Chasm Films is a new subsidiary label from the consistently reliable Radiance, describing itself as dedicated to curating a catalogue of world genre movies that are under-seen, under-appreciated, and underground. So far, its first two titles have been a bold statement of intent. György Pálfi’s satirical body-horror Taxidermia (2006) launched the list earlier this year. Now comes Álex de la Iglesia’s satirical clown-horror The Last Circus, making its Blu-ray debut with first-rate bonus content to please fans and film scholars alike. Those coming fresh to this outrageous oddity will never have seen anything quite like it. Others will relish the opportunity to revisit this contentious classic of coulrophobia again and again…

Álex de la Iglesia’s The Last Circus is a bold assault on the senses that rarely allows any pause or respite. The director has explained it as his most personal film, featuring many autobiographical elements dressed in often brash metaphor. It’s also a biography of the Spain he grew up in, peppered with meticulous historical references that place the often surreal events against a very real historical backdrop.

Set in 1937, the opening vignette is the movie’s strongest 10 minutes. The laughter of children is interrupted by the sound of shells exploding too close to the circus, where a two-man clown act quickly improvises to calm and distract the audience. The Silly Clown (Santiago Segura) and Serious Clown (Fofito) are all too aware of how structurally flimsy the big top is and how rare laughter has become. They switch to “the dress act”, which involves The Silly Clown’s ingenious costume falling away to reveal a big pink frilly number and, on removal of his top hat, a cascade of ‘Shirley Temple’ curls. It’s at this point that the militia take control of the circus, demanding every man immediately take up arms and join them. And this is how a clown in a dress ends up at the chaotic battlefront wielding a machete. Surprisingly—probably down to the physical agility of clowns used to stunts and pratfalls—he is one of the few survivors taken prisoner by Franco’s Nationalist rebels.

The sequence hinges upon a brave, emotionally grounded performance from Santiago Segura who, under the smeared greasepaint of his happy clown make-up, is hardly recognisable as the actor who played José María, the metalhead sidekick in de la Iglesia’s equally dark yet funnier The Day of the Beast (1995). There is a tear-jerking farewell in which he tells his young son, Javier (Sasha DiBenedetto), to become a sad clown because, as a war orphan, he will have no childhood and thus will never know how to make children laugh. However, the clown isn’t executed as expected, but assigned to a labour detail breaking ground for the construction of a huge war memorial. This will turn out to be the Basilica of the Holy Cross of the Valley of the Fallen, featuring vast crypts where the bodies of more than 33,000 unknown casualties of the civil war from both sides will be interred, ultimately becoming Franco’s mausoleum. This provides the vertiginous setting for the finale, bracketing the narrative though offering little sense of closure.

The montage of images behind the opening credits provides a collage of historical and cultural iconography that would be all too recognisable to Spaniards of a certain age. It functions as a graphic summary of the nation’s history—from the atrocities of the war and the political aftermath of a nation under dual forms of oppression from state and church, through famous movie monsters and headline-grabbing crimes, to the post-war economic boom and the growth of international tourism in Madrid up to 1973.

The adult Javier (Carlos Areces) is starting his new job as a Sad Clown. Arriving at the tawdry circus, he’s briefly shown the ropes by Ramiro (Manuel Tallafé), elephant trainer and escapologist, and is immediately smitten with the trapeze artist Natalia (Carolina Bang), in a knowing nod to Tod Browning’s Freaks (1932). However, Ramiro tells Javier in no uncertain terms that she is the property of his new boss, Sergio (Antonio de la Torre), the Happy Clown. This is a culture where people—particularly women—are owned by others.

Sergio is a humourless, intimidating man who soon reveals himself as a dangerously violent alcoholic when he viciously beats Natalia unconscious during Javier’s first night out with the troupe. After they leave the diner, Javier sneaks back to tend to Natalia, but has to hide when Sergio returns to take sexual possession of her. There’s no mistaking this for anything other than gendered violence, though it isn’t framed as rape because Natalia appears to capitulate willingly. Thus begins the dysfunctional love triangle that shapes the entire narrative.

Though The Last Circus offers multiple readings, it’s tempting to see Javier and Sergio as the opposing factions of the Spanish Civil War, and Natalia as the embodiment of the country caught in the middle. It’s one of the more interesting interpretations to ponder, as it examines the gendering of political ideologies—there’s a reason why right-leaning regimes fight for a fatherland and leftists for a motherland. Sergio wants to possess and dominate Natalia both emotionally and physically. Javier sees himself as her (albeit ineffectual) saviour and, as an orphan of war, views her as an idealised mother substitute. Natalia finds aspects of both men appealing and repugnant in equal measure. Her indecision in the face of irreconcilable obsessions ultimately leads to tragic consequences for all involved, offering an unflinching reflection on the fallout of a civil war where no one truly wins.

Both men were robbed of a normal childhood during the nationwide adversity, suffering, and ever-present violence of the war years. As a result, they remain woefully stunted emotionally. They long to reclaim what we value in childhood, but lack the foundational experiences upon which to build a functioning adult persona. Natalia is similarly damaged and incapable of escaping her past, deriving a sinister pleasure from playing the two men against each other—until it all comes to a head and they nearly kill each other in bouts of spectacular violence that neither should reasonably have survived.

By this time, however, we realise we’re not dealing with realism, but with political metaphor pushed to comic-book extremes. Álex de la Iglesia started out in comics and graphic novels, and this background remains apparent in his use of stunning imagery that elevates individual moments into pure cinema. Sometimes, the sole purpose of the narrative seems to be setting up a bold composition where the image is regnant and the story its servant. This will come as no surprise to those familiar with the director’s earlier films, including his ultra-violent debut Mutant Action (1993), the dark Satanic comedy The Day of the Beast, the transgressive psycho-thriller Perdita Durango (1997), and perhaps most pertinently, Dying of Laughter (1999), which starred Santiago Segura as half of a comedy duo defined by mutual loathing and was likewise set in the final years of the Franco regime. Álex de la Iglesia certainly has his recurring themes.

To maintain momentum, significant time skips are required, which lead to incongruities if one isn’t paying close attention to the visual cues. Sometimes this is indicated by background news reports, a serious injury scarring over, or a stag carcass being devoured. As in life, it’s the intense moments that we truly experience and embed in memory. Thus, the narrative leaps from one psychologically challenging incident to the next—moments that also pull the character arcs together. Thankfully, the narrative avoids getting mired in a melodrama about dim or damaged people having a miserable time. There’s plenty for the cast to sink their teeth into, and the three leads are frighteningly good. Their characters are revealed rather than developed, with the shifts required to propel the story brought about by cathartic events and archetypal motifs, deliberately avoiding preachy moral judgements.

Nevertheless, we are prompted to make our own judgements and may be shocked to find ourselves rooting for one clown as he completely disfigures another with a trumpet thrashing. Occurring at the point of narrative reversal, this is a visual play on the original Spanish title Balada triste de trompeta / Sad Trumpet Ballad, which refers to a recurring pop song by Spanish superstar ‘clown’ Raphael. At this point, we’re immersed in the fiction and forced to take sides in what threatens to be a three-way tie for last place. Our central trio are all emotionally or physically wounded and descend into spectacular madness. Javier pushes his sad clown persona into psychotic territory when, after being condemned to execution for biting dictator Francisco Franco, he hallucinates Natalia as the Virgin Mary commanding him to become her avenging angel. Alejandro Jodorowsky would be proud; The Last Circus would make an excellent double bill with Santa Sangre (1989), which is a clear influence.

Apart from the bravura performances, Álex de la Iglesia’s meticulous attention to detail stands out when recreating long-lost historical places. This was his first time working with digital effects, which are effectively deployed throughout. On first viewing, the dated CG rendering is rarely noticeable because the story and performances are so engrossing that one doesn’t register the background extras as digitally animated avatars. It is obvious, however, that the Hitchcockian climax high on the 150-metre cross dominating the Valley of the Fallen is digitally rendered, as the angles and camera motions would be impossible to achieve otherwise. Furthermore, permission to film on location was denied, so the site had to be recreated in studio using extensive green screen. This doesn’t detract from the finale’s power, which actually benefits from the cleaner ‘graphic novel’ aesthetic.

The Last Circus won’t please everyone and will certainly offend some. However, it is a wild ride featuring some of the most audacious images and set pieces in Spanish cinema, drawing on a rich heritage of political allegory from Luis Buñuel to Guillermo del Toro. Álex de la Iglesia refuses to provide easy answers or offer ideological comfort. The ending is not an easy watch, though it’s undeniably edge-of-your-seat thrilling. While I was totally riveted while watching, I remained critically ambivalent in the aftermath. Although the imagery is striking and surreal, the comedy isn’t amusing and the tragedy is diluted by the lack of a clear protagonist to identify with. Ultimately, no one is likeable or sympathetic. In love and war, does anyone truly win?

SPAIN | 2010 | 105 MINUTES | 2.35:1 | COLOUR | SPANISH

Limited Edition Blu-ray Special Features:

• UK Blu-ray premiere/
• High-definition digital transfer from the original HDCAM . Retains the careful final colour grading to match digital VFX and live action. Visual textures—from drifting smoke in the shadows to close-ups of scarred skin and make-up—are crisp and clear. The two-minute discrepancy between the 107-minute IMDb listing and the 105-minute Blu-ray runtime is entirely down to standard cinematic formatting and PAL/NTSC frame rate differences, rather than cuts.
• NEW audio commentary by Spanish horror expert Valeria Villegas Lindvall. A well-researched commentary that manages to be informative, thought-provoking, scholarly, and highly entertaining. Opening with a brief overview of Álex de la Iglesia’s career, Lindvall contextualises The Last Circus as his ninth feature and explores how it addresses the past through a contemporary lens. She underscores the symbolic conflict between circus and war, relating this to dualities such as church and state, and reminding us that Franco was given papal endorsement by the Catholic Church. She traces influences back to the engravings of Francisco Goya and discusses the historical accuracy of the events depicted—particularly useful for viewers less versed in 20th-century Spanish history. Finally, she offers sharp analysis of the central characters, with particular reference to the ‘trainwreck’ trope of the disagreeable female archetype evoked by Natalia.
• 18-minute interview with director Álex de la Iglesia with newly translated English subtitles. Reflecting on The Last Circus as a deeply personal project with a solo-penned script, de la Iglesia recalls his childhood, including picking up scattered sweets from a blood-stained pavement outside a local shop. He explains how the opening titles present a collage of his early memories—war, exhumed nuns, ETA bombs, and Universal monster movies. There are even flashes of influential television shows, including La cabina (1972), which he references visually when Javier is captured and driven away in a truck, hands and face pressed against the rear window. He also outlines his philosophical approach, emphasising that he wanted to avoid portraying the war or its legacy in polarising terms.
• Send in the Clowns: NEW 21-minute video essay by Xavier Aldana Reyes, author of Spanish Gothic (2017). A thorough, scholarly discourse that places the film within a defined contextual framework. Citing Guillermo del Toro’s The Devil’s Backbone (2001) and Pan’s Labyrinth (2006) as breaking the taboo of tackling the Spanish Civil War on screen, Reyes positions The Last Circus as the next major entry in that lineage. He emphasizes how quintessentially Spanish the film is, suggesting its uncompromising cultural authenticity explains why it won accolades at home while performing modestly in overseas territories. He explores key references within the narrative, starting with Raphael’s song Balada triste de trompeta, which underscores three key plot points. He highlights the real-world clowns and circuses glimpsed in the film, detailing their relevance before pointing to cinematic predecessors such as Laugh, Clown, Laugh (1928)—which shares plot beats and starred Lon Chaney in similar make-up. He also draws parallels with two of Tod Browning’s circus classics: The Unknown (1927) and Freaks (1932).
• Making of The Last Circus (2010). Includes contributions from the principal cast, special make-up effects designer, and costume designer, alongside archival production footage.
• Behind the scenes footage. Unnarrated archival footage showing the filming process.
• Visual effects footage . A compilation of raw green-screen studio footage shown alongside final composites, demonstrating how digital environments and characters were created and blended with full-size sets and live action.
• Trailers.
• NEW and improved English subtitles. Timing and flow are very good.
• Limited Edition booklet featuring new writing by Andy Willis, co-author of The Cinema of Álex de la Iglesia (2007) and co-editor of Spanish Popular Cinema (2004). Not available at time of review.
• Limited Edition of 2000 copies, featuring an O-card slipcase with new artwork by Nick Charge, full-height Scanavo packaging and reversible sleeve featuring original poster artwork and alternative artwork by Nick Charge.

Cast & Crew

writer & director: Álex de la Iglesia.
starring: Carlos Areces, Antonio de la Torre, Carolina Bang, Manuel Tallafé, Alejandro Tejería, Santiago Segura, Fernando Guillén Cuervo & Sancho Gracia.

The post THE LAST CIRCUS (2010) appeared first on Frame Rated.

What attracted me to the new Netflix thriller, The Last House, were the two familiar names leading the creative team. Director Louis Leterrier first made his mark with two Luc Besson-penned action thrillers: The Transporter (2002), his sophomore feature, and Unleashed (2005). He may be best known for two consecutive big-budget spectacles—The Incredible Hulk (2008) and the remake of Clash of the Titans (2010)—but for me, his 10-part television series Dark Crystal: Age of Resistance (2019) remains the pinnacle of his varied career. Scriptwriter Matthew Robinson boasts an equally diverse filmography, including the excellent Love and Monsters (2020) and, following a five-year hiatus, the action AI-apocalypse satire Good Luck, Have Fun, Don’t Die (2026), which, like The Last House, explored an existential threat to humanity.

The narrative is compelling from the opening voiceover, which tells us ominously: “Everyone remembers where they were the day the rain came…” Jason Delgado (Wagner Moura) is out fishing on the pier by dawn’s early light when an unforecast storm front looms on the horizon. Packing up swiftly, he returns to his home in the Seattle suburbs just ahead of a torrential downpour of biblical proportions. Nevertheless, it is the day set aside for selecting the family Christmas tree, and his two children, Graham (Noah Alexander Sosnowski) and Ruth (Riley Chung), won’t let him or their mother, Ann (Greta Lee), renege on their promise. I wondered: could this become an alternative festive favourite?

As soon as the rain eases, they ready themselves for their seasonal mission, only to find they can’t leave the house because every door and window is jammed. Ann dismisses it as a prank pulled by teenagers with superglue, but she is visibly shaken when Jason panics and attacks the windows with a heavy fire poker to no avail. An unknown force prevents the shattered glass from falling away, making it clear that the rain possesses a sentience and conceals an inscrutable threat that takes its time to reveal itself.

Although the official trailer isn’t entirely spoiler-free, it avoids revealing a few of the more unexpected twists. Forgive me if I occasionally sound enigmatic here, as I’m trying not to give too much away either. Though not without gentle humour, The Last House unfolds into a harrowing suspense-thriller that blends family melodrama into a survivalist eco-horror featuring a couple of genuinely tense set-pieces.

The menace ‘out there’ serves the purpose so often fulfilled by zombies nowadays, but in a refreshing twist, the nature of this baffling apocalypse isn’t immediately clear. It is certainly some sort of climate catastrophe, but its origin remains an enigma. Perhaps this places The Last House in a lineage of eco-mystery-thrillers that can be traced back to Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds (1963). With all communications cut off while electricity and water are still running, the isolated Delgados use signs to communicate with neighbours they had never previously interacted with beyond a daily exchange of pleasantries. Trying to establish the extent of the phenomenon, they entertain various theories about its cause, ranging from government conspiracies to alien invasion.

For the first act, we’re in the company of a ‘Spielbergian’ family—quickly sketched, yet possessing a convincing dynamic of petty tensions and resilient affection, reminiscent of E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial (1982) or Poltergeist (1982), complete with a similar golden retriever. The Spielberg vibe may well be intentional. Leterrier eschewed Netflix’s predilection for digital filming, choosing instead to shoot the first act on 35mm with the same type of anamorphic lenses used on Raiders of the Lost Ark (1981).

I suspect the seeds of the story were sown during COVID-19 lockdowns, when families were forced to stay indoors and spend time together. This introduces a pertinent subtext concerning the disintegration of community in modern suburbia and the broader fragmentation of society. Setting the action almost entirely within a domestic space also keeps things relatable, prompting us to ponder how long we might survive on the contents of our cupboards if we were suddenly cut off from all societal support.

The Delgados cope remarkably well together, and the small cast carries the film, bolstered by strong, nuanced performances from Moura and Lee. Both are established, hardworking actors: Greta Lee will be recognisable to many from her lead role in Tron: Ares (2025), whilst Wagner Moura may be known for his Golden Globe-winning turn in the historical political thriller The Secret Agent (2025)—though he also boasts several prestigious accolades for his work behind the camera as a director.

The young actors also flesh out believable characters who shift from sweet and supportive to more angsty and problematic as they grow into teenagers within this pressure-cooker scenario. The older Graham (Gabriel Barbosa) and Ruth (Emma Ho) are so brilliantly cast that we don’t question their montaged transition. Leterrier further tested cinematographer Pål Ulvik Rokseth by deliberately changing visual textures to mark the time jump alongside the partial cast change. Here, they switched to high-definition digital cameras fitted with vintage 1960s lenses to capture a cinematic, Hitchcockian feel.

The Last House is at its best when exploring family relationships in extremis, though I’m glad this didn’t dominate the narrative entirely. After all, this is primarily a sci-fi disaster movie, albeit distilled through the experiences of a single household. The themes touch upon our waste of resources and concerns around food security as populations grow and climate change threatens the agrarian lifestyle for millions. There are unavoidable plot parallels with the Doctor Who spin-off series The War Between the Land and the Sea (2025), which also featured water directed by a consciousness threatening to wash away humanity. There is also resonance with John Carpenter’s The Thing (1982), which relentlessly builds tension around a small group isolated with a mysterious threat in their midst, as well as James Cameron’s The Abyss (1989), where water acts as a conduit for communication and control.

Around the midpoint, the narrative shifts up a gear from sustained mystery to a straightforward survival thriller. I particularly enjoyed the depiction of a suburban estate being reclaimed by nature, and wouldn’t be surprised if the art department drew inspiration from the imagery of artist-illustrator Kevin Peterson. Coyotes and bears wandering among verdant undergrowth, alongside flowers choking the streets and engulfing cars and houses, not only add an unexpected poetic beauty, but also provide a potential source of protein for the trapped family—if they ever master “chimney fishing”, that is.

The conclusion is already drawing criticism for being unsatisfying, but it succeeds in avoiding the obvious clichés of contrived pessimism or an unconvincing happy ending. What we get instead is a third alternative, which admittedly needed better foreshadowing to sell it. It feels as though an entire subplot was excised—perhaps due to concerns over runtime or pacing—that would have better primed the audience so the dénouement didn’t feel like a non sequitur. Only in retrospect does one realise that tiny clues were scattered throughout; they simply weren’t sufficiently underscored. The sole explicit detail that explains what transpires in the final few minutes occurs in the very first few. You really do have to pay attention.

UK * USA * FRANCE | 2026 | 112 MINUTES | 1.85:1 | COLOUR | ENGLISH

Cast & Crew

director: Louis Leterrier.
writer: Matthew Robinson.
starring: Greta Lee, Wagner Moura, Riley Chung, Emma Ho, Noah Alexander Sosnowski & Gabriel Chung.

The post THE LAST HOUSE (2026) appeared first on Frame Rated.

Johnny Handsome is, for better or worse, a film very much of its time. In today’s cinematic climate of bloated mainstream blockbusters, a movie with a script that leans this hard into B-movie territory would almost certainly bypass a theatrical release and head straight to streaming platforms.

Back in the late-1980s, however, Hollywood was only too happy to churn out a relatively small-budget ($20M) feature—provided it had big stars on the poster and a director of some note at the helm. If it underperformed on its initial run, the studio hardly cared; the home video market was always there to claw back extra revenue and ensure it at least broke even.

If this introduction makes it sound as though I am unimpressed, let me quickly clarify: that is not the case at all. Johnny Handsome is, in fact, a solidly directed action-thriller that makes for perfect Friday-night-with-a-few-beers fare. It may never have made a “best of the year” list, but I would still recommend it to anyone who has not yet seen it. And if you decide to check it out, what better way to do so than via this superb new 4K release?

Based on Morton Freedgood’s 1972 novel The Three Worlds of Johnny Handsome (written under the pseudonym John Godey), the film stars Mickey Rourke as John Sedley, a career criminal whose severely disfigured face has earned him the moniker “Johnny Handsome”. The film wastes little time in getting to the crux of the story: Johnny agrees to help a friend with a robbery, only for the pair to be double-crossed by their partners in crime, Sunny Boyd (Ellen Barkin) and Rafe Garrett (Lance Henriksen). Sunny and Rafe kill Johnny’s friend and leave Johnny behind bars to take the fall.

After surviving a near-fatal prison stabbing, Johnny is offered a life-changing opportunity: experimental reconstructive surgery to completely transform his appearance. Given a new identity, he is enrolled in a bold rehabilitation program that secures him a job on the docks. In exchange, he must attend regular therapy sessions or face a return to jail. Once the bandages come off, Johnny has—in theory, at least—a clean slate. Unfortunately, he soon realises that changing your face is considerably easier than changing who you are, especially when you are consumed by a desire to get even with Sunny and Rafe.

On paper, the premise sounds absurd, but the film pulls it off thanks to the formidable talent on both sides of the camera. The surgery scene requires a fairly generous suspension of disbelief, but director Walter Hill has always thrived in realms of heightened reality. Through slick filmmaking and committed acting, this far-fetched conceit succeeds.

Running at just over 90 minutes, the movie is refreshingly lean. Today, a film with this much plot would likely be stretched to two hours, with an extra half-hour squandered on redundant backstory. Hill avoids that trap; he establishes what we need to know and gets on with it.

The opening 25 minutes set up the narrative brilliantly. A monochrome prologue shows Johnny and his friend Mikey (Scott Wilson) chatting, with Mikey explaining why he needs Johnny’s help on an upcoming job. Next, the criminal gang—including Rafe and Sunny—meet to plan the operation. Set at night against a dramatic thunderstorm, the scene builds tension masterfully. Finally comes the jewellery store heist: Hill’s close-up use of wide-angle lenses, combined with kinetic editing and Ry Cooder’s driving score, delivers one of the most memorable sequences in the film.

Technical skill aside, Mickey Rourke deserves tremendous credit for making the film work as well as it does. It is easy to forget what a compelling screen presence Rourke was during the 1980s. Before his acting career derailed in the nineties, he had delivered exceptional performances in films such as Diner (1982), Rumble Fish (1983), and Barfly (1987).

Although I was aware of him growing up, I had not actually watched much of his work until the pandemic, when I rented Alan Parker’s Angel Heart (1987). As impressive as that dark, twisted tale was, it was Rourke’s acting—particularly in the final 15 minutes—that blew me away. It was a remarkable performance, which makes his subsequent career lull all the more disappointing.

Johnny Handsome offers another fine showcase for his talent. For the first half-hour, Rourke is buried beneath extensive facial prosthetics, yet he communicates a surprising amount of emotion. He plays Johnny as quiet, withdrawn, and acutely conscious of people staring at him. He also adopts a realistic speech impediment caused by his character’s cleft palate, making the portrayal thoroughly convincing. Even more effective, however, is what happens after the operation.

You might expect Johnny’s new face to trigger a dramatic shift in personality, but it does not. He remains the same man—perhaps slightly more confident, but still shaped by his past. That is where Rourke’s performance shines. The film is less about a man becoming someone else, and more about whether he can ever become the person he might have been without his past weighing him down. Rourke keeps his performance admirably restrained, conveying a depth of internal turmoil beneath a calm exterior.

The supporting cast is equally strong. Lance Henriksen may teeter on the edge of high-camp villainy, but given the film’s heightened reality, he gets away with it. His scenes with Barkin carry genuine menace, and he exudes an air of unpredictable danger.

Ellen Barkin is clearly having a ball playing Henriksen’s morally bankrupt lover. Her persona and style can best be described as a classic femme fatale turned up to eleven. She is brash, cruel, and thoroughly unpleasant, but Barkin infuses the role with an intensity that keeps the screen electric.

A relatively young Morgan Freeman crops up as Lieutenant Drones, a cop who knew Johnny before his transformation and remains utterly unconvinced by his supposed rehabilitation. Freeman brings his signature gravitas to the role, balancing a surface-level warmth with a cynical, mean-spirited edge. Elizabeth McGovern and Forest Whitaker provide solid support, though McGovern’s character—a secretary who falls for Johnny—could have been given more depth.

Beyond the performances, Walter Hill’s direction is key to the film’s success. He works with an economical, straightforward style that keeps the story and characters front and centre. Much like The Warriors (1979) and 48 Hrs.(1982), Johnny Handsome possesses a stripped-back confidence. The shoot-outs are clean and easy to follow, avoiding chaotic quick-cuts or shaky camerawork. While the violence is punchy, it never feels gratuitous given the film’s noir roots.

Matthew F. Leonetti’s cinematography makes brilliant use of New Orleans. The docks, bars, warehouses, and run-down streets ooze a grimy, hard-boiled atmosphere, complemented by a muted palette. Meanwhile, Ry Cooder’s blues-heavy score fits the film’s grungy aesthetic like a glove.

While the film remains engaging throughout, it stops short of fully exploring its most interesting themes: identity, nature versus nurture, and whether anyone can truly escape their past. The script flirts with these ideas before ultimately settling for a standard revenge plot. That may be par for the course for a genre film, but it would have been rewarding to see Rourke and McGovern’s characters given more room to breathe.

Even so, Johnny Handsome is an atmospheric, fast-paced thriller that barrels along without ever dragging its feet. It may not rank among Walter Hill’s absolute masterpieces, but it does not need to. It is a tight, effective crime film, and this excellent 4K presentation gives it a very welcome second life.

USA | 1989 | 96 MINUTES | 1.85:1 | COLOUR • BLACK & WHITE | ENGLISH

Limited Edition 4K Ultra HD Special Features:

StudioCanal deserves praise for this limited-edition release. The picture and sound quality give this late-eighties thriller a glossy upgrade that leaps off the screen. Restored from the original camera negative with Dolby Vision and HDR grading, the film’s rich contrast and vivid colours ensure both night and day scenes look pin-sharp, with no trace of pixelation in darker sequences. The audio is equally impressive, offering both a 5.1 Surround track and a lossless 2.0 mix. Clean, crisp, and devoid of hiss or distortion, the audio track delivers maximum impact during action scenes while keeping dialogue crystal-clear.

• NEW Interview with Elizabeth McGovern. An insightful interview in which McGovern reflects fondly on the production. She recalls that, as a young actress, filming in New Orleans was an eye-opening experience, describing it as a “debauched place” where drinking started first thing in the morning. She also offers glowing praise for her colleagues, particularly Walter Hill and Mickey Rourke.
• Includes 12 page booklet with new essay by Peter Raleigh.
• NEW Audio commentary by filmmaker Edgar Pablos with film historians Nathaniel Thompson and Howard S. Berger.
• NEW Audio commentary by film critics Alain Silver and James Ursini.
• Audio commentary with film critic/author Walter Chaw.
• Audio commentary with film historians Daniel Kremer and Scout Tafoya.
• Codes to Live By (2020): Walter Hill on Johnny Handsome. The director discusses adapting the trickier elements of the novel, taking the helm, and enjoying his time with Rourke despite the actor’s notorious reputation. Hill also breaks down the opening heist, reflects on the supporting cast, and shares his final thoughts on the project. It makes for fascinating viewing, particularly for cinephiles interested in technical craftsmanship.
• Wordsmith: Interview with writer Ken Friedman.
• Eye of the Beholder: Interview with makeup artist Michael Westmore.
• Action Man: Interview with stuntman Allan Graf.
• Trailer.

Cast & Crew

director: Walter Hill.
writer: Ken Friedman (based on the novel ‘The Three Worlds of Johnny Handsome’ bu John Godey).
starring: Mickey Rourke, Ellen Barkin, Lance Henriksen, Elizabeth McGovern & Morgan Freeman.

The post JOHNNY HANDSOME (1989) appeared first on Frame Rated.

Ice Cream Man is the new horror film by Eli Roth, who directs and co-writes alongside Noah Belson. Jared (Charlie Zeltzer) is a nerdy boy who comes to appreciate his lactose intolerance when, after fumbling a baseball game for his team, he’s offered a treat by rival players from the ice cream van operated by our titular villain (Ari Millen). By the next morning, chaos has descended upon Jared’s idyllic small town: the children who partook have turned into homicidal maniacs with unblinking eyes and maws smeared with ice cream.

The ice cream man is an odd figure: mute, smiling, sporting a pencil moustache, and somehow indefinably “foreign”.Jared must escape his mysterious designs, aided by his sister Lizzie (Sarah Abbott), her meathead suitor Chris (Dylan Hawco), and a couple of classmates. Will they survive the school day? And what exactly is this dispenser of sickeningly sweet treats?

Ice Cream Man has received negative reviews and pushback from horror fans, to which I can only ask: does no one appreciate trash anymore? It features a human head used for swingball and entrails as a skipping rope—I certainly got my money’s worth. Since so many modern horror films, even slashers, insist on being heavy-handed metaphors for trauma, it’s refreshing to watch unpretentious splatter.

Roth’s pulp fiction isn’t smart or atmospheric by any means; it’s firmly rooted in the pre-Scream (1996) era of slashers, before Wes Craven introduced irony and characterisation to the sub-genre. The plot and dialogue are daft, but the film carries a heedless, self-aware humour. Plus, the ending is actually quite surprising.

It’s definitely better than the 1995 Clint Howard film of the same name that many assumed it was remaking. Directed by Paul Norman—his sole mainstream credit amidst a filmography otherwise comprised of pornography—the original Ice Cream Man saw Howard committing the requisite treat-themed killings. The only bit I fondly recall was a human head placed in a waffle cone like a scoop of ice cream. That’s admittedly one up on Roth’s version, which doesn’t seem to incorporate body parts into the treats, unless I missed a background gag.

(Thinking back, there was a gag involving brains and an ice cream scoop. What I actually missed was the exploration inside the van itself, which Norman’s film delivered with scenes of insects and other nasties crawling through the tubs.)

Themed killings and a sense of self-awareness are all I really expect from a slasher like this. To be fair, Ice Cream Mantreats ice cream as little more than a colourful plot device. The real theme is middle school: the midsection is packed with gags involving classroom microscopes and chalk drawings on the schoolyard asphalt.

Part of the reason the film has proved controversial among horror fans—perhaps the primary reason—is its use of AI. I noticed it in the short, black-and-white musical cartoons that play on characters’ smartphones to herald the arrival of the ice cream man. It’s also used for the insect-themed imagery decorating the van, as well as a flashback montage detailing the villain’s origin story.

In this context, I’m not particularly bothered by Roth’s reliance on AI. If anything, the technology’s innate soullessness enhances the uncanny atmosphere. Whether AI will ever capture the warmth and intimacy of human-crafted animation remains to be seen, but for now, its output strikes me as faintly sinister. Watching these segments gave me a proper chill—which is hardly a bad outcome for a horror film.

As is typical for Roth, the social milieu evokes a small-town 1970s or ’80s setting—not in a warm, nostalgic Steven Spielberg sense, but by leaning into the era’s nastier traits. Roth’s films are usually set in the present, yet his dialogue and character archetypes feel increasingly antiquated, even accounting for the recent rightward shift in global politics and culture. Early splatter efforts like Cabin Fever (2002) and Hostel (2005) were full of “jock” characters tossing around homophobic slurs as casually as prepositions. While the harsher language has been excised here, Ice Cream Man’s child characters still fit dated bully and nerd tropes.

It’s difficult to pinpoint precisely what I mean. To draw a comparison, The Black Phone (2021) was a supernatural horror set among 1970s kids who frequently beat each other up in near-gladiatorial battles. The kids in Ice Cream Man,despite living in an age of smartphones and mindfulness, feel oddly similar. Roth himself turns up on screen as the protagonist’s father, proving to be a better actor than his occasional collaborator Quentin Tarantino, if not as accomplished a filmmaker.

Roth is a core member of the “Splat Pack”, a group of male indie filmmakers who emerged around 2002, producing low-budget, high-violence horror. Scroll through their Wikipedia pages and you’ll find a sea of leathery, middle-aged men with heavy stubble. The line-up includes Alexandre Aja (Haute Tension, Piranha 3D), James Wan and Leigh Whannell (the Saw and Insidious franchises), Rob Zombie (House of 1,000 Corpses, The Devil’s Rejects), and Darren Lynn Bousman (Saw II, III, IV, and Spiral).

Unsurprisingly, given this roster, the group isn’t known for cerebral or aesthetically sophisticated horror—or “elevated horror”, to use that ridiculous term that implies the genre was previously incapable of artistic merit. Even the best of these films, such as the original Saw (2004), prioritise mechanics over character and theme. The rest consist of nearly plotless riffs on earlier works (House of 1,000 Corpses being a Texas Chain Saw derivative), nonsensical slashers (Haute Tension, a bizarre pseudo-adaptation of Dean Koontz’s novel Intensity), and “torture porn”.

Roth came to define this latter sub-genre with his Hostel series. While some entries claim deeper satirical intent (Bousman embarrassingly attempted this with the dismal Spiral), they are fundamentally juvenile crowd-pleasers aimed squarely at gorehounds. They offer grindhouse cinema for generations born long after the original grindhouse theatres closed down. Fittingly, Roth’s best work to date remains Thanksgiving (2023), which expanded upon the fake trailer he directed for the 2007 anthology film Grindhouse.

Ice Cream Man could easily have been another Grindhouse trailer. It fits the Splat Pack’s trashy, juvenile aesthetic perfectly, clocking in under 90 minutes with plenty of themed gore.

USA • CANADA • UK • FRANCE • JAPAN | 2026 | 86 MINUTES | 2.39:1 | COLOUR | ENGLISH

Cast & Crew

director: Eli Roth.
writers: Eli Roth & Noah Belson (story by Eli Roth).
starring: Ari Millen, Charlie Zeltzer, Shiloh O’Reilly, Kaori Mirza Waldman, Sarah Abbott & Benjamin Byron Davis.

The post ICE CREAM MAN (2026) appeared first on Frame Rated.

Vampires have dominated the horror landscape for over a century and, much like the infamous Count himself, seem destined to live for eternity. Since their literary debut in John William Polidori’s The Vampyre, these creatures have captivated generations of writers and filmmakers. Yet between F.W Murnau’s seminal masterpiece Nosferatu (1922) and Werner Herzog’s remake Nosferatu the Vampyre (1979), the cinematic mythos barely changed. Certainly, there were variations. Bela Lugosi injected an unmistakable eroticism into the figure in Tod Browning’s Dracula (1931), and Christopher Lee introduced the iconic white fangs in Terence Fisher’s Dracula (1958). However, these iterations stuck closely to the blueprint established in Bram Stoker’s Dracula.

That changed dramatically in the latter half of the 20th-century, when filmmakers began reshaping the mythology into a vehicle for exploring social and psychological anxieties. Joel Schumacher’s The Lost Boys (1987) used vampirism to express adolescent identity, while Kathryn Bigelow’s Near Dark (1987) employed it as an allegory for addiction. The creature of the night no longer existed merely to haunt Gothic castles or European villages; instead, it had become an unnerving reflection of contemporary society’s moral decay. Arriving amidst this shift was the unconventional black comedy Vampire’s Kiss. Eschewing the tropes of both traditional horror and vampire lore,director Robert Bierman (Keep the Aspidistra Flying) attempted to craft a biting satire on corporate narcissism and masculine insecurity.

Set against the chaotic backdrop of 1980s New York, the film follows Peter Loew (Nicolas Cage), a narcissistic literary agent whose life is defined by superficial excess. His days are spent humiliating employees and attending therapy sessions, while his evenings revolve around fleeting sexual encounters and cultivating an image of urbane sophistication. During a night of womanising at an exclusive nightclub, Peter meets the enigmatic Rachel (Jennifer Beals). After they return to his apartment, their encounter takes a bizarre turn when Rachel bared vampire fangs and bites his neck. The following morning, Peter discovers the wound and becomes convinced he has been infected. As he believes he is slowly transforming into a vampire, his behaviour grows volatile and detached from reality. He relentlessly intimidates his assistant, Alva (Maria Conchita Alonso), while his public outbursts unsettle his therapist, Dr Glaser (Elizabeth Ashley). Haunted by visions of Rachel’s nocturnal feeding, Peter spirals into paranoia until the boundary between fantasy and reality disappears entirely.

Joseph Minion had already written one of the decade’s defining New York screenplays with After Hours (1985). Although Martin Scorsese’s direction deserves immense praise, the film’s portrait of escalating paranoia and urban alienation belongs entirely to Minion. When viewed alongside Scorsese’s comedy, Vampire’s Kiss functions almost as a spiritual sibling. Both centre on a metropolitan professional whose grip on reality deteriorates as he stumbles through a nightmarish urban landscape.

Unfortunately, Minion’s sophomore effort fails to recapture the balance that made his earlier work so distinctive. The fundamental problem with his script is a total lack of tonal consistency. It’s almost impossible to determine what tone Minion is trying to sustain as the narrative oscillates unpredictably between hyperbolic melodrama, manic black comedy and surreal expressionism. While these shifts aren’t inherently problematic, none of these modes are given room to establish a coherent identity.

That uncertainty could stem from the screenplay’s genesis. Following the exhausting production of After Hours, Minion found himself creatively drained and unable to write. Encouraged by producer Barbara Zitwer (The Stuff), he isolated himself in a hotel room for a fortnight to produce an erotic horror. Instead, what emerged was a deeply personal tale about alienation, fractured identity and self-delusion.

However, whatever tonal ambiguities existed on the page are undoubtedly heightened by Bierman’s direction, which frequently undercuts psychological unease with broad visual gags and inane comic detours. Perhaps the film’s biggest laugh emerges at the height of Peter’s delusion, when he chases pigeons through Central Park wearing plastic vampire fangs. The evening culminates with him returning home to sleep beneath an overturned sofa as a makeshift coffin.

Yet that absurdity abruptly gives way to disturbing cruelty as Peter sinks deeper into his odyssey. His treatment of Alva crosses the line from eccentricity into outright psychological abuse. His desperate search for a missing contract becomes a bureaucratic obsession, resulting in a sexual assault presented with a degree of realism entirely at odds with the surrounding comic excess. Had Bierman fully committed to the outlandish dark comedy, Vampire’s Kiss might have emerged as an amusing satire of Wall Street arrogance. Had he embraced psychological horror, it might have stood alongside Roman Polanski’s Repulsion (1965) and George A. Romero’s Martin (1977) as a compelling portrait of a disintegrating mind. Instead, it remains suspended in a state of tonal purgatory, fulfilling the potential of neither.

It’s impossible to discuss Vampire’s Kiss without addressing Nicolas Cage’s (Wild at Heart) unforgettable turn as Peter Loew. His performance is one of apocalyptic lunacy—arguably one of the most unrestrained pieces of acting ever captured on celluloid. Drawing clear inspiration from German Expressionism, his physical mannerisms and delivery dominate the screen. As Peter prowls the streets of Manhattan, his hunched posture and angular movements evoke Max Schreck’s Count Orlok in Nosferatu. Meanwhile, every emotional beat is amplified beyond all semblance of naturalism,with simple lines delivered as though part of an avant-garde theatre production. Whether wildly gesticulating, leaping onto office desks or manically reciting the alphabet, Cage distils the character into an inimitable maelstrom of calibrated chaos. While it occasionally strays into camp, it remains astonishing that the studio permitted such an eccentric interpretation.

How much one enjoys Cage’s descent into madness ultimately depends on personal preference. Some viewers will find his idiosyncratic brand of “Nouveau Shamanic” acting an endless source of comedy, while others may find it relentlessly excessive. Regardless, time has been generous to the performance, which has since acquired a cultural afterlife. One particularly unhinged tirade—in which Peter menacingly berates his assistant with a wide-eyed stare—has been endlessly recycled into internet memes.

Crucially, Vampire’s Kiss feels like a precursor to Cage’s broader career. Beneath Peter’s manic exterior lies the same self-destructive melancholy that would later be refined into the Oscar-winning pathos of Leaving Las Vegas (1995). His compulsive gestures anticipate the obsessive behaviour of Roy Waller in Matchstick Men (2003), while his commitment to the absurd foreshadows the delirious theatricality of The Wicker Man (2006).

Unfortunately, beyond the notoriety surrounding Cage’s performance—and his decision to consume a real cockroach on camera—Vampire’s Kiss generated little interest upon release. With an estimated production budget of $2M, it grossed a paltry $728,000. While this was partly due to competing against Dead Poets Society, Ghostbusters II, and Batman in the same month, its failure can also be attributed to Hemdale Film Corporation’s misguided marketing. The film was advertised as a conventional horror-comedy, but audiences encountered a tonally uneven psychological satire about the mental collapse of a narcissistic executive.

However, much like Dracula himself, Vampire’s Kiss refused to remain buried. Throughout the 1990s and early 2000s, the home entertainment market introduced the film to audiences who appreciated its peculiar blend of absurdist satire.It quickly became a cult favourite, and Cage’s unhinged performance even served as inspiration for Christian Bale’s portrayal of Patrick Bateman in American Psycho (2000).

For those drawn to the spectacle of Nicolas Cage stumbling through New York while delivering wildly theatrical monologues in an accent of dubious origin, Vampire’s Kiss offers plenty of entertainment. The film functions as a masterclass in the actor’s manic range and has rightly achieved cult status for its sheer audacity. Unfortunately, Bierman is unable to harness that energy into anything beyond meme-worthy eccentricities. Lost beneath the performative excess is a biting satire of how wealth and entitlement distort reality. Ultimately, the director squanders the opportunity to cultivate this rich thematic material, leaving behind a cult curiosity with a far more compelling film lurking just beneath its surface.

USA | 1989 | 103 MINUTES | 1:85:1 | COLOUR | ENGLISH • GERMAN

Limited Edition 4K Ultra HD + Blu-ray Special Features:

Continuing their commitment to championing underrepresented cult classics through their new Transmission (TX) imprint, Radiance Films brings Vampire’s Kiss to the UK on 4K Ultra HD for the very first time. Boasting an impressive 2160p presentation sourced from the original 35mm camera negative, the film is presented in its native 1.85:1 aspect ratio.

Having languished on home video formats for decades, the leap in picture quality is immediately apparent. The inclusion of Dolby Vision HDR adds depth and dynamism to the presentation without compromising the original cinematic aesthetic. A deliberately muted colour palette is beautifully rendered, lending the image a subtle vibrancy. Primary colours are accurately reproduced, maintaining their punch without undermining the oppressive, nocturnal atmosphere of 1980s Manhattan. Fine detail sees a substantial upgrade: clarity is sharp throughout, uncovering a wealth of texture and depth. Daylight sequences through New York reveal grimy architectural details previously lost on earlier transfers, while tight close-ups benefit immensely from the resolution boost, exposing complex costume weaves and subtle skin textures with striking precision.

Audio duties are handled by a lossless DTS-HD Master Audio 2.0 stereo track, accompanied by optional English subtitles. While the mix is hardly a showcase for surround-sound dynamics, it maintains a consistently clean level of fidelity. Colin Town’s (Full Circle) haunting score sounds rich and well-balanced during key moments, offering impressive clarity, whilst ambient environmental effects are subtly distributed across the front soundstage to build an immersive atmosphere. The low-end rumble of traffic and the persistent hum of crowded city streets become particularly engaging during outdoor sequences, bringing the relentless energy of the Big Apple vividly to life.

• NEW 4K restoration from original 35mm camera negative presented in Dolby Vision HDR.
• 4K UHD & Blu-ray presentation of the feature.
• NEW interview with director Robert Bierman.
• NEW interview with composer Colin Towns.
• NEW audio commentary with critics Kim Newman and Nick de Semlyen.
• Archival commentary with Robert Bierman and Nicolas Cage.
• Robert Bierman short film The Dumb Waiter (1979).
• Trailer.
• Optional English subtitles for the deaf and hard of hearing.
• Original uncompressed stereo audio.
• Pull-out poster and six lobby-card style postcards.
• Limited Edition 40-page perfect bound book featuring new writing from Julia Armfield and Justin LaLiberty.
• Limited Edition of 5000 copies, presented in rigid box and full-height Scanavo packaging with removable OBI strip leaving packaging free of certificates and markings.

Cast & Crew

director: Robert Bierman.
writer: Joseph Minion.
starring: Nicolas Cage, Maria Conchita Alonso & Jennifer Beals.

The post VAMPIRE’S KISS (1989) appeared first on Frame Rated.

A half nelson, a wrestling hold in which you pass your arm under your opponent’s from behind so your hand rests at the back of their neck, is a form of control often used to transition between positions. It’s also rather dominant, but not nearly as difficult to overcome as a full nelson. In the film of the same name—the first of many feature collaborations between Ryan Fleck and Anna Boden—protagonists Dan Dunne (Ryan Gosling), a history teacher, and Drey (Shareeka Epps), his 13-year-old student, are in a similar bind. Both are caught in difficult circumstances, but the possibility of a better future glimmers faintly in the distance. It’s up to them to grasp this opportunity at what is quite possibly the most crucial moment of their lives, as they find themselves guided towards a turning point.

One would think such a lofty premise might make Half Nelson feel both didactic and intense, but Boden and Fleck demonstrate a commitment to depicting the day-to-day lives of their characters. Dan’s existence was once a fiery shout in favour of social causes (particularly the Iraq War, which he tends to rant about, drug-fuelled, to indifferent strangers), but now his activism is a hoarse whisper. He has given up on himself and the world at large.

Lofty goals no longer feature in Dan’s vision of the future; instead, he hopes only to change the course of a single life. His fatalistic attitude lacks any plan for tomorrow. His self-imposed martyrdom masks the self-knowledge needed to realise that his life requires saving, and that he could be the one to salvage it. His days are a hazy mix of teaching—which he believes anchors him when nothing else can—and drug abuse. But keeping up a facade of normalcy can only last so long, especially when his addictions spill into his professional life.

This is where Drey comes in, an unassuming student who is being courted by local drug dealer Frank (Anthony Mackie)—not for a relationship, but to work for him. One night after a basketball game Dan coaches, Drey stumbles upon her teacher freebasing cocaine in a school locker room bathroom. The delicate tapestry of his tortured existence is torn apart as his two worlds painfully collide. While neither wants to acknowledge this moment of pained understanding, an unspoken bond forms between them.

What stands out most about Half Nelson is how adamantly it resists the white saviour trope. In any other movie, Dan would take Drey under his wing and guide her to success, vaulting this precocious child to a better life. The setup contains every trope associated with that style of storytelling: Drey’s absent father, overworked mother, imprisoned brother, and a local drug dealer looking to recruit her. All the ingredients are present for a blandly sentimental tale, but Fleck and Boden haven’t the slightest interest in employing that formula. Between Dan and Drey, the latter is more emotionally mature, even if that comes at a cost; no child should have to reach such an understanding of adult behaviour at so young an age.

Half Nelson doesn’t look down on either character’s reality, nor does it shy away from portraying Drey’s home life without the anxious trepidation that it might reduce her existence to a stereotype. Neither Drey nor Dan knows what to do with their lives, but the filmmakers always maintain a clear grasp on how to navigate their depiction. If anything, Half Nelson’s approach is often too consciously against type for its own good; the film is so eager to avoid a standard redemption narrative that it renders characters like Frank semi-sympathetic.

In an interview around the time of the film’s release, Boden stated there was no desire to present Frank as a violent individual or highlight conflicts with rival dealers. Instead, he is portrayed akin to a small businessman, eking out a living the only way he knows how. It’s an admirable goal, but an unconvincing one, especially with an actor as charming as Mackie in the role. Despite his shady occupation, you want to like Frank as he attempts to act as a father figure to Drey. He feels a sense of responsibility for the youngster and genuinely looks out for her amidst his wisecracking. Yet he needs a darker edge to create the dramatic tension required for the film to soar.

If Drey were to witness Frank hassling or beating up a customer who tried to steal from him, it would force her to confront the reality of a man whose uglier side has finally reared its head. She has already seen Dan’s darker side—a scene that feels like the moment the movie truly comes into focus—so it seems only right to demand the same clarity for Frank. However, a hesitation to lean into stereotypes prevents the filmmaking duo from broaching this territory.

What Half Nelson lacks in narrative development, it more than makes up for through its lead performance. Gosling wears his sorrow and self-loathing openly, dressed up in natural charisma and a propensity for cynicism. He is both an enthusiastic teacher and a bitter pragmatist who earnestly tries to open his students’ eyes to the fact that while humans have existed for millennia, they continually succumb to the same mistakes. In its own way, his teaching is a cry for help masquerading as a lesson.

It’s a testament to Gosling’s performance that he appears progressively more exhausted as the film unfolds, a detail bolstered by how easy it is to empathise with Dan throughout (despite two blind spots of inappropriate behaviour that add little value). Yet, while it’s easy to feel your connection to the character deepening, the film itself never quite manages to shift into second gear, coasting on an aimlessness that mirrors its protagonists’ lives. Dan and Drey want to save one another and be saved, but they don’t know where to start. It’s a complex stir of emotions handled with extreme care, but perhaps too much caution; the broader arcs of the characters’ lives are practically fully traced within the first 30 minutes. Everything that follows merely stencils them in a darker shade, reinforcing the same dynamics, identity struggles, and personal setbacks.

That said, even if it covers familiar ground across its runtime, the film contains plenty of heartfelt moments conveyed through intimate close-ups and fluid camera work. This is an indie film through and through, embodying a free-spirited visual style that creates an immediate intimacy with the viewer. These narrative arcs may follow familiar patterns, but they remain compelling to behold. Half Nelson’s beauty stems as much from joy as from pain, refusing to lean too heavily in either direction.

Shareeka Epps, though not as experienced as Gosling—an impossible expectation for a young actor making her feature debut—possesses a natural warmth without ever appearing like a stage school child performing a role. She convincingly portrays a conflicted youngster unsure of her next step. Watching the leads strive for something better, even without the tools to achieve it, is deeply moving—especially when paired with the career-best score by Broken Social Scene. Their music is painful, joyous, and immersive, feeling as though it borders on pure improvisation, much like Half Nelson itself.

USA | 2006 | 106 MINUTES | 1.85:1 | COLOUR | ENGLISH

Cast & Crew

director: Ryan Fleck.
writers: Anna Boden & Ryan Fleck.
starring: Ryan Gosling, Shareeka Epps, Anthony Mackie, Monique Gabriela Curnen, Denis O’Hare, Starla Benford, Nathan Corbett & Tyra Kwao-Vovo.

The post HALF NELSON (2006) appeared first on Frame Rated.

At a suburban barbecue in Savannah, Georgia, just about everything seems peachy and idyllic. Lawyers Tom (Patrick Wilson) and Anna Bowden (Amy Adams) are preparing food for another couple by the poolside. Cut to a dishevelled woman in a dark house whose walls are covered with morbid news clippings from a murder trial. She’s crying and writing what turns out to be a love-letter/suicide-note to a convict. She holds a gun against her head before pulling the trigger—twice. As far as openings go, this juxtaposition sets up Apple TV’s Cape Fear for a morbid, 10-episode journey about the nature of evil and the inevitability of revenge.

Max Cady (Javier Bardem) has spent the past seventeen years in prison for murdering his wife. Now released, he’s convinced that the two people responsible for destroying his life—the prosecutor and defence attorney in his case, who are now happily married with teenage children—owe him far more than an apology. What follows isn’t a straightforward revenge tale. The pacing is slower, but the series exhibits strong performances and impressive production values.

However, this rendition of Cape Fear isn’t immune to problems, namely that it plays with audience expectations at every turn. The source material, John D. MacDonald’s novel The Executioners, is preserved in its core premise: a violent man, newly released from prison, returns to take revenge on the family he believes destroyed his life.Through physical and psychological intimidation, he sets out to show his enemy exactly what it feels like to lose everything. The central question as we watch Cady uproot the Bowden family’s life (subtlety is the key word here) is whether this formula works as well, if not better, over ten episodes instead of a two-hour film. Tension, rather than gruesome horror, is the critical element.

As with any remake, it must contend with what came before. The new series establishes a distinct mood straight away, thanks to composer Jeff Russo taking over Bernard Herrmann’s original score, injecting an iconic theme that fills the viewer’s ears with familiar dread. The colour palettes are evocative in their visual contrasts: the monochrome of the past spent in prison set against the glossy reality of the suburban present.

Remakes tend to subvert the original—in some cases outrageously so—but they rarely justify themselves enough to satisfy audiences who already know the story. This is an ironic twist considering the famed Martin Scorsese-directed 1991 film—starring Robert De Niro, Nick Nolte and Jessica Lange—was itself a remake. The original version was released in 1962, directed by J. Lee Thompson, written by James R. Webb, and starred Robert Mitchum and Gregory Peck. One element that hasn’t changed across the various adaptations of Cape Fear is the calibre of the talent involved. Each has its share of narrative issues, yet every version understands the same essential truth: suspense matters more than immaculate plotting.

It’s safe to say that the 1991 version excelled on most, if not all, fronts. De Niro was terrifying, and the plot progressed naturally towards a climax that viewers are unlikely to forget. However, the Scorsese film’s real flaw, at least to modern audiences, was failing to give Jessica Lange’s Leigh Bowden much character beyond being the wife to Nolte’s Sam Bowden. She raises his child (played by Juliette Lewis) and smokes heavily; nevertheless, Lange was brilliant.

This time around, Anna Bowden is placed squarely at the centre of the narrative. Anna served as Max Cady’s defence attorney during the case that sent him to prison and sparked this whole revenge plot. Patrick Wilson, playing Tom Bowden—the prosecutor in that very case and now Anna’s husband—gives greater weight to Cady’s growing rage. It also raises an intriguing moral question: can two people serve justice when their personal and professional lives are so deeply intertwined? The fallout from that question forms the basis of the series, as Bardem’s Cady—now wealthy and training dogs—stalks the Bowdens. He pops up in their lives sometimes like a ghost and at other times like a stubborn neighbour, whatever the distinction in the suburbs may be.

Although Adams and Wilson are gifted actors, their characters spend the majority of the series trading southern accents and hesitating during tense conversations, with only hints pointing to their shared secret about Cady. Natalie (Lily Collias) and Zach (Joe Anders) fare little better in terms of characterisation. Although their lives are constantly at risk,audiences may find it difficult to invest in them. As the series progresses, however, their dynamic with Cady adds crucial momentum to the story. Scenes between Natalie and Cady are often fraught with tension—such as the car ride in episode seven—and Tom’s scenes are never more compelling than when he is visibly terrified of Cady’s presence.

Fortunately, the supporting cast helps fill an important void. Ted Levine and Ron Perlman deliver compelling performances as fathers on opposite sides of the moral spectrum—at least initially. While one pursues his daughter’s forgiveness, the other is disturbingly disappointed by his son’s presence. Yet their characters make less of an impact than promised, given the actors’ abilities. Juliette Lewis is equally memorable in a role entirely different from the character she played opposite De Niro in 1991. This writing achievement fits neatly with Nick Antosca’s profile; as a talented screenwriter, much of his influence is felt in the tense scenes that reveal Cady at his most terrifying and darkly endearing.

One point of discussion Antosca’s series puts forward is whether a story is only as good as its villain. You’re likely to come away contemplating this more than anything else. Casting Javier Bardem as Max Cady is the single best decision casting directors Ellen Lewis and Anne Davison could have made—which is saying a lot, considering Wilson and Adams star opposite him as the leads.

This comes as no surprise. It’s not that Bardem chooses to play great characters; rather, he plays his characters greatly.Anyone who’s seen the Coen brothers’ No Country for Old Men (2007) will remember his supporting role as Anton Chigurh—the hitman with the strange haircut who hunted Josh Brolin’s character with a captive bolt pistol. It earned him a well-deserved Academy Award. His interpretation of Max Cady is no different. He commands far more screen time across the ten episodes than he had in the Cormac McCarthy adaptation, where he fittingly played the embodiment of evil.

Just as Bardem embodied pure malice in No Country for Old Men, in Cape Fear he seems to personify suspense itself. We never quite know what’s going on inside his head, partly due to the brain injury he suffered while defending himself in a prison fight. This ambiguity comes through in the scenes he shares with Adams and Collias. He speaks more quietly, almost softly, with women. It suggests a tenderness he can’t untangle from the memory of his deceased wife and son, even while making it clear that fury still rumbles in his voice and burns in his eyes. Bardem’s Cady is less theatrical than De Niro’s, but no less dangerous.

Yet it’s the newer storylines involving Cady’s deeply disturbed daughter Nevaeh (Malia Pyles) and the unsettling incest subplots that some may feel push the series off course. Given Cape Fear‘s reputation as a psychological thriller with sinister undertones, we’re left weighing whether this particular taboo is needed to heighten the terror, or whether it simply pushes the material into southern gothic melodrama.

USA | 2026 | 10 EPISODES | 2.35:1 | COLOUR • BLACK & WHITE | ENGLISH

Cast & Crew

writers: Nick Antosca, Andre Jacquemetton, Maria Jacquemetton, Alan Page Arriaga, Tara Shivkumar, Peter Blake, Brian Evenson, Greg Goetz & Diana Pawell (based on ‘The Executioners’ by John D. MacDonald & ‘Cape Fear’ by James R. Webb).
directors: Morten Tyldum, SJ Clarkson, Amanda Marsalis, Steven Piet, Trey Edward Shults, Jon S. Baird, Stephen Williams & Jonathan Van Tulleken.
starring: Javier Bardem, Amy Adams, Patrick Wilson, Joe Anders, Lily Collias, CCH Pounder, Malia Pyles & Juliette Lewis.

The post CAPE FEAR – Miniseries (2026) appeared first on Frame Rated.

The most important thing Caesar (Andy Serkis) learns from Will Rodman (James Franco) isn’t language. It’s disobedience. Will teaches the young chimpanzee to communicate, solve problems and control his impulses. Yet Caesar’s deeper education comes through observation. He watches Will refuse almost every limit placed before him: biological decline, corporate procedure, scientific caution, legal authority and, eventually, Caesar’s own autonomy. Will believes superior knowledge gives him the right to intervene—and Caesar absorbs the lesson perfectly.

That’s the structure beneath Rise of the Planet of the Apes, Rupert Wyatt’s effective revival of a franchise that had already survived numerous sequels, television spin-offs and an unsuccessful remake. It’s usually described as an origin story or liberation narrative, but revolt is merely the visible result. The film is really about a failed education—what humans transmit before they’ve learnt to govern themselves.

Will develops the experimental ALZ-112 while trying to reverse the Alzheimer’s disease consuming his father, Charles Rodman (John Lithgow). The premise creates an elegant exchange: as Charles loses memory, language and autonomy, Caesar acquires them. One mind disappears just as another comes into being. Will observes both processes scientifically, yet struggles to recognise their ethical implications.

That blindness shapes his relationship with Caesar. He treats him like a son inside the house, but outside Caesar must wear a leash. During an outing, Caesar sees a dog restrained by its owner and looks down at his own collar. Will tells him he isn’t a pet, but the physical evidence suggests otherwise. His affection is genuine; the problem is that love and possession have become inseparable.

Caesar can be a child at home and an animal in public. The arrangement survives only as long as he accepts both roles.

This fracture is central to Andy Serkis’s performance. Working alongside Weta Digital’s animators and visual-effects artists, Serkis builds Caesar’s interior life through posture, hesitation and observation: the tentative movements of an infant, the upright confidence learnt from humans, the lowered body of an animal ordered into submission, and eventually the controlled stillness of a leader.

The screenplay is less precise about the scale of Caesar’s intelligence. As a child, he can already sign, play chess, interpret complex relationships and read human behaviour with extraordinary sophistication. He appears close to, or beyond, an exceptionally gifted human before his later exposure to ALZ-113. That second enhancement ought to create a mind almost impossible for those around him to anticipate. Instead, the film expresses super-intelligence through familiar tropes: calculation, strategic ability, authority and speech.

Caesar becomes more powerful, but no more conceptually alien.

The film never quite makes enhanced intelligence a stable condition. It treats speech as intelligence made audible, even though understanding language and physically producing human words are entirely separate capacities. Later, newly enhanced apes smash through upper-floor windows rather than search for safer exits. Visually, the sequence works: shattered glass, falling bodies and sudden movement give the escape a liberating energy. Logically, it asks us to suspend the very intelligence the film has just granted them.

These inconsistencies rarely spoil the immediate experience because Wyatt steadily shifts our identification from Will to Caesar. Early scenes treat Caesar as the result of an experiment and the object of Will’s affection. Gradually, the film studies spaces from Caesar’s perspective: the attic window through which he observes the outside world, the glass separating animals from humans, and the primate shelter where he must decipher an unfamiliar social order.

The shelter doesn’t reconnect Caesar with a natural community. The other apes don’t share his upbringing or intelligence, responding to him only through intimidation and hierarchy. He doesn’t simply discover ‘his own kind’. He must construct a group from individuals who initially recognise nothing but force and rank.

This is where the film becomes more troubling than its language of emancipation suggests. Caesar doesn’t use his intelligence to invent a new social structure. He enters an existing hierarchy and learns to control it.

Rocket rules through brute strength. Caesar wins Maurice’s trust, outmanoeuvres his rival, forms alliances and gains control of the resource capable of transforming the entire group. Intelligence becomes more than a gift to be shared: it’s the means through which Caesar reorganises the other apes around his leadership. Their transformation doesn’t abolish his authority; it confirms it.

The film condemns humans for subordinating creatures considered less intelligent while legitimising Caesar through his own cognitive superiority. The revolution changes the ruler, but not the structure of rule.

Caesar turns shared captivity into a collective identity, gives that identity an external opponent and becomes the figure through whom the group begins to understand itself as a people. What develops resembles a species nationalism, built on biological similarity, common suffering, territory and opposition to humanity.

That doesn’t make Caesar equivalent to his oppressors. Humans imprison, experiment upon, humiliate and kill animals that initially pose no threat to them. Caesar’s resistance stems from captivity, and his purpose is freedom rather than domination for its own sake.

Yet even Caesar’s moral superiority is partly manufactured by the film. The apes’ physical power is toned down whenever realistic violence would compromise the exhilaration of their rebellion. At close range, their attacks would cause catastrophic injuries; instead, human bodies survive because the uprising must remain legible as liberation rather than slaughter.

The filmmakers manipulate our allegiance by controlling who is allowed to die. Civilians are largely spared, while lethal violence falls on abusers or armed figures already attacking the apes. Human deaths register as punishment, accident or self-defence rather than the indiscriminate consequence of revolt, while the apes’ own losses are framed as sacrifice. The audience gets the emotional force of an insurrection without confronting the casualties that such physical power would realistically produce.

Caesar becomes the authority who resolves this tension. The other apes possess the force, but he decides when and how it may be used. His intelligence doesn’t dismantle hierarchy. It legitimises a new one through strategy, discipline and a moral restraint the film has carefully engineered.

In this respect, Caesar isn’t Will’s opposite. He carries Will’s method to its logical conclusion.

Will administers an unapproved treatment to his father, continues abandoned research in private and repeatedly attempts to determine Caesar’s future. His motives are understandable, but his method remains consistent: personal conviction becomes authority over another life.

He teaches Caesar freedom while deciding where he lives. He teaches restraint while demonstrating that rules may be broken whenever they obstruct an urgent desire. He regards himself as Caesar’s father while resisting the child’s right to separate.

The Alzheimer’s narrative therefore becomes more than emotional motivation for the experiment. Will tries to preserve memory while failing to consider what memory transmits. He can restore cognitive function, but he can’t transform the habits passed from one generation to another. His scientific achievement continually outruns his ethical education.

The human characters surrounding this relationship are far more schematic. Caroline Aranha (Freida Pinto) functions largely as Will’s conscience. Dodge Landon (Tom Felton) is sadism without complication, while Steven Jacobs (David Oyelowo) embodies corporate greed so completely that institutional irresponsibility is concentrated in a convenient antagonist.

That simplification is clearest in the laboratory accident. During the ALZ-113 test, Franklin (Tyler Labine) has his respirator displaced and is visibly exposed to the aerosol. He says he’s fine, and the laboratory effectively accepts his self-assessment. There’s no credible quarantine, medical escalation or institutional response. Corporate suppression, personal concealment or a failed assessment could have made the breakdown plausible. Instead, the catastrophe begins because people trained to recognise the danger briefly act as if they can’t.

None of these problems prevents Rise of the Planet of the Apes from being a highly effective piece of popular cinema. Wyatt makes our identification with Caesar so complete that the emotional logic of his liberation often outruns the weaknesses of the premise. The shelter scenes have the clarity and tension of a prison drama, while Serkis gives Caesar the physical continuity that the screenplay’s treatment of intelligence sometimes lacks.

The large-scale action also remains unusually lucid. On the Golden Gate Bridge, geography, fog, machinery and the different physical abilities of the apes all become part of the strategy. The spectacle grows from Caesar’s developing authority instead of merely interrupting the story to display it.

We understand his loneliness, recognise the injustice of his captivity and experience the revolt from his side. The film makes us want him to win, and that emotional achievement shouldn’t be underestimated.

Yet the uprising achieves less than it first appears to. Caesar escapes human authority without escaping the political forms humanity has taught him: hierarchy, obedience, territory, leadership and collective identity organised against an enemy. Greater intelligence allows him to recognise captivity and resist it, but not to imagine an entirely different way of living together.

The drug gives Caesar a superior mind. Humans give him a politics. Neither produces a genuinely new stage of evolution.

USA • UK • CANADA | 2011 | 105 MINUTES | 2.39:1 | COLOUR | ENGLISH

Cast & Crew

director: Rupert Wyatt.
writers: Rick Jaffa & Amanda Silver (based on the premise from ‘Planet of the Apes’ by Pierre Boulle).
starring: James Franco, Andy Serkis, Freida Pinto, John Lithgow, Brian Cox, Tom Felton, David Oyelowo, Tyler Labine & David Hewlett.

The post RISE OF THE PLANET OF THE APES (2011) appeared first on Frame Rated.

Timothée Hochet and Lucas Pastor’s Stéphane has been widely compared to the Creep franchise—particularly its first instalment—for its found-footage portrayal of a strange, increasingly sinister character. Yet it also shares plenty with conventional thriller-horror crossovers like both versions of Speak No Evil (2022/2024), where a seemingly friendly acquaintance reveals a nightmarish side. Crucially, it echoes Dominik Moll’s brilliant Harry, He’s Here to Help (2000) by leavening its dark themes with a generous dose of humour.

Simultaneously, Stéphane delivers a meta-commentary on filmmaking, highlighting the gulf between lofty ambition and mundane results, as well as the painful anachronisms of low-budget period cinema. Taking all this on in a 78-minute, self-funded project—improvised on a shoe-string budget using its own crew as actors—is an audacious task. While Stéphane doesn’t succeed in every detail, it works remarkably well as a whole, offering plenty of pure delight. Conveniently, its rough edges double as intentional meta-commentary.

Timothée (Bastien Garcia) is a young director shooting his fourth short film for an online festival. What little we see of his FBI thriller confirms that his ambitions far outweigh his abilities. He’s also somewhat grandiose: beyond trying to shoot a slick Hollywood narrative with negligible resources, he’s filming a “making-of” documentary about his own process.

During an unconvincing take, an older stranger wanders into the frame: Stéphane (co-writer/director Pastor). He claims to be an experienced stuntman, though this seems as unlikely as Timothée becoming the next Christopher Nolan. A crude explosion Stéphane insists on staging takes place in a rusty metal barrel, and a subsequent trip to a camera shop reveals he knows nothing about equipment. The idea of cinema seemingly entered his head the moment he met Timothée.

Crucially, the shop visit causes Timothée to miss his train home, prompting Stéphane to offer him a place to stay. A trip to a bar, a night-time drive (where Stéphane shoots his own car engine), and a boat trip follow. Stéphane leads him to an impressive island home, claiming it’s his own. Yet a terrible portrait of him is the only personal item present, the house is eerily empty, and he seems utterly bewildered by a dog he claims to own. Suspicion deepens when he boasts about his friendships with figures like Alain Delon (“a lot of movie stars have eaten here”) and claims to be a “big, big chess fan” despite not knowing the rules.

Timothée remains oblivious to Stéphane’s fabrications and warning signs. When Stéphane notes that “you can scream all you want, no one will hear you,” Timothée takes it as a production perk rather than a threat. Seduced by name-dropping, flattery, and the bizarre gift of a Fabergé egg, Timothée falls under his spell. At Stéphane’s suggestion, he abandons the FBI script to make a war movie instead. Out of nowhere, Stéphane even produces a young woman (Eva Grégorieff) to act in it.

The rest of the film chronicles the absurd effort to produce this atrocious movie, alongside the shifting dynamics within the house—from a bizarre family-style dinner to the eventual breakdown between the two men. Incidents pile up as the tone gradually shifts into full-blown horror. A series of unexpected developments at the climax, followed by a post-credits scene, deliver final twists.

Stéphane drives the narrative, making Pastor’s performance pivotal. He executes it brilliantly, keeping us guessing whether Stéphane is desperately needy, calculatedly predatory, or both. He dominates nearly every scene, reflecting his character’s psychological hold over Timothée. The contrast between this dominance and his moments of vulnerability creates a disturbing pathos. His smooth head, painted-on eyebrows, and lumbering physicality heighten the unnerve.

Garcia makes an effective foil as Timothée; their relationship grows more compelling as it deteriorates. While he is the initial surrogate for the audience, Timothée is needy, pretentious, and slightly spoiled. Yet he remains a tragic figure as his cinematic dreams inevitably crash down.

Grégorieff adds an essential layer of dread as the unnamed actor. Though virtually silent, her fearful expressions convey the true horror. Stéphane exerts clear control over her, and the way both men exploit her—Stéphane overtly, Timothée through passive complicity—is deeply unsettling.

Stéphane isn’t without flaws, mostly tied to its found-footage format. Clumsy edits serve as a great running joke, and fragmentary glimpses of off-camera moments hint at unseen horrors. However, certain narrative details get lost, though this may stem from imprecise subtitle translations.

More frustratingly, logical inconsistencies arise over who is holding the camera and why. Viewers expecting the tight rules of The Blair Witch Project (1999) may find this jarring. Then again, as Timothée airily remarks, “that’s filmmaking for you—continuity errors are commonplace.” The characters’ amateurism conveniently excuses the real directors’ oversights.

At under 80 minutes, Hochet and Pastor smartly skate over logical gaps to deliver a tight, engrossing picture. Backed by a strong core cast, Pastor is terrific in the title role. Though its true trajectory takes time to emerge, Stéphane ultimately delivers a genuinely unsettling character study alongside genuine laugh-out-loud comedy.

FRANCE | 2023 | 78 MINUTES | COLOUR | FRENCH

Limited Edition Blu-ray Special Features:

• High definition (1080p) Blu-ray presentation.
• Original DTS-HD MA 5.1 surround audio.
• Optional English subtitles.
• NEW audio commentary by writer-directors Timothée Hochet and Lucas Pastor. Chatty, scene-by-scene recollections from the two writer-directors.
• Deleted scenes with optional commentary by writer-directors Timothée Hochet and Lucas Pastor. Eight scenes in all; the commentary on them is often more interesting than the footage itself. One notable aspect is the way some of these scenes develop a sexual tension that is only touched on in the finished cut – both between the two male leads, and between them and the woman who joins them.
• Trailers. The original trailer and a new trailer for this Arrow release.
• Reversible sleeve featuring NEW commissioned artwork by Beth Morris. Not received for review.
• Collectors’ booklet featuring NEW writing on the film by Sean Hogan and Jennie Kermode. Not received for review.

Cast & Crew

writers & directors: Timothée Hochet & Lucas Pastor.
starring: Lucas Pastor, Bastien Garcia & Eva Grégorieff.

The post STÉPHANE (2023) appeared first on Frame Rated.

As I’ve stated before, I’m a huge fan of the horror genre—and have been since I was a teenager. When it comes to sub-genres, I don’t really have a preference: slasher, supernatural, zombie, science-gone-mad; you name it, it’s all in my wheelhouse of cinematic heaven. Naturally, vampires belong in that macabre collective.

Thinking back, my first exposure to creatures of the night was probably Hammer’s Dracula: Prince of Darkness (1966). Long before streaming became the default way to watch movies, your only options were the cinema, renting a VHS tape, or catching a broadcast on one of the three terrestrial TV channels—or on cable, if you could afford it. And so it was on BBC2, circa 1987 when I was just 14, that I caught Christopher Lee’s second turn as the bloodsucking Count.

While that film is far from a masterpiece, I remember being impressed by its cinematography, Lee’s commanding presence, and the sheer volume of bright red blood on display. I was instantly hooked, and soon sought out anything featuring an undead creature baring fangs. The Lost Boys (1987) and Near Dark (1987) were early favourites, and in more recent years, the first two Blade movies (1998-2002) have been regular fixtures on my watchlist. So, when I first watched the trailer for 30 Days of Night, my interest was immediately piqued.

Everything about it looked fresh and exciting: from the clever concept of setting the story in an Alaskan town whose small population must endure a whole month of darkness, to the brutal, animalistic vampires with their own language. By the end of the promo, I was sold. Upon watching the film on DVD (having missed it at the cinema), my initial thought was that it was a solid effort, albeit with a few flaws I’ll address later. However, after rewatching it on Icon’s newly released 4K Ultra HD Blu-ray, I feel the film has aged remarkably well. I can whole-heartedly recommend it to anyone who enjoys vampire cinema—particularly those who prefer the more extreme end of the horror spectrum.

Right from the off, the opening sequence wastes no time establishing the kind of film you’re about to watch. It may still be daytime, but the light is fading fast. Across a bleak, snow-bound landscape accompanied by an eerie score, we catch an aerial shot of a few scattered buildings and a road. Text appears on screen: ‘Barrow, Alaska – northernmost town in the US, isolated by 80 miles of roadless wilderness, cut off every winter for 30 Days of Night’.

Cut to a close-up of a gaunt, haunted face framed by a thick hooded coat, staring blankly into the distance. We then see what he’s looking at: an ominous ship anchored offshore. Directly in front of him, a small rowing boat lies on the beach. The man slowly trudges through the snow until he reaches the edge of a high ridge overlooking the town of Barrow. As horror film openings go, this easily ranks among the most atmospheric and dread-filled I’ve ever seen. There’s no violence or gore, but what you do see instantly establishes the tone of the movie with perfect efficiency.

Based on the three-issue comic book miniseries published in 2002, the film is set in the real-life town of Barrow, Alaska, where most residents fly south every winter to escape the 30 days of darkness. The remaining townsfolk, including the local police force led by husband-and-wife team Sheriff Eben (Josh Hartnett) and Stella Oleson (Melissa George), find themselves under attack from a vicious horde of vampires. These undead creatures are interested only in feeding on humans, not turning them. Following the initial horrific onslaught, the handful of survivors must figure out how to stay alive until the sun finally returns.

It’s perhaps fitting that, for a film brimming with gore and viscera, the studio entrusted the project to some ‘fresh blood’. For starters, 30 Days of Night comic writer Steve Niles was brought on to write a draft of the screenplay and remained involved throughout production. Furthermore, director David Slade had only one feature to his name at the time: the indie psychological thriller Hard Candy (2005).

Made for just $950,000, Hard Candy proved a hit with critics and cinema-goers alike, going on to earn a respectable $8.3M at the box office. Its unsettling story—following a 32-year-old photographer who invites a 14-year-old girl home after chatting online, only to be terrorised by her when she suspects he’s a paedophile—struck a chord with audiences who were impressed with its sharp script, strong performances, and taut direction. The movie’s success clearly caught Hollywood’s attention, earning Slade the helm of this much larger production.

Aside from its effective prologue, the film is at its best during its first 40 minutes, relying on a ‘show, don’t tell’ style of storytelling. In a calculated series of events designed to render the town helpless, we watch power and communication stations being destroyed. Short sequences hint at the chaos, but it’s the bloody aftermath that truly reveals something far more sinister at play. To make matters worse, the town’s remaining helicopter is wrecked, and a pack of huskies meets a cruel, violent end.

At this point, the film shifts into high gear with the initial assault—and what follows is far from your run-of-the-mill vampire carnage. The sequence focusing on a couple in their home, about to eat dinner, plays out like a nightmare home-invasion scenario. One moment all is calm; the next, before you can even think ‘don’t vampires need an invitation?’, a fanged intruder smashes through the window and drags the wife into the dark. It’s just the beginning of a night from hell.

This sequence culminates in a striking high-angle shot of the town as helpless residents run in a futile attempt to escape, the surrounding snow turning crimson. Regrettably, after this strong first act, the rest of the movie struggles to maintain its momentum and terror—a fault of the screenplay’s structure rather than the direction.

While the ingenious concept of vampires taking advantage of a month-long night works well on the comic book page, the plotline doesn’t translate seamlessly to screen. After those superb opening 40 minutes, the narrative essentially runs out of steam. A month is a long time to sustain tension and vampire-driven mayhem, and the screenwriters effectively wrote themselves into a creative corner.

Compounding the problem is the issue of temporal tracking: when everything takes place in continuous darkness, it’s hard for the audience to gauge how much time has passed. To fix this, the film relies on sudden time-jumps heralded by captions like ‘Day 18’ or ‘Day 26’. While informative, these jumps feel jarring and pull you out of the experience. Simple visual cues—such as showing Hartnett’s character growing a beard over the course of the film—might have been far more effective.

This might sound nitpicky, but these structural flaws do hamper the rest of the film—which is a shame, given the immense passion and craft behind it.

To begin with, the performances are solid across the board. Josh Hartnett and Melissa George are convincing as the married police officers going through a rough patch—so much so that they appear on the brink of divorce. The root of their conflict remains unclear for most of the film, until a single line near the end poignantly lays it bare. As things look particularly bleak, Stella turns to Eben and says: “It’s a good thing you didn’t want kids.” Both actors share a believable chemistry, giving the film an emotional anchor it otherwise would have lacked.

Beyond the leads, there’s great work from the ever-dependable character actor Mark Boone Junior (Batman Begins, Sons of Anarchy) as Beau Brower. Initially appearing as the town’s gruff, anti-establishment outsider who just wants to be left alone, he shows his true colours once the slaughter begins, emerging as a surprisingly heroic figure. Ben Foster (Hell or High Water) is undoubtedly one of the film’s highlights; his turn as a Renfield-style, wannabe-vampire stranger commands attention from his very first frame, injecting a genuine sense of menace and unpredictability. And then, of course, there’s Danny Huston’s head vampire, Marlow…

It cannot be overstated: Huston’s Marlow is the standout star of the film. While he’s adapting an established comic book character, the fact that he speaks entirely in a constructed language means almost his entire performance relies on physical acting—and he conveys the creature’s predatory evil brilliantly.

Supported by sharp costuming and striking makeup, Huston commits fully, delivering a vampire unlike anything seen on screen before. With black eyes and shark-like teeth, his sole motivation is satisfying an insatiable bloodlust. Among a dozen stand-out moments, his most chilling sequence comes as he prepares to execute a woman who whispers,“Please God.” Huston pauses, glances briefly at the sky, nods, and replies: “God… no God.” It’s a chilling,unforgettable moment.

Behind the lens, there’s also plenty to admire. Standing in for Alaska, the production shot in and around Auckland, New Zealand, blending rugged wilderness for exterior shots with a custom-built town set inside a local studio and a nearby aerodrome. The setting necessitated extensive night shoots, though there’s also some clever day-for-night filming that seamlessly blends into the background.

The cinematography and score also deserve special mention. Director of Photography Jo Willems (Hard Candy) gives the film a stunning, bleak visual aesthetic, contrasting muted tones against stark white snow to brilliant effect. Meanwhile, composer Brian Reitzell avoids traditional orchestral instruments in favour of an unsettling electronic soundscape, incorporating unconventional instruments like waterphones and spring drums to heighten the tension.

Financially, 30 Days of Night was a modest success, grossing just over $75M globally against a $30M budget—not a blockbuster, but far from a flop. Its commercial ceiling was likely capped by its unrelenting grimness and graphic violence. Critical reaction was similarly lukewarm: Roger Ebert awarded it 2.5 stars out of 4, criticising logic gaps (such as vampires moving with supernatural speed in one scene, but plodding slowly in the next), while nevertheless praising Huston’s performance and the film’s technical execution. Ultimately, it settled at a 50% rating on Rotten Tomatoes.

While those mixed reviews are understandable, I’ve always felt the film deserved a warmer reception. Alongside the filmmakers’ commendable fidelity to the comic series’ blood-splattered pages, it’s quite a rare thing to see a Hollywood-produced vampire movie with such a bleak and genuinely nihilistic ending. Nearly two decades on, 30 Days of Night remains one of the boldest studio horror films of its era—and one that fully deserves to be revisited in 4K.

USA | 2007 | 114 MINUTES | 2.35:1 | COLOUR | ENGLISH

Limited Edition 4K Ultra HD [Steelbook] Special Features:

If you’re a fan of the film, you’re in for a real treat with this superb 4K Ultra HD Blu-ray release from Icon Film Distribution. For starters, the newly designed artwork on the cover (and included poster) by artist Suspiria Vilchez is striking—boasting a cool, almost retro 1980s vibe.

Technically, this new 4K presentation is a fantastic upgrade; the movie has simply never looked better. Sourced from a fresh scan using a Lasergraphics Director scanner, the transfer features 16-bit colour depth and Dolby Vision grading. The resulting image is exceptionally detailed, boasting deep, ink-black tones, crisp textures, and a richer palette that brings the frozen, blood-soaked streets of Barrow vividly to life. The DTS-HD Master Audio 5.1 track is equally impressive, delivering an immersive surround-sound experience that comes remarkably close to matching the impact of its original theatrical run.

• NEW Interviews: Features conversations with director David Slade, composer Brian Reitzell, actor Mark Rendall, and comic creator Steve Niles. These interviews are all interesting in their own right—highlighting fascinating background info on how the film came together, details about the shoot, and some entertaining anecdotes from both cast and crew.
• Commentaries: Includes a new audio commentary track by critics Kim Newman and Sean Hogan, alongside the archival track with Josh Hartnett, Melissa George, and Rob Tapert.
• Documentaries: Packed with 6.5 hours of total extras, including Chris Alexander’s visual essay Bloodlust: Cinema’s Most Vicious Vamps and eight archival making-of featurettes: Pre-Production, The Vampire, Building Barrow, The Cast, The Look, Stunts, Night Shoots, and Blood, Guts & The Nasty #@$&!

Cast & Crew

director: David Slade.
writers: Steve Niles, Stuart Beattie & Brian Nelson (based on the comic-book by Steve Niles & Ben Templesmith).
starring: Josh Hartnett, Melissa George, Danny Huston, Ben Foster & Mark Boone Junior.

The post 30 DAYS OF NIGHT (2007) appeared first on Frame Rated.