There’s something almost romantic about the children’s adventures that emerged during the 1980s. It was a decade in which ordinary suburban streets concealed extraterrestrial visitors, unremarkable neighbourhoods became hunting grounds for pirate treasure, and a seemingly uneventful summer could quickly turn into an adventure of interstellar proportions. Hollywood understood the appeal of seeing the world through a child’s eyes and was willing to invest large production budgets in the rapidly advancing possibilities of the special effects industry. The result was a remarkable cycle of films, such as Steven Spielberg’s E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial (1982), Nick Castle’s The Last Starfighter (1984), and Richard Donner’s The Goonies (1985), which transformed adolescent malaise into something exciting. Their particular vision of the adventure genre helped define the cinematic memories of an entire generation.

Yet, while those behemoths became both cinematic and cultural touchstones, one particular entry from this lineage largely remains absent from the conversation. The Monster Squad may lack the stature of its more celebrated contemporaries, but it contains all the ingredients that made family adventures so irresistible. Co-writers Fred Dekker (Night of the Creeps) and Shane Black (The Long Kiss Goodnight) take the innocence and camaraderie of the decade’s quintessential adventures and combine them with the iconography of classic horror. Together, they crafted a wonderfully strange love letter to Universal’s legendary monsters, filtered through the mischievous energy of the 1980s. Though The Monster Squad continues to be overlooked, it remains one of the decade’s most distinct variations on the adventure genre and deserves to be rediscovered.

Set in an unassuming American town, the story follows young Sean (Andre Gower), who’s obsessed with classic Hollywood’s Universal monsters and serves as the founding member of ‘The Monster Club’. Alongside Patrick (Robby Kiger), Horace (Brent Chalem), Rudy (Ryan Lambert), and Eugene (Michael Faustino), the group spends afternoons in their makeshift treehouse discussing increasingly elaborate methods of dispatching vampires and werewolves. When Sean acquires an ancient diary belonging to legendary monster hunter Dr Abraham Van Helsing (Jack Gwillim), it reveals that a powerful amulet is hidden somewhere in town. According to Van Helsing’s diary, once every century there’s a brief moment when the forces of good and evil reach a precarious equilibrium. If combined with an incantation from the diary, the amulet can open a wormhole between dimensions and banish evil into purgatory.

Meanwhile, Count Dracula (Duncan Regehr) has returned to exploit this brief convergence, intending to seize the amulet and plunge the world into eternal darkness. He’s already begun assembling a small army of legendary monsters,including the Wolf Man (Carl Thibault), the Mummy (Michael Reid Mackay), and the Gill-Man (Tom Woodruff Jr.).When Dracula steals a crate recovered from an old World War II bomber containing Frankenstein’s monster (Tom Noonan), his supernatural forces are complete. Discovering that the monsters they once regarded as legends have descended on their town, Sean and his friends rebrand themselves as ‘The Monster Squad’ and prepare to confront Dracula and his grotesque collection of villains. Armed with Van Helsing’s diary and an encyclopaedic knowledge of classic horror cinema, they must prevent the Prince of Darkness from tearing open the gateway to evil.

Co-writer and director Fred Dekker first announced his arrival with the science-fiction horror film Night of the Creeps (1986). Although his directorial debut wasn’t a commercial success, it gave him the opportunity to develop a project he’d been writing alongside Shane Black. Their inspiration for The Monster Squad was reportedly to blend the juvenile delinquency of The Little Rascals (1955) with the Universal classic Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein (1948). Indeed, the premise is deceptively straightforward and adheres to the template found in other children’s adventures like The Goonies and Explorers (1985). Yet it’s so steeped in an infectious reverence for the monsters descending on Sean’s neighbourhood that it’s hard not to be charmed.

Revisiting The Monster Squad as an adult reveals a surprising amount of emotional weight at the centre of the narrative. Beneath the monstrous thrills and gleeful mayhem lies a tender story about how children confront the real-life monstrosities lurking on the periphery. Sean’s fascination with monsters initially appears to be little more than adolescent escapism. However, his imagination also functions as a familiar refuge from his increasingly fractured home life. His parents are separated, and their imminent divorce is beyond his control, but the supernatural crisis in his neighbourhood is a mystery he can resolve. Sean’s preoccupation with defeating Dracula is an attempt to impose order on an increasingly uncertain world. There’s something heartbreaking about how the film offers a fantasy where children are granted the power to destroy the malevolent forces that terrify them, while quietly reminding us that heroism can’t solve everything.

The introduction of the German neighbour also imbues the proceedings with an unexpected poignancy. In a film populated by supernatural creatures, he provides a chilling bridge between the fantastical horrors of the screen and the tangible traumas of human history. The group has spent years mythologising Rudolph (Leonardo Cimino) as the neighbourhood boogeyman, ominously nicknaming him ‘Scary German Guy’. Yet, when they approach him for help translating Van Helsing’s diary, they discover he’s actually a Holocaust survivor who was imprisoned in Auschwitz. The character doesn’t offer the children a history lesson; instead, his presence becomes a living counterpoint to their romanticised conception of monsters as fantasy. Sean and his friends only understand horror through fictional conventions, but Rudolph has experienced a form of evil that requires no supernatural explanation. As he becomes a mentor to the children, he offers a silver bullet of wisdom: monsters are real, and they’re often human. Dekker and Black have too much affection for classic horror and adolescent irreverence to allow The Monster Squad to collapse beneath these darker themes, but introducing such weighty ideas into what’s ostensibly a children’s adventure is remarkably mature.

Despite its suitably exuberant atmosphere and emotional sophistication, The Monster Squad isn’t without its shortcomings. Both Dekker and Black’s dialogue has aged less gracefully than their affection for classic monster mythology. Much of the crude language and irreverent humour that once helped establish its youthful energy now feels firmly rooted in the past. Both co-writers began developing the premise while studying at university, living in a fraternity house alongside fellow writers such as Ed Solomon (Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure), Jim Herzfeld (Meet the Parents), and Robert Reneau (Demolition Man). It’s difficult not to sense that distinct collegiate attitude seeping into the characterisation of Sean and his friends. The titular group frequently refer to each other with derogatory nicknames and routinely deploy homophobic slurs as casual insults.

Perhaps the most troubling sequence involves Rudy watching Lisa (Lisa Fuller) undress through binoculars from the group’s treehouse. The moment is framed as adolescent mischief, but viewed retrospectively, it’s hard to treat the incident as anything other than sexual harassment and a disgusting violation of privacy. There’s a genuine sense that Dekker and Black were attempting to capture authentic childhood attitudes and language of the period rather than simply inserting offensive material for shock value. However, the derogatory insults, homophobic language, and misogynistic humour have inevitably lost their appeal over time. What was presumably intended to convey the irreverence and immaturity of 1980s youth now serves as a reminder of just how much social attitudes have changed.

What has withstand the test of time, however, is the extraordinary creature design. The late Stan Winston (The Terminator) was charged with recreating the monsters, remaining faithful to Universal’s originals without breaching studio copyright. His Frankenstein’s monster is particularly wonderful, and his Gill-Man design rivals the original from Creature from the Black Lagoon (1954). Yet Winston’s rendition of the Mummy may be the most impressive of all. Its decayed appearance is wonderfully tactile, and there’s something genuinely unsettling about watching the creature contort its way through an otherwise ordinary suburban neighbourhood.

One memorable moment sees the creature’s bandages get caught in a tree before unravelling into a cloud of dust. It’s a wonderful piece of effects work that still impresses four decades later. It should hardly come as a surprise that creature design remains one of the film’s strengths: Winston was among the most accomplished effects artists of his generation, ultimately receiving nine Academy Award nominations and winning four. In the year The Monster Squad was released, he won his first Oscar for his work on Aliens (1986).

Despite arriving in cinemas during the height of the summer season, The Monster Squad generated very little interest on release. With an estimated production budget of $14M, the film grossed a paltry $3.8M during its theatrical run. While its lacklustre performance could certainly be attributed to competing against The Lost Boys (1987), Masters of the Universe (1987), and Dirty Dancing (1987), its failure was primarily due to Tri-Star Pictures’ misguided advertising campaign. The marketing department seemed unsure who the target demographic was, and the tagline “You know who to call when you have ghosts. But who do you call when you have monsters?” positioned the film as an adolescent counterpart to Ghostbusters (1984). Although Dekker and Black’s screenplay combines horror and comedy, it bears very little resemblance to Ivan Reitman’s classic.

Regardless, much like Dracula himself, The Monster Squad refused to remain buried. Throughout the 1990s and into the early-2000s, the film gradually cultivated a devoted cult following. Its release on home video allowed a new generation of viewers to imagine themselves standing alongside Sean and his friends against the menacing creatures of the night. Yet it wasn’t until the Alamo Drafthouse organised a cast reunion and fan screening in 2006 that it began to receive the recognition its admirers had long insisted it deserved. The overwhelming success of the anniversary event prompted further screenings and helped fuel a campaign for the 20th Anniversary Edition DVD release. That renewed appreciation, along with the enduring appeal of filtering horror through childhood sensibilities, inevitably attracted Hollywood’s interest in resurrecting The Monster Squad for a contemporary audience. However, the proposed remake has remained trapped in development purgatory for several years, hindered by complicated rights surrounding Universal’s iconic monsters.

The Monster Squad may not be a masterpiece, but its enduring appeal lies in its ability to evoke nostalgia for those who grew up with the likes of E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial or The Goonies and admired Universal’s legendary monsters. Both Fred Dekker and Shane Black strike an assured balance between childhood adventure and gothic horror, blending the macabre with the mischievous without allowing either to overwhelm the other. Although it hardly reinvents classic horror or children’s adventures, The Monster Squad remains a lovingly crafted tribute to the monsters of cinema’s past.Its unabashed enthusiasm is as infectious now as it was four decades ago.

USA | 1987 | 82 MINUTES | 2:39:1 | COLOUR | ENGLISH • GERMAN

Limited Edition 4K Ultra HD Special Features:

Having previously only been available as a region-free Blu-ray, Arrow Video brings The Monster Squad to the UK on 4K Ultra HD for the very first time. Showcasing a wonderful 2160p Ultra HD transfer, the image was sourced from the original 35mm camera negative and is presented in its original 2.39:1 aspect ratio.

When compared with Lionsgate’s aforementioned 2009 release, the improvement in picture quality is immediately apparent. The Dolby Vision HDR grading adds a pleasing visual depth to the presentation without compromising the original cinematic aesthetic. The colour palette is beautifully reproduced, lending the image a renewed vibrancy that complements the film’s distinct blend of horror and adventure. From the emerald glow emanating from the hallowed amulet to the conspicuous red of Sean’s ‘Stephen King Rules’ shirt, individual hues are rendered with striking intensity. The final third makes incredible use of these richer tones, expertly contrasting them with deep blacks and brilliant whites.

The increased detail levels and visual clarity on Arrow’s transfer are quite staggering. The image contains wonderful depth, with a impressive amount of rendering that draws out striking delineation. Background details inside Sean’s bedroom and the children’s treehouse remain crisply defined without ever appearing artificially sharpened or digitally processed. Tight compositions reveal a wealth of detail, showcasing everything from individual hairs on the Wolf Man’s face to the intricate textures of the Gill-Man’s scaly skin. Granted, there are occasional moments where the image inherits a slight softness and appears somewhat diffused around the edge of the frame. This is primarily due to the anamorphic lenses used during principal photography. However, Arrow resists the temptation to sharpen the image artificially with Digital Noise Reduction (DNR), allowing the film’s natural grain and characteristics to remain intact.

This brand new 4K release of The Monster Squad features two audio options and optional English subtitles. Unfortunately, the disc doesn’t receive a Dolby Atmos upgrade, but Arrow provides immersive English DTS-HD 5.1 Master Audio and LPCM 2.0 stereo tracks that boast excellent fidelity.

Both tracks feature a strong dynamic range, prioritising dialogue through the centre channel while using surround channels for atmospheric effects. Bruce Broughton’s (Lost in Space) suitably ’80s soundtrack is perhaps the biggest beneficiary of this presentation. Instrumentals reverberate across the soundstage with precision, while the high end is graced with a soaring female choir. Supporting sound effects, such as thunderclaps and the occasional gunshot, are spread evenly through the rear channels, heightening the atmosphere during key moments. While the absence of Dolby Atmos is a missed opportunity, this audio presentation represents a significant upgrade over Lionsgate’s previous release.

2-Disc 4K Ultra HD Blu-ray Limited Edition Contents:

• Reversible sleeve featuring original and newly commissioned artwork by Francesco Francavilla.
• Collectors’ booklet featuring new writing on the film by critics Sean Abley, Priscilla Page, Justin LaLiberty and Johnny Mains.

Disc 1: Feature & Extras (4K Ultra HD):

• 4K (2160p) Ultra HD Blu-ray presentation in Dolby Vision (HDR10 compatible).
• Original lossless stereo and DTS-HD MA 5.1 surround audio.
• Optional English subtitles for the deaf and hard of hearing.
• Audio commentary with writer/director Fred Dekker and “Squad Members” Andre Gower, Ryan Lambert and Ashley Bank.
• Audio commentary with writer/director Fred Dekker and director of photography Bradford May.
• Monster Squad Forever, a feature-length 2007 documentary on the making of the film.
• Archive featurette with the SFX team, featuring interviews with John Rosengrant, Steve Wang, Alec Gillis, Shane Mahan, Lindsay MacGowan and Tom Woodruff Jr.
• Archive interview with composer Bruce Broughton.
• A Conversation with Frankenstein, a vintage 1986 featurette.
• Deleted scenes.
• Animated Storyboard sequence.
• Trailers and TV spot.
• Image galleries.

Disc 2: Wolfman’s Got Nard (Limited Edition Exclusive Blu-ray):

• High Definition (1080p) Blu-ray presentation of Wolfman’s Got Nards, a 2018 feature-length documentary co-written and directed by The Monster Squad star Andre Gower.
• Original lossless stereo and DTS-HD MA 5.1 surround audio.
• Optional English subtitles for the deaf and hard of hearing.
• In the Goddamn Club, More with Fans of The Monster Squad.
• Blood Bath music video.
• Deleted scenes.
• Extended interviews with Fred Dekker, Shane Black, Adam Goldberg and Seth Green.
• Archive interview with Andre Gower & Henry Darrow McComas.
• Podcast audio interviews with actors Ashley Bank, Tom Noonan, Carl Thibault and Michael Reid MacKay.
• Trailer.

Cast & Crew

director: Fred Dekker.
writers: Fred Dekker & Shane Black.
starring: Andre Gower, Robby Kiger, Brent Chalem, Ryan Lambert, Ashley Bank, Duncan Regehr, Stephen Macht, Stan Shaw & Tom Noonan.

The post THE MONSTER SQUAD (1987) appeared first on Frame Rated.

There are stranger places to look for an apocalyptic conspiracy than a small town in Nebraska. In HBO’s Lanterns, the mystery is just as compelling as its unlikely setting. A murder in Rushville captures the attention of Hal Jordan (Kyle Chandler)—a former test pilot and current Green Lantern who suspects alien involvement. It soon becomes clear that the case points to an extinction-level threat to Earth.

If this premise sounds reminiscent of Men in Black (1997), there’s nothing wrong with your hearing. Certain elements are undeniably similar, and the buddy-cop dynamic invites comparison, at least on paper. However, Lanterns branches off in far more rewarding directions across its polished eight-episode run.

Hal Jordan and his new trainee, John Stewart Jr (Aaron Pierre), are drawn to Rushville to investigate four dead bodies on a high-school football field. In the opening episode, Stewart chases a suspect across the pitch while Hal considers whether the man is more than just a gunman. Later, in an interrogation room, tension escalates when the suspect, Waylon Sanders (Chris Coy), threatens to blow himself up. Hal conjures a protective green energy barrier with his ring to contain the explosion, saving half the town. It’s an effective early demonstration of the show’s set-piece capabilities,but Lanterns is ultimately far more interested in character study.

Decades on the job have hardened Hal into a cynical, difficult partner. Meanwhile, John’s stoic determination makes collaboration equally challenging. Yet this prickly dynamic is precisely what makes the series compelling. Where so many superhero adaptations swap genuine peril for spectacle and undercut tension with ill-timed banter, Lanterns finds its footing in emotional resonance. Three key cinematic elements stand out immediately.

The first is the cinematography. Though rooted in the superhero genre, pristine shots of desolate highways and sweeping desert landscapes lend Lanterns the feel of a gritty crime drama. Certain sequences—such as in Episode 7, “The Jordan Boys’ Legacy”, where John walks alongside Hal’s holographic consciousness across a deserted planet—evoke the eerie atmosphere of a Cormac McCarthy adaptation (think the Coen brothers’ 2007 film No Country for Old Men), albeit without the Southern Gothic despair. This visual richness is no accident. Shot by three distinguished directors of photography—Florian Hoffmeister, Armando Salas, and Gregory Middleton—the series maintains a remarkably cohesive visual identity reminiscent of modern noir or westerns. Hoffmeister previously shot True Detective, Tár (2022), and Antlers (2021); Salas served as cinematographer on Mr. Mercedes (2017–2019) and Ozark (2017–2022); and Middleton lent his eye to The Killing (2011–14) and Watchmen (2019).

The writing is equally sharp, standing amongst the finest in the genre this year. Although grounded in the DC Universe, Lanterns departs from typical superhero tropes, favouring character-driven drama over quips and spandex. Action sequences are present, but character interactions take priority throughout. Like the visuals, this level of storytelling reflects a seasoned creative team.

The executive producers combine extensive experience in prestige drama and speculative fiction. Chris Mundy brought grit to hits like True Detective, Ozark, and Hell on Wheels (2011–16). Comic-book writer Tom King’s background as a former CIA officer lends authority to the narrative as the central threat unfolds. Meanwhile, Damon Lindelof—co-creator of Lost (2004–2010)—brings his proven track record from Cowboys & Aliens (2011), Prometheus (2012), and World War Z (2013).

Kyle Chandler and Aaron Pierre display excellent chemistry, playing off one another with the friction of classic screen duos—evoking the likes of Tommy Lee Jones and Will Smith in Men in Black, Mel Gibson and Danny Glover in Lethal Weapon (1987), or Adam Sandler and Damon Wayans in Bulletproof (1996). Yet their performances are rooted in deeper character work.

Pierre embodies the physical poise and disciplined gravitas of a former marine, offering a sharp counterpoint to Chandler’s dry, world-weary charisma. But while Chandler’s Hal is a reluctant hero destined to bear the world on his shoulders, Pierre’s John seems driven by personal redemption rather than abstract justice. The question remains: will he be ready when his mentor passes the torch—or rather, the ring?

Flashbacks reveal that when Guardian Lianna (Laura Linney) arrived on Earth searching for a Green Lantern, she first visited the home of John Stewart Sr while John Jr was still an infant. When John’s father displayed fear, the Guardian turned to Hal Jordan—a man whose self-assurance borders on an inability to comprehend fear itself. This decision set off a cycle of harsh discipline within the Stewart household, as John’s family sought to forge him into a man capable of reclaiming their legacy—subjecting him to extreme tests, from facing a loaded firearm to navigating dangerous neighbourhoods alone.

Linney’s screen presence is a key asset, making a memorable impact despite limited screen time. Her interactions with John Jr and his mother, Bernadette (Nicole Ari Parker), in Episode 3, “Outkast”, yield some of the season’s most poignant backstory. Later in the season, Kelly Macdonald’s supporting role as Sheriff Kerry Kane assumes major significance.These female characters effectively contextualise the debate over nature versus nurture and its lasting consequences.

That said, the series occasionally mistakes patience for tension. John’s evolution into a Green Lantern is continually teased and deferred, testing the viewer’s patience. Episode 7, however, is a standout exception. As John and Hal’s digital consciousness travel beyond Earth, the show embraces its cosmic scale, delivering its most striking sci-fi imagery.

Another slight weakness emerges whenever the narrative shifts away from Hal. While necessary for world-building, these moments highlight how central Chandler is to the show’s charm. Keeping him present through flashbacks and an archived digital consciousness is a clever narrative device. Yet if future seasons move forward without Chandler’s Hal Jordan, the series risks losing its primary anchor.

USA | 2026 | 8 EPISODES | 2.00:1 | COLOUR | ENGLISH

Cast & Crew

writers: Chris Mundy, Damon Lindelof, Tom King, Vanessa Baden Kelly, Breannah Gibson & Justin Britt-Gibson.
directors: James Hawes, Geeta Vasant Patel, Alik Sakharov & Stephen Williams.
starring: Kyle Chandler, Aaron Pierre, Kelly Macdonald, Laura Linney, Garret Dillahunt, Poorna Jagannathan & Ulrich Thomsen.

The post LANTERNS – Season One (2026) appeared first on Frame Rated.

Few storytelling backdrops are as rife with clichés and grating dialogue as those centred on the experiences of white ethnic youths in mid-20th-century America (usually Italian or Irish-Americans, and almost always set on the bustling, poverty-stricken streets of New York City). Much of the dialogue is written for slick-haired balls of grease in human form, where it is hard not to imagine a casual catcall aimed at an unfortunate young woman, with a tut or two thrown into the mix.

These stories delight in capturing the ethnic qualities of not-quite-white Americans, harking back to a nostalgic time when the creators’ whiteness had not yet been assimilated into what is now seen as the norm (and thus somewhat boring). These were flavourful times for these groups, replete with wild gestures and flashes of unique cultural viewpoints. That is why these films feature fiery passions with emotions running high. In the same way that films striving to be cool often fall flat on their face—since cool is something that intellectualising or affectation cannot begin to muster—these films’ reverence towards their cultural influences often comes across as a strained effort to parade their ethnic pride. That would be admirable were it not for the gimmicky dialogue, well-worn plots, and trope-laden characters.

At the same time, it is fascinating to imagine what life must have been like in the run-down parts of bustling urban centres, where working-class men and women were once able to get by in these grand cityscapes at the cost of the grim world surrounding them. Sleepers, Barry Levinson’s 1996 film exploring the lifelong ramifications for four young boys sentenced to juvenile detention, rests somewhere at that intersection of trope-laden drudgery and genuine excitement in revelling in the period, landing appreciably closer to the latter. It does not fully escape the clutches of these clichés, but it uses that sense of verve—so often delivered lifelessly elsewhere—to turn this world into a vibrant playground for the four friends to run amok. Later, when the bonds of boyhood are severed and they reflect on their corrupted innocence, it becomes a bygone memory, making them simultaneously happier and sadder for having experienced it.

The four friends are Lorenzo ‘Shakes’ Carcaterra (Joe Perrino and Jason Patric), Michael Sullivan (Brad Renfro and Brad Pitt), John Riley (Geoffrey Wigdor and Ron Eldard), and Thomas ‘Tommy’ Marcano (Jonathan Tucker and Billy Crudup). Though they have individual moments both to shine and flounder, the four form a tight-knit group—so much so that it is not always easy to differentiate between them. Were it not for Sleepers’ moments of tragedy, this would be to the film’s detriment. In boyhood, the group are as close as siblings; closer, even, because you cannot truly be yourself with siblings, whom most kids are compelled, for reasons unknown, to annoy. Nor can you completely be yourself with parents—how could you be, when they are responsible for your care and will almost certainly try to curtail any impulse towards recklessness?

Not even the affection of girls conjures up the level of understanding and camaraderie shared among the boys, since there is no need to consider how they present themselves in one another’s company. Together, they are free to be entirely themselves. Together, they are reckless, out-of-control youths—the kind far easier to sympathise with on the silver screen than if you were to encounter their hijinks in person.

Shakes, the film’s narrator and our primary conduit through the story, conveys this idea well in the aftermath of a careless series of misadventures that end up affecting the boys far more profoundly than they could have imagined. It starts (relatively) innocently, with Shakes stealing a hot dog, prompting a mad chase by the vendor before his friends commandeer the now-empty cart. How could they have known that their stunt would accidentally leave a complete stranger seriously injured? They are as blind to the present as they are to the future, with Shakes remarking that the boys never thought to take pity on the vendor, who was simply trying to make an honest living when they harassed him in numerous ways.

The four boys are not reckless louts you are trained solely to hate, admire, or be charmed by. There is genuine revelry in watching them weave in and out of passers-by and oncoming traffic amidst this mad chase, but sobering reflections are never far from the narrative focus. That becomes even more apparent during the boys’ time at the Wilkinson Home for Boys, a juvenile detention centre in upstate New York. From this point on, they are under the supervision of guards too pointedly villainous to be called merely cold-hearted or callous. They are monsters, none more so than Sean Nokes (Kevin Bacon).

Yet the guards are not mere caricatures either. The colourful tropes of the boys’ time on the unforgiving New York streets—from the tutelage of local priest and reformed convict Father Robert ‘Bobby’ Carillo (Robert De Niro) to the presence of neighbourhood gangsters—are null and void at Wilkinson. It is as though they never existed. Shakes’ peers are sentenced to only 12 to 18 months of incarceration (Shakes himself receives just 6 to 12 months for his role in the accident), but the way the film drains their lives of colour makes it feel as though they have been condemned to a lifetime of captivity. Nothing seems to exist outside this detention centre.

Through rain-soaked backdrops, dour colour schemes, and ice-cold brutality from Nokes and his accomplices, Sleepersturns its charming depiction of reckless boyhood into an inescapable nightmare. The sexual abuse the boys endure is frequent. Though the descriptor may seem oxymoronic, the depiction of their abuse is—as it should be—uncinematic. Nokes plainly asserts what he wants; it is, after all, that easy for someone in a position of total power. What a few words or uncomfortable silences fail to provoke, the swift crack of the guards’ batons against bare skin will.

The film’s brutal and bittersweet moments are not without a few unwanted instances of cheesiness or saccharine sentimentality, but thankfully these are kept to a minimum. As the adult Shakes, Patric’s voice-over narration is plain-spoken and matter-of-fact, which occasionally gives the impression of bluntly dumping information on the audience.The abuse itself is handled remarkably well, especially for a mainstream mid-90s production, but there are occasional flashes—a quick cut, for instance—that cheapen the story’s trauma by staging classically dramatic showdowns.Sleepers’ reliance on these showdowns is, in many ways, its greatest flaw.

The spiritual darkness of the boys’ time at Wilkinson haunts a later chapter in their lives: specifically 1981, by which point they are grown men who have carved out distinct paths. John and Tommy are mobsters, Michael is a district attorney, and Shakes is a clerk for The New York Times. What a difference a few years make. The film appeared destined to rely on a cliché trope to articulate this time jump—the camera panning from one of the boys to an object,then panning back to reveal them as an adult. These conventions are eschewed, but it is here that the boys’ tight bond works against them. One can easily see how the tributaries of each child’s life could lead to such different junctures,but knowing this is not the same as feeling it.

Because the boys were once so close, their individual characteristics were hard to discern, and their adult selves are hardly mirror images of who they were as children. More astute viewers will quickly work out who is who in this bittersweet tale of lost innocence, but these details were lost on this reviewer for several minutes, until the story offered enough clues to settle back into it. However, the longer Sleepers took to acclimatise us to the adult versions of these once-hopeful youths, the more it felt as though it was resigning itself to a runtime that failed to do them—or the story—justice.

Justice is precisely what the four are seeking, in the form of a trial directly tied to the abuse they suffered. But justice,like tragedy, is unexpected, sprouting in ways one could never imagine. The trial itself is absorbing, especially given Michael’s central legal role. Pitt is at his best when silently assessing trial proceedings in real time, trying to make sense of what is unfolding and how to respond personally and professionally. For spoiler-heavy reasons that cannot be detailed before experiencing Sleepers, Michael walks a delicate tightrope throughout the courtroom scenes. Dustin Hoffman, meanwhile, is excellent as Danny Snyder, a bumbling, half-asleep lawyer who, against all odds, uses his casual demeanor to his advantage.

In Snyder’s opening statement, he stumbles over his words, making a dreadful first impression. But with a witness before him, he becomes razor-sharp, using his careless, mumbling speech patterns to deploy shocking questions disguised as routine enquiries. By flattening bombshell admissions through blunt questions and inferences, Snyder heightens their impact. It is not entirely dissimilar from Bacon’s scene-stealing performance, which invoked dread through a matter-of-fact, clinical approach to sadism.

Pitt, however, is noticeably out of his depth outside the courtroom. Whenever he speaks, he delivers a hammy performance, as though unable to make sense of his character. The other leading actors do a commendable job, but none of the portrayals is particularly memorable, as it proves impossible to reconcile these men with the boys we once knew. Even if there were few differences between the boys initially, their camaraderie—and the way it was tested and crushed by the outside world—proved compelling. There is no equivalent in characterisation for that kinship in Sleepers’ second half, even if its courtroom confrontations are strong.

It feels as though a crucial middle stage is missing from the film, bridging the gap between boyhood and adulthood.Had that been included, the trial would truly embody the climactic weight it strives for. As it stands, the trial arrives mere minutes after we are bluntly shown these characters’ divergent outcomes. The trial makes for a compelling third act because it brings these men closer than they have been in years, but it also highlights the distance between them.They have been changed forever, and perhaps the saddest transformation of all is that their precious bond, though preserved in shared memory, is lost and can never be recreated. It is difficult to feel the weight of these adult reunions,or the divergent paths each character has taken, without actually seeing those paths take shape.

Something about Sleepers’ title—a reference to youths who spend more than a few months in juvenile detention—and its promotional art suggests a soulless gangster flick. The 147-minute runtime is also daunting. Yet Sleepers is a deeply personal, haunting film that maintains a good pace throughout. In the end, I found myself wanting more. More time spent exploring each character embarking on—and stumbling down—different paths in life would not only have been invigorating, it would have given the film’s central trial far greater urgency.

There is much about Sleepers’ outward appearance that suggests it is hell-bent on turning its characters into functional cogs in an epic narrative. That it subverts this impulse to focus on the lingering impact of trauma is easily its greatest strength. Yet there is an insidious distancing effect at play, making it impossible to reconcile these adults with their childhood selves. A far more effective distancing effect would have shown that while this fundamental divide between distant adults and tight-knit kids is not impossible to reconcile, it hurts to do so. Even as it builds promisingly towards this idea in its first half, Sleepers ultimately lands glancing blows instead of the bittersweet dramatic knockout it was poised to deliver.

USA | 1996 | 147 MINUTES | 2.39:1 | COLOUR | ENGLISH

Cast & Crew

director: Barry Levinson.
writer: Barry Levinson (based on the book ‘Sleepers’ by Lorenzo Carcaterra).
starring: Kevin Bacon, Robert De Niro, Joe Perrino, Brad Renfro, Geoffrey Wigdor, Jonathan Tucker, Jason Patric, Brad Pitt, Ron Eldard, Billy Crudup & Dustin Hoffman.

The post SLEEPERS (1996) appeared first on Frame Rated.

It’s 1987, four decades years into the Cold War. US Navy Lieutenant Troy “Assassin” Kelly (Ryan Reynolds) proves his worth when he saves a colleague struggling to land on an aircraft carrier. A dedicated pilot, Kelly’s asked to fly a Lockheed SR-71 Blackbird over Russia as part of a two-man reconnaissance mission.

He carries out the flight until he’s intercepted and forced to eject above the snowy wastes. Waking up in the home of retired KGB officer Nikolai “Nick” Ustinov (Kenneth Branagh)—a fan of American popular culture excited by the prospect of meeting a real Yank—Kelly must soon form an uneasy alliance with his host. When Troy makes a dash for the wreckage, both men find themselves pursued by KGB manhunter Alexander Volkov (Marcin Dorociński).

Mayday is a Cold War spy comedy starring Ryan Reynolds and Kenneth Branagh—a concept reminiscent of John Landis’s Spies Like Us (1985), starring Dan Aykroyd and Chevy Chase. It’s reasonably entertaining streaming fare. Although framed as a comedy, it often feels more like a B-movie action flick that would’ve come and gone in cinemas during the era in which it’s set.

There’s something sweet about its “our enemies aren’t so different from us” narrative, though it’s doubtful this movie would’ve been made if set in, say, Iran, with an American pilot bonding with a local soldier. Or even in Ukraine. Such a setting would’ve been braver and far more satirical, but it simply wouldn’t have been greenlit. As it stands, it plays closer to a buddy comedy. Some scenes even edge into screwball territory, including a sequence with a high-ranking Russian and his escort that wouldn’t feel out of place in an Ealing comedy like The Ladykillers (1955) or Kind Hearts and Coronets (1949).

The film perks up considerably as it goes along, edging closer to the tone and excitement of a James Bond thriller. Ultimately, its best genre descriptor is probably a “dad movie”. To paraphrase the YouTube channel RedLetterMedia, it’s the sort of film your dad watches in his La-Z-Boy recliner with a coffee and a bag of doughnuts, falls asleep halfway through, and then tells you was really good. It’s also consciously naive in a way that appeals to American audiences, where everything comes right in the end because there are enough good people on “our side” to keep the dream alive.

Directing and writing duties are divided equally between John Francis Daley and Jonathan Goldstein. The camera work is highly functional, circling figures during action sequences and shooting from low angles so viewers get a clear view of the choreography on display. Yet there’s a certain blandness to the style, reminiscent of how soap operas are shot to capture maximum conversation coverage for rapid content production.

Perhaps that’s unfair. Daley and Goldstein churn out effective enough material here, and a film like Mayday isn’t designed to linger long in the mind. It’s like a Big Mac—fitting, given that a running thread is Nick’s desire to try McDonald’s, a meal he’s never had but is sure he’d like. (A recent rewatch of Tim Burton’s 2012 Gothic comedy Dark Shadows highlighted a similar theme, where McDonald’s symbolised American modernity—the Golden Arches first viewed by Johnny Depp’s pilgrim vampire in an ancient text, then looming out of the night when he awakes in the 1970s. The burger-and-fries joint will likely always serve as convenient, vulgar shorthand for modern US culture.)

Some early shots of Troy’s flight feel close to a video game, reminiscent of first-person shooters. A lot of the film carries a slick, artificial feel that fails to match the tactile quality of pre-digital celluloid action movies. This brings to mind Quentin Tarantino’s comment that modern films can make you feel as though you’re simply renting a chair for two hours. That sensation would’ve certainly dulled the experience on the big screen, but on television, it’s just about right.

Film critic Mark Kermode posited a spectrum between the televisual and cinematic: local news programmes represent the former extreme, whilst Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968) represents the latter. Local news wouldn’t work on a cinema screen; 2001 loses something on the small screen. On that spectrum, Mayday sits centre-left—leaning towards the televisual, though not to the extent that it feels purely like a television film.

The performances by Reynolds and Branagh are serviceable. Their initial dynamic echoes Misery (1990), Rob Reiner’s adaptation of Stephen King’s novel about a writer rescued from a car crash in rural Alaska by his number-one fan, who sets his bones before holding him hostage. It wouldn’t be surprising if Misery served as an inspiration, followed by the Bond film Octopussy (1983). Steven Berkoff’s cod-Russian accent in Octopussy calls to mind Branagh’s delivery—both actors being theatre maestros who bring a hambone charm to their screen roles. Reynolds plays another iteration of the character that built his career: the handsome, doe-eyed, wisecracking Yank. Ultimately, Mayday will pass an evening nicely for anyone looking to relax in their favourite chair with a coffee and doughnut in hand.

USA | 2026 | 110 MINUTES | 2.39:1 | COLOUR | ENGLISH • RUSSIAN

Cast & Crew

writers & directors: John Francis Daley & Jonathan Goldstein.
starring: Ryan Reynolds, Kenneth Branagh, Marcin Dorociński, Maria Bakalova & David Morse.

The post MAYDAY (2026) appeared first on Frame Rated.

In Terence Davies’s penultimate film, the iconic English director attempts to have his cake and eat it too. Charting the life of acclaimed American poet Emily Dickinson (Emma Bell and Cynthia Nixon), A Quiet Passion follows the major moments in her all-too-brief time on this Earth, where her gift was seldom acknowledged and hardly ever appreciated.Her personal life was marred by her seemingly random propensity for callousness, expressed through biting, witty, scathing comments that laid waste to the norms of good manners, especially where women were involved.

Dickinson is presented as conflicted throughout A Quiet Passion, caught so deeply between repression and passion that she’s never quite sure where she stands with either. The only certainty in her feelings emerges through her poetry, which allows Dickinson to illuminate her struggles and lend them a voice richer and sweeter than any spoken conversation could express.

How does one go about orchestrating a film around the life of someone who was intransigent yet vulnerable, easy to provoke, and bitterly cold when this sporadic impulse took hold? A traditional biopic wouldn’t do Dickinson justice, as that largely dull genre sanitises even the most interesting true stories. It also wouldn’t be something Davies, with his aversion to heritage cinema, would’ve engaged in; he famously referred to Jane Austen adaptations as ‘paralysingly boring’. Since traditional story arcs and cosy, standard biopics offered little appeal to the English director, he devised a rather ingenious tactic for conveying the depth of emotion in this semi-tragic figure, while orienting her squarely under the stultifying glare of a repressive society.

Each scene is conventional, while the story structure, though linear, forms a unique shape in how it glides from one point in Dickinson’s life to another, refusing to settle on any kind of finality about who she was or what she made of her life. Declarative, sweeping statements—the kind forlorn lovers in tear-stained melodramas make as they slowly die in one another’s arms—are absent here. In theory, this is the only possible approach to convey the contradictions at the heart of this story. In practice, it disappoints more often than it invigorates.

Although the cinematography in A Quiet Passion is respectable—nothing ever looks ugly—it distinctly lacks tactile symbols or the ghostly hues of memory. In Davies’s early films, by far his most personal, you could almost feel the displacement in the air, something the filmmaker was acutely acquainted with; his father’s abusive behaviour meant he developed an innate gift for recognising unspoken tension in a room. It was unbearable to him, as are some of the memories in his feature debut, Distant Voices, Still Lives (1988), a bittersweet tribute to his childhood in Liverpool. Revolving around three children whose lives are forever marked by their tyrannical father’s presence, the present and past are never far apart. Both are awash with a saintly, almost reverent light, creating a unique kind of ghost story.

This creates a remarkable balancing act between upholding and critiquing nostalgia. That contradiction is the key ingredient in these final expressions and depictions of half-remembered days—moments that will be filtered through memory again and again until they lose all their colour (the film’s colour grading already suggests this process is well under way). The memories are forever preserved as beautiful and terrifying, forever tactile, always threatening to leave a bruise. A Quiet Passion was always going to disappoint by contrast, as it isn’t nearly as interesting or profound. However, it’s also disappointingly conventional in its visual palette, with static shots that go through the motions with little care, while Davies sifts through memories of a long-past life with a similar emotional distance. His camerawork and cinematography, which in his early films were heavenly—both in quality and character—are bereft of personality in A Quiet Passion.

Fans of the director have an easy out in rushing to defend this approach by claiming that this lack of stylisation is all part of a grand effort to comment on a placid, stifling atmosphere of repression, whether for women at the time or for despondent dreamers. But some maturity is required to parse this notion. The film is simply unremarkable, which is a crying shame given Davies’s flair for giving visual form to the whims of dreamers. In his envisioning, a star isn’t a scientific, tangible thing, but a distant echo of spiritual rumblings so great that you feel you can almost glimpse these invisible forces. It’s a style of poetic filmmaking that’s extraordinarily rare, presenting a dream world that never holds back on its brutality where it counts, while concealing it on the surface.

A similar kind of force has invaded Dickinson’s life, but it’s a more confusing blend of internal and external deficiencies. The poet could’ve handled her interpersonal conflicts better, but her world, whether on a macro or micro level, was as inhospitable as it was briefly beautiful. The ideas are there, but there’s nothing in A Quiet Passion’s filmmaking to give them the weight they so urgently require. The film’s momentum dies a quiet death long before the poet’s own demise. As for the way it flits through different stages of Dickinson’s life, these yield mixed results. The transitions themselves, though bearing superficial elegance through slow, gliding camera movements, never segue seamlessly into new conflicts or developments.

That’s because the preceding scenes often don’t carry enough force to justify the story skipping forward. Nor do they contain enough gentle poetry to make one admire the way A Quiet Passion appears to glide through a figurative photo album of Dickinson’s most dramaturgically relevant interactions. Nixon is a strong performer, but she can only do so much with the heritage-film script Davies provides her with, seemingly trampling on his own sensibilities.

Dickinson’s incisive dialogue is enjoyably cutthroat but ultimately weightless. That’s the trouble with these comfortable period pieces: you never feel as though you’ve stepped through that necessary portal into the past. Instead,you watch a very general image, rendered hazy by the vagueness of this world. I never once felt transported into this environment, whether through sensory stimulation or by being made to feel—rather than simply be aware of—the limitations and particularities of this time in American history.

Jennifer Ehle (She Said), who portrays the older version of the protagonist’s sister Vinnie (Rose Williams portrays the younger version), seems like an ideal candidate for a Terence Davies film. She brings a beautiful elegance and warmth to her countenance and mannerisms, which were exploited so well in the BBC’s Pride and Prejudice (1995) miniseries. But even when these fine actresses are together, portraying two sisters who understand one another acutely and won’t ever change, for better or worse, these sequences never soar. They languish in the same placid presentation that Davies’s opinions and prior work are stridently opposed to. A Quiet Passion is certainly quiet, but in a banal rather than delicately evocative sense.

UK • BELGIUM • CANADA • USA | 2016 | 125 MINUTES | 2.35:1 | COLOUR | ENGLISH

Cast & Crew

writer & director: Terence Davies.
starring: Cynthia Nixon, Jennifer Ehle, Duncan Duff, Emma Bell, Rose Williams, Benjamin Wainwright, Joanna Bacon & Keith Carradine.

The post A QUIET PASSION (2016) appeared first on Frame Rated.

In the last decade of the 18th-century, the Dashwood women—mother Mrs Dashwood (Caitríona Balfe) and her daughters Elinor (Daisy Edgar-Jones), Marianne (Esmé Creed-Miles), and Margaret (Bodhi Rae Breathnach)—are thrown into turmoil when their patriarch dies. The son from his first marriage, John (Tom Brooke), arrives to claim his country seat, Norland House. John’s money- and status-minded wife, Fanny (Stacy Martin), would see her sister- and nieces-in-law cast out nearly penniless, drily observing that people always live when there’s an annuity to be paid.

Soon enough, the women find themselves living at the mercy of Mrs Jennings (Fiona Shaw), a garrulous Irish relative who offers them a cottage by the sea. Suitors for the older daughters then emerge, including Fanny’s brother Edward Ferrars (George MacKay), whose kindness and sense attract Elinor; Colonel Brandon (Herbert Nordrum), a reluctant veteran intrigued by Marianne; and John Willoughby (Dominic Cooper, who somehow seems younger than MacKay and Nordrum despite being 9 to 14 years older), whose passionate sensibility appeals to Marianne’s own.

Jane Austen adaptations are rarely much cop—and that includes biopics of the author herself. I still remember the embarrassing trailer for Becoming Jane (2007), in which that voiceover actor typical of the era narrates: “When everyone else was trying to fit in… Jane was the only one… who stood out.” This plays over footage of Anne Hathaway playing (gasp!) cricket with the lads, much to Julie Walters’ horror—because, you know, she’s not like other girls.

Many have written more cleverly than I about Jane Austen’s genius. What I get from the novels, though, is a surprising flair for the dramatic. I recall a late reveal in Sense and Sensibility that surprised me as much as twists in many detective novels. P.D James described the books as being like Mills & Boon written by a genius, and there’s some truth to that. I get similar satisfaction from Austen as I do from Agatha Christie, another giant of plotting and structure.

Where with Christie a reader may yearn to know who murdered Roger Ackroyd, with Austen the question is which of the men will turn out to be cads, and which the romantic ideal. These may sound like frivolous questions, but for women of Austen’s time, they were matters of life and death. An ill-advised match could ruin the rest of their lives. Is the handsome, charming man the one who will make a young woman happy, or will she find herself chained to someone deeply unpleasant? Or abandoned, rejected by family and friends, should he leave her, say, pregnant out of wedlock?

Sense & Sensibility (2026) captures some of this far better than many an Austen film that reduces her urgency and wit to standard rom-com fare. The film allows the plot to breathe, evoking the Regency world with some of the same economy as Austen’s prose, which prioritised dialogue and character over lengthy descriptions (a quality that helps make her work feel so modern and adaptable).

The director’s chair is filled by Georgia Oakley, whose debut work Blue Jean (2022) was an LGBT-themed drama about a lesbian schoolteacher during the era of Section 28—the British legislation of the 1980s that forbade the “promotion” of homosexuality in schools. That film was also written by Oakley, whereas screenwriting duties here fall to Diana Reid.

An Austen adaptation feels like an odd pivot, then, and handing writing duties to someone else suggests a director-for-hire approach rather than a passion project for Oakley. Sense over sensibility, if you like. Her direction has a brisk straightforwardness, as though she were constantly conscious of helming an English heritage production—which this essentially is.

It calls to mind that famous Goodreads review of Pride and Prejudice—a masterclass in getting the facts right while missing the point entirely—in which the critic refers to its plot as simply “people going to each other’s houses”.Oakley’s cinematic style does feel somewhat like a tour of stately homes. She frames them well, using the colours of late summer, autumn, and winter to evoke the beauty of this world while mirroring the characters’ emotional journeys.

For example, when Marianne, our symbol of sensibility, feels lost in the wilderness of a failed first love, she gets literally lost amidst the hoarfrost and winds surrounding the estate. And as the film opens, autumn’s golden hues infuse Norland with a tender wistfulness, just as our symbol of sense, Elinor, finds comfort in Edward’s gentle ways after her father dies.

This is workmanlike stuff: competent and well thought out, if uninspired. I missed the more delicate interplay of dialogue, character, and theme in Austen’s original work—such as a scene completely omitted from the film where we meet Fanny and Edward’s mother, Mrs Ferrars, as she disparages Elinor’s match with Edward by praising her own choice for him, Lord Morton’s daughter. Scenes like this in the novel offer subtle characterization that sadly doesn’t gel with the safe bet Oakley and Reid have been tasked to produce.

Sense & Sensibility must work first and foremost as a B-tier romantic comedy, and as such, it rises to the top of that pool. I’d have liked it to be closer to Barry Lyndon (1975) than Bridget Jones in bustle and tulle, but that’s probably asking too much. In the meantime, if you want a rom-com that makes you feel classy for choosing a heritage adaptation over Love Island, you’ve got it.

UK • USA | 2026 | 131 MINUTES | COLOUR | ENGLISH

Cast & Crew

director: Georgia Oakley.
writer: Diana Reid (based on the novel by Jane Austen).
starring: Daisy Edgar-Jones, Esmé Creed-Miles, Caitriona Balfe, Frank Dillane, Herbert, Nordrum, George MacKay & Fiona Shaw.

The post SENSE & SENSIBILITY (2026) appeared first on Frame Rated.

Throughout its marketing campaign, Warner Bros. opted to position Digger as a Tom Cruise movie. His gravitas and appeal were put above all else, including the film’s basic synopsis. Warner Bros. even released a three-minute trailer showcasing Cruise’s decades-long career to remind audiences that this is the last great movie star in his wackiest role yet. Perhaps that was the bait-and-switch the studio was aiming for. But this isn’t just Cruise’s film—it’s a two-time Academy Award winner’s picture, and his first English-language production since The Revenant (2015). Digger is first and foremost an Alejandro G. Iñárritu film.

Especially following his more introspective work, Bardo, False Chronicle of a Handful of Truths (2022), this is a welcome return to a more marketable Iñárritu. However, that completely undersells his talent as a storyteller. From his ‘Trilogy of Death’—comprising Amores Perros (2000), 21 Grams (2003), and Babel (2006)—to his ‘Best Picture’ Oscar-winning Birdman (2014), Iñárritu loves telling stories that contain multitudes. They’re films full of contradictions that give each character room to command the screen and connect with us. In his earlier work, Iñárritu was particularly interested in what brings us together and makes us human. In his later pictures, he showcases the beauty and contradictions of making art, alongside the intricacies of family and ageing. Digger is the culmination of his career’s ambitions and interests: a work that goes far beyond the over-the-top satire of the world’s elite accelerating the climate crisis with which the film begins.

Digger opens somewhere in the near—or perhaps not so near—future. We’re introduced to Digger Rockwell (Tom Cruise), a wealthy oil mogul waking up next to the love of his life: his dying cat, Maggie. Maggie is a weirdly adorable yet terrifying animatronic. Two decades old, she wets the bed and refuses to eat her favourite treats off Digger’s pinky finger.

Digger’s mansion, set somewhere in a picturesque Appalachian America, is a monument to opulence, complete with vaulted ceilings and pristine landscaping. His daily calendar is dictated by his personal assistant, Lina (Emma D’Arcy),who listens in constantly via an omniscient PA system. Still clad in his satin robe, Digger receives a panicked call from Sandy Clarkson (Danny Kirrane) at his Greenland drilling site. A five-foot crack Digger was warned about two weeks ago has now quadrupled in size.

Moments after hanging up, Digger learns from his chief environmental officer, Dr Ganesh (Riz Ahmed), that an explosion in Greenland has killed his entire team and sent an ice shelf four times the size of Washington, D.C. hurtling towards Europe. US President Compson (John Goodman) visits Digger at home and orders him to solve the ice shelf crisis while Compson prepares for surgery to remove a malignant tumour from his bottom.

Discussing Digger any further without spoiling the film’s major surprise and structure would be impossible. Because it was carefully hidden during marketing, it’s a genuinely unexpected pivot that feels jarring at first, but opens the film to a whole new realm of possibilities. Much of the joy lies in discovering that second-act structural twist and becoming immersed in Iñárritu’s layered storytelling.

What I can say is how marvellous it is to watch these artists at work. Emmanuel Lubezki, one of the finest living cinematographers, has earned multiple awards collaborating with Iñárritu. The film’s visual style is meticulously constructed to match its wild caricatures while staying grounded in our own world. Cosmo Sheldrake’s score is strikingly jarring and haunting, whilst set decorator Anna Pinnock creates truly unique locations. Again, going into further detail would undermine the filmmakers’ intended secrecy.

Iñárritu is fascinated by artistic creation, and he’s assembled a stellar cast willing to match his vision. Sandra Hüller is admittedly underused as Digger’s environmentally conscious sister, Emma. John Goodman channels some of his chaotic energy from The Big Lebowski (1998) into a character carefully teetering between a full-blown Trump caricature and a composite of every conservative politician holding office today. Jesse Plemons also appears in a small role that serves as the voice of the script and the film’s thematic conduit. His monologue is as moving to the characters as it is to the audience.

Riz Ahmed stands out in a memorable turn as Ganesh. He brings the same raw dramatic power that earned him an Oscar nomination in Sound of Metal (2019), while simultaneously playing one of the funniest characters in the entire film. A drunken scene of his stands among the finest screen portrayals of intoxication since Jimmy Stewart in The Philadelphia Story (1940). We need to see more of Ahmed on the big screen.

Nevertheless, Tom Cruise remains the movie star he was marketed to be, and he delivers a commanding performance.In recent years, he has largely morphed into an action hero indistinguishable from his real-life persona—and with good reason, having graced the screen with extraordinary stunt work and cinematic craft since Mission: Impossible (1996).In Digger, helped by some excellent prosthetics, he detaches himself from that action persona to deliver a larger-than-life performance that functions as a clever meta-commentary on his own career.

There is no direct real-life equivalent to Digger Rockwell. His surname harkens back to one of history’s first industrial titans, John D. Rockefeller, but his personality lacks a modern counterpart. Instead, he represents an amalgam of every billionaire wrapped into one, wielding shadowy control over global governments and everyday lives. While he isn’t a sympathetic character—his blatant disregard for humanity’s future is explicitly stated—the film takes a nuanced view of wealth. What is its proper use? How can money benefit everyone? Is it already too late?

Digger might not be the funniest film when judged purely as a satire, but any lack of belly laughs is compensated for by its beautifully complex ending. It isn’t merely a movie about climate change and economic inequality. Questions of obscene wealth are paired with a profound examination of artistic creation, echoing Babylon (2022) and Asteroid City (2023). Art remains a deeply unifying force, even under the most tragic circumstances. Alejandro G. Iñárritu is a filmmaker fascinated by art’s collective impact, and it’s wonderful to watch him explore it in such a distinctive, resonant fashion.

What’s more, the end credits are among the most memorable in recent memory. Iñárritu gets his final laugh via a sharp meta-moment about halfway through, so ensure you stay until the screen goes dark.

UK • MEXICO • USA | 2026 | 129 MINUTES | 1.50:1 • 1.85:1 | COLOUR | ENGLISH

Cast & Crew

director: Alejandro G. Iñárritu.
writers: Alejandro G. Iñárritu, Alexander Dinelaris, Nicolás Giacobone & Sabina Berman (story by Sabina Berman, Alejandro G. Iñárritu, and Jez Butterworth).
starring: Tom Cruise, Sandra Hüller, John Goodman, Michael Stuhlbarg, Riz Ahmed, Jesse Plemons, Robert John Burke & Emma D’Arcy.

The post DIGGER (2026) appeared first on Frame Rated.

Despite—or perhaps because of—his decades-long acclaim as an actor, George Clooney’s (O Brother, Where Art Thou?) directorial credits have been consistently overlooked. It’s true that he’s directed a few duds and forgettable entries, but his work behind the camera remains under-appreciated. Cutting his directorial teeth on Confessions of a Dangerous Mind (2002), he proved an inventive creative force with a stylistic flourish that, much like the film’s protagonist, refused to be pinned down. Confessions of a Dangerous Mind presents a skewed reality without offering enough insight into its lead character’s mindset to distinguish truth from falsehood. It’s clever enough to signal that its narrative shouldn’t be trusted, yet it avoids leaning so far into ambiguity that the experience feels like a meandering, meaningless slog.

This stylistic and tonal tightrope was the first sign that Clooney had more to offer as a filmmaker. Although his directing career has since been mixed, several standouts prove that his creative spark lingers. Good Night, and Good Luck (2005) and The Ides of March remain his finest work behind the camera alongside his debut. This shouldn’t be surprising: both films share an earnest approach to politics, looking past glossy, virtue-signalling surfaces to explore the system’s true lifeblood. The Ides of March is the cynicism-laden counterpart in this pair—a bitter exploration of moral compromise during an election campaign.

On the campaign trail for Pennsylvania governor Mike Morris’s (George Clooney) presidential bid, all bets are off. That’s nothing new in politics, where friends are hard to find and nearly impossible to keep. But Stephen Meyers (Ryan Gosling), Morris’s junior campaign manager and press secretary, opts for a different approach. A seasoned strategist whose youth makes him seem less experienced than he is, Stephen occupies a unique position among the jaded, middle-aged men populating the upper echelons of electioneering. He would be the first to admit he hasn’t shied away from playing dirty in past campaigns.

Yet this haunted landscape, strewn with the ghosts of empty promises, hasn’t corrupted him entirely. He genuinely believes in Morris and his ideals. As the pair navigate the initial results of the Democratic primary, they appear destined for success. Both men are charismatic people-pleasers—which, in this environment, means they lie with fluid ease. Their natural ability to deceive feels almost like an annoying superpower. At their core, however, they still strive to make the world better: hopeless dreamers in a realm that typically attracts con artists and excels at eroding integrity.Throughout The Ides of March, both men face tests of character they couldn’t have anticipated.

Most of the marketing for The Ides of March framed it as a political thriller—a strategy that seemingly paid off, given its $75M box office return on a $12M budget. However, that label was misleading; the film is far closer to a political melodrama. This distinction isn’t always obvious, particularly when the characters act with realistic subtlety—from Clooney’s effortlessly charming politician to Gosling’s more businesslike charisma. Yet brief moments—albeit some a touch too heavy-handed—reveal an emotional palette executed with stylistic flourish.

Above all, The Ides of March is a moody, discontented film born of contempt for a broken world where no single person can be blamed, given the rotten core of the system itself. Its characters fit familiar tropes: from the Obama-esque, progressive Morris to his rival Ted Pullman (Michael Mantell), a career politician who uses Bible-thumping tactics to frame Morris as an atheist. Every reliable scare tactic is deployed to spook voters away, while behind closed doors a constant power struggle rages among combative, catty middle-aged men.

Politics is clearly not a young person’s game, as amassing the requisite power and acumen takes most of a career.However, another crucial ingredient is required: complacency. Stephen, for all his faults, is anything but complacent.Driven by having nothing left to lose, someone like him becomes a force to be reckoned with. While The Ides of March initially appears to pose as an insider exposé on political machinery, it shifts into a broader depiction of moral erosion.This degradation doesn’t occur because Stephen chooses to abandon his integrity, but because he continues to play a dirty game.

In uncomfortable situations, the main characters face a narrow set of unenviable choices—a bitter pill they must swallow to survive. None of them asked for these dilemmas, yet almost all have accepted them as the reality of political life. Only Stephen, with his self-assuredness and natural charm, is blindsided by the vipers surrounding him; the others are too busy expecting the strike. When surrounded by such company, it’s only a matter of time before you’re transformed too.

Watching Stephen’s confidence disintegrate is compelling. The plot unfolds at a measured pace, settling into its world before descending into a hopeless free-for-all. The characters rarely drop their professional decorum; even while tearing one another apart, their exchanges remain polished. The Ides of March is striking in its detachment, showing how lives are reduced to grains of sand slipping through greedy, negligent fingers—held by powerful men obsessed with optics and scheming rather than meaningful change.

Clooney could easily have let ego cloud his casting, but choosing to play Morris was a stroke of genius. The character synthesises Clooney’s finest qualities as an actor—his wry smile, effortless charm, and a touch of smarminess—wrapped in a cooler detachment than usual that suits the role perfectly. Ultimately, however, this is Gosling’s film.Watching his boyish confidence fracture under the weight of betrayal is fascinating.

Even when the plot stalls and fails to match the tension of the performances, Gosling remains magnetic. You don’t need to approve of Stephen’s choices to feel the bitterness surrounding him. Although the musical score misses the mark by leaning into thriller conventions rather than highlighting a melodrama of compromised morals, Clooney’s direction rarely overreaches in framing this bleak portrait of political despair.

Rounding out the stellar cast are Paul Giamatti (Sideways) and Philip Seymour Hoffman (Nobody’s Fool)—two of cinema’s finest actors—alongside Evan Rachel Wood (Frozen 2), who delivers an intriguing performance as Molly Stearns. As a campaign intern for Morris, Molly becomes entangled in a covert scandal that threatens to explode. Yet instead of relying on sensational exposés or fiery confrontations, The Ides of March deliberately de-escalates its highest-stakes plot-lines, choosing instead to focus on the quiet sting of defeat and the successive moral blows dealt by a descent into dirty politics.

USA | 2011 | 101 MINUTES | 2.39:1 | COLOUR | ENGLISH

Cast & Crew

director: George Clooney.
writers: George Clooney, Beau Willimon & Grant Heslov (based on the 2008 play ‘Farragut North’ by Beau Willimon).
starring: Ryan Gosling, George Clooney, Philip Seymour Hoffman, Paul Giamatti, Evan Rachel Wood, Marisa Tomei, Jeffrey Wright & Max Minghella.

The post THE IDES OF MARCH (2011) appeared first on Frame Rated.

Blue Jay is a moving tribute to what could’ve been. More specifically, it’s a bittersweet reflection on the ways the past segments us into different versions of ourselves, and the wonder and sorrow that can be dredged up when we reconnect with those old selves. The focus of these mixed emotions is the love between high school sweethearts Jim (Mark Duplass) and Amanda (Sarah Paulson), which—as they soon learn after a chance meeting in their hometown supermarket—hasn’t died. It’s merely taken a new shape, even if awkward pleasantries must be exchanged and uncomfortable interactions endured to reconnect with that feeling. In crossing that uncomfortable bridge, the pair are forced to reconcile with the gulf of emotion that still exists between them. But time—at least 20 years of it since their break-up—has changed them irrevocably.

Filmed over seven days in Crestline, California, no information on Blue Jay’s production budget is available online to my knowledge, but it can’t have been significant. Nor were the distribution rights, in all likelihood, given that the mostly single-location indie drama had a limited theatrical release before appearing on Netflix. It’s a very brief film,with a runtime of exactly 80 minutes, and could easily have been forgettable. Yet stepping through time to watch the rekindling, blossoming love between these protagonists is nothing short of a revelation. Blue Jay’s screenplay, helmed by Duplass with significant improvisation from both him and Paulson, deftly moves through a single day in the pair’s lives as they find themselves unable to give up on one another.

What’s most affecting is how love can be so deeply felt yet so fleeting. If Jim and Amanda don’t capitalise on the joy of this chance encounter, it’ll be lost forever. It almost was: Jim notices Amanda before she notices him, his expression conjuring up a longing to connect that’s quickly suppressed by the desire to pretend she isn’t there. He quickly looks away. A few seconds later, she undergoes the exact same process. The precise circumstances will be different for everyone, but anyone reading can relate to the awkwardness of this kind of interaction.

Blue Jay is remarkable in that it takes so little time to understand exactly where these characters are in their own lives and in each other’s. That’s partly down to director Alex Lehmann, making his directorial debut, and the sensitivity and unobtrusiveness of his direction. It feels as if you’re a fly on the wall as you watch these two characters share information about their present lives, then rediscover the parts of themselves that went dormant when their relationship ended.

There’s never anything clinical or cold about Blue Jay’s visuals; even the film’s black-and-white colour palette succeeds in lending an air of romanticism and melancholy to Jim and Amanda’s interactions. You’re drawn into this world as naturally as the former couple are, grimacing at the bumps in their initial conversation, hoping they’ll act on the inevitability of their prolonged reunion, and watching with bated breath as they confront the dissolution of that old love (and the new forms it’s taken). The film doesn’t leer at their misery or pulverise it for hollow emotional blows,showcasing bittersweet beauty at almost every turn.

To say Duplass and Paulson carry the film feels redundant given that every moment lives or dies on their performances.Hardly any other character is even in sight, let alone given room to showcase their personality. Blue Jay is squarely focused on these two people and the fateful day of their reunion, with both performers directing and redirecting a natural chemistry that many filmmakers would give an arm and a leg to bottle and use in other projects. If only it were as easy as Duplass and Paulson make it seem.

There’s an ease to both characters when they’re in one another’s company that spellbinds, offering an entire history of a relationship through the shorthand of their present-day conversations. How is it even possible for this to happen when we have no idea what Amanda and Jim are like in the company of others, or in their daily lives? It’s a logical question that doesn’t mean a thing when it brushes up against the weight of Paulson and Duplass’s effortless chemistry and raw emotion, where you feel as if you’ve known these people all your life after just a few minutes.

It’s also clear that the script builds on each performer’s individual strengths; Duplass is a marvel at displaying a valiant yet unsuccessful effort to disguise his pain, often doing so through a grin, whilst Paulson’s smile is radiant and open,bearing no secrets. These are just small components of either performance, but it’s in little details like these that Blue Jay develops the intense bond and history between these characters.

Aside from Blue Jay’s awkward opening few minutes, where Jim and Amanda test out their sentences on one another with mutual discomfort—as though wishing they hadn’t bothered acknowledging each other’s existence—the film follows a fairly repetitive formula. Viewers are conditioned to sit and wait for the next earnest, wistful reminder of the past to be unearthed.

Thankfully, this formula is delivered so smoothly that it’s never a major problem, just a slight impediment along the devastating yet life-affirming journey Blue Jay takes you on. For anyone doubtful that a lifetime’s worth of emotion can be conveyed in 80 minutes, or for viewers tired of movies featuring a haze of visuals without any feeling to hold them up, Blue Jay is a bruising, healing experience—proudly small-scale even as it holds the world in its palm across its short runtime.

USA | 2016 | 80 MINUTES | 1.85:1 | BLACK & WHITE | ENGLISH

Cast & Crew

director: Alex Lehmann.
writer: Jay Duplass.
starring: Mark Duplass, Sarah Paulson & Clu Gulager.

The post BLUE JAY (2016) appeared first on Frame Rated.

Netflix’s Unabomber is a bizarre, half-baked attempt to tell the story of Ted Kaczynski by leaving the most interesting bits out. We’re given a cursory account of events immediately before and surrounding his arrest in 1996, and a more detailed look at some of his supposedly formative experiences as a young student at Harvard around 1960 — but virtually nothing about the bombs he dispatched to targets around the United States for more than 15 years, or about the lengthy, frustrating investigation that ran from the late-1970s to the mid-1990s. His personal trajectory, from childhood maths prodigy to professor, cabin-dwelling recluse, and anti-technology terrorist, goes similarly unexplored.

So, while Janus Metz’s film is as competently (and blandly) made as you’d expect from any high-profile Netflix production, and some strong performances do manage to shine through an essentially unexciting script, the overall impression is that we’re seeing selections from something much longer — and not even the highlights.

It’s a pity, because so much could be done with the Kaczynski story. The man himself remains something of an enigma, even if his philosophy was expounded publicly at great length via the essays published in major newspapers which eventually led to his identification. (He believed humanity had become the servant of technology, rather than vice versa, and today would doubtless have been trying to bomb data centres rather than the airlines and universities that gave him his moniker.) And the investigation, although it spent many years going up blind alleys, has great potential as a procedural and profiling narrative.

Unabomber begins with a cursory treatment of one bombing from near the end of the Unabomber’s criminal career — the incident that killed Thomas Mosser at his New Jersey home in December 1994 — before turning to the investigators, who briefly arrest the wrong man then almost immediately identify Kaczynski. A little screen time is given to the FBI’s long-running internal debate over whether the perpetrator would be a disgruntled blue-collar worker or a more ideologically motivated individual with an academic background, and fictional agent Joanne Miller (Shailene Woodley) represents those who took the latter view.

But the film soon moves to where it seems more comfortable: the teenage Kaczynski’s years at Harvard. Here, young Ted (Jacob Tremblay) — socially naive, but intellectually confident and desperate to prove himself — falls under the spell of psychology professor Henry Murray (unlike agent Miller, very much a real figure, and played by Russell Crowe). Murray recruits Ted for a study he’s conducting; it supposedly involves discussing the student participants’ philosophical ideas, but its real purpose is to see how long they can withstand stressful situations where they’re insulted and abused. The film portrays these as being part of a shadowy US government investigation into “brainwashing” prisoners of war, which has never been firmly established, though the persistent allegation seems credible enough given the state of the Cold War at the time.

And… well, that’s kind of it. This strand of Unabomber wraps up in around 1960, while the investigative strand gets going in around 1995. Nearly everything that happened in between is left opaque. There’s no sense at all of the passing of time — one of the things that makes the case stand out — nor is there any tension to resolve, because we only encounter Kaczynski long before he became the Unabomber, and we only really see the very end of the investigation after his identity is known.

A somewhat desultory explanation for it all is offered, maybe, when Murray tells young Ted that he’s schizophrenic,but here the movie raises logical problems that may or may not be intentional. We’ve already seen that Murray is desperately untrustworthy, so are we supposed to take his words at face value? Is he finally coming clean and giving Ted the truth here, or is he just manipulating the boy further? Is Unabomber arguing that actual mental illness, or anger at having been lied to by a trusted professor, drove Kaczynski’s later actions? (The film doesn’t explain that while there’s no evidence of this conversation with Murray having taken place, the real, adult Kaczynski was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia after his arrest.)

A generally strong cast does its best to liven up dull proceedings. Crowe is as entertaining as always in the role of Murray, even if he does lay on the avuncular, chuckling evil a bit thick; Annabelle Wallis, as his colleague and lover Christiana Morgan (also a real figure), is very believable. Woodley is convincing and likeable as agent Miller, though the part offers her little to get her teeth into; Alexander Ludwig as a colleague of hers, Mark Camacho as a local sheriff,and Matthew Kevin Anderson as Kaczynski’s brother all command attention in smaller roles.

The adult Kaczynski (Michael Laurence) hardly appears at all in Unabomber. A much larger role — probably the toughest in the film — goes to Tremblay as the young version. He certainly holds his own capably against Crowe and Wallis, but he’s at his best when relatively subdued; once the teenage Ted grows more assertive, we can’t escape the impression of Acting-with-a-capital-A, although in the performer’s defence, it’s true that the young character is, in a way, acting out what he believes to be maturity.

The Unabomber story has been fictionalised for the screen a few times before. Unabomber: The True Story was made for TV as early as 1996, with the case still in the headlines. More recently, Tony Stone’s Ted K (2021), with Sharlto Copley as Kaczynski, was well received but made virtually no impact. Discovery Channel’s eight-part Manhunt: Unabomber (2017), though not wholly faithful to truth, remains one of the best true-crime dramatisations of recent years; it conveys the scale of the investigation with absorbing detail, and benefits from fine performances, including Sam Worthington as an FBI agent (roughly equivalent to the Shailene Woodley character here) and Paul Bettany as the older Kaczynski. (The Harvard angle was granted just part of one episode.)

Manhunt: Unabomber sets the standard so far, but there’s still probably a great movie to be made about Ted Kaczynski — perhaps one that focuses on his evolution from brilliant high-schooler to alienated radical, and less on the investigation. Unabomber, however, is most certainly not it.

USA | 2026 | 97 MINUTES | 2.39:1 | COLOUR | ENGLISH

Cast & Crew

director: Janus Metz Pedersen.
writers: Sam Chalsen & Nelson Greaves.
starring: Russell Crowe, Shailene Woodley, Jacob Tremblay & Annabelle Wallis.

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