh perspective at a time when John Wick has nearly reached the end of his road. When Eve was a child, she witnessed the murder of her father, and has been training in the assassin traditions of the Ruska Roma ever since. Under strict guidance from the Director (Anjelica Huston) and with insightful training from Nogi (Sharon Duncan-Brewster), Eve learns to become a more motivated fighter. Most importantly, she figures out how to “fight like a girl,” which simply means how to discover her personal strengths. Knowing she is at a disadvantage given her size, she realizes she can focus not only on what makes her strong, but what she can use around her. In the John Wick world, everything can become a weapon, whether a TV remote or pair of ice skates. “Ballerina” takes a refreshing approach by subverting action tropes and keeping Eve’s journey as realistic as possible. She’s not a superhuman who can suddenly take on the strength of several men. She makes mistakes and still has much to learn about how to weaponize her rage and determination for vengeance. As demonstrated in her first scene with the Director, Eve takes several falls as a ballerina on stage before standing her ground in reality. The character’s inner journey gives “Ballerina” a distinctive story. Eve’s growing motivation continues to propel the action forward, which gives weight and emotionality to every piece of choreography. From an icy, neon-soaked nightclub to a snowy village labyrinth, “Ballerina” makes tremendous use of settings. Production designer Philip Ivey and cinematographer Romain Lacourbas, both newbies to the John Wick world of creatives, maintain the franchise aesthetic with a sleek and vibrant visual language. Part of the fun is also in watching how environments inspire choreography, and “Ballerina” has several standout moments in which creative kills are drawn from location features. The film’s second act in particular turns the action up several notches, where Eve brings grenades and flame throwers out to play. The choreography team deliver thrilling sequences, very much on par with the action we have seen throughout the “John Wick” films. These moments will remind you of why this franchise works so well. Outside of Eve’s rocky road to revenge, “Ballerina” falls short of balancing new and returning characters. Familiar faces Winston (Ian McShane), Charon (the late Lance Reddick), and of course John Wick (Keanu Reeves) himself don’t need further exploration. They also earn applause on sight alone here. Reeves also has a fight sequence with de Armas that is entertaining enough to justify his appearance in her story. The Ruska Roma Director (Huston) gets more screen time compared to “Parabellum” and becomes entangled in Eve’s vengeful path. The majority of her scenes demonstrate some neatly crafted continuity that ties the “Ballerina” timeline to the third chapter of “John Wick.” Huston continues to nail her character’s blend of intimidation and dry humor. The new characters, however, pop in and out of the story like cardboard silhouettes. Their underdeveloped motivations and personalities leave a lot to be desired, especially when played by talent such as Norman Reedus, Catalina Sandino Moreno, and Gabriel Byrne. Byrne’s character in particular has the most disappointing arc as the film’s villain. This comes as a surprise for an origin story, where one would expect fresh faces to make a memorable mark and create intrigue for future films. Thankfully, “Ballerina” has a bonafide action star in the wonderful Ana de Armas. She high kicks into this world in a magnificent dance of charisma and discipline. From physicality to emotionality, de Armas brings Eve’s character to life, and establishes a strong connection to the pure revenge that drives her. Len Wiseman is no Chad Stahelski, but “Ballerina” retains enough storytelling influence from the latter to work wonders as an entertaining extension of the “John Wick” franchise. Energetic choreography, stylish world-building, and a dynamic lead character have defined these films with Keanu Reeves at the core. Ana de Armas brilliantly follows in his footsteps while bringing a unique energy of her own into this world. “Ballerina” earns a place at the High Table, and indeed warrants a sequel. |
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