Produced by Andrew Macdonald, Peter Rice, Bernie Bellew, Danny Boyle, Alex Garland, etc.
Main cast: Ralph Fiennes, Jack O’Connell, Alfie Williams, Erin Kellyman, Chi Lewis-Parry, etc.
Cinematography by Sean Bobbitt
28 Years Later: Bone Temple (2025) is not a film that eases you in. It grabs you by the throat and refuses to let go, piling atrocity upon atrocity until meaning begins to seep through the blood. This is apocalyptic cinema as ritual punishment, and under Nia DaCosta’s direction, it becomes something ferociously alive.
At the calm, moral centre of the chaos standsRalph Fiennes, delivering a performance of astonishing gravitas and unexpected tenderness as Dr. Ian Kelson. In a world rotted by infection and cruelty, Kelson represents something almost radical: goodness without irony. Fiennes plays him not as a saint, but as a weary human being who still believes care, cure and compassion matter, even when the world insists otherwise. His presence anchors the film, giving its excess a conscience.
Opposing him is Jack O’Connell’s Jimmy Crystal, a vicious cult leader whose charisma curdles into something genuinely frightening. Crystal preaches violent “charity” in the name of Satan, offering salvation through brutality, and O’Connell leans hard into the performance’s ugliness. Leading his young, droogy, Savile-esque followers, he wages war not just on human survivors, but on the infected as well, collapsing any moral distinction between mercy and massacre. It’s a performance that feels designed to make your skin crawl—and it succeeds. Alas, Spike (Alfie Williams) gets caught up in Jimmy’s insanity and the sense of fear for him reigns throughout.
DaCosta directs with visceral energy, staging sequences that are frequently jaw-dropping in their gore and sadism. This is not a film particularly interested in an actual plot, clean narrative arcs or deep psychological excavation. Instead, Bone Temple unfolds as a succession of brutal set-pieces, each more punishing than the last. Some viewers will undoubtedly find it too much—too loud, too violent, too relentless.
But that relentlessness is also the point. What makes 28 Years Later: Bone Templeso compelling is how it mashes thematic power with B-movie exploitation ultra-violence. Beneath the spray of blood and bone is a furious meditation on false charity, moral absolutism, and the terrifying ease with which cruelty dresses itself up as righteousness. It’s ugly, abrasive, and often overwhelming—but it’s never empty. Indeed, if there is a more stylish and powerful scene in cinema all year than the ‘Number of the Beast’- Iron Maiden-soundtracked-fiery-ritual-sequence then I can’t wait to see it.
Ultimately, this is apocalypse horror as endurance test and sermon, and while it won’t be for everyone, I found it exhilarating. In its refusal to soften its blows, 28 Years Later: Bone Temple (2025)earns its place as one the most savage entries in the franchise, so far.
Written by Craig Brewer – Based on Song Sung Blue – documentary by Greg Kohs
Produced by John Davis, John Fox, Craig Brewer
Main cast: Hugh Jackman, Kate Hudson, Michael Imperioli, Ella Anderson, Mustafa Shakir, Fisher Stevens, Jim Belushi, King Princess, etc.
Cinematography by Amy Vincent
** MAY CONTAIN SPOILERS **
Song Sung Blue (2025) is a warm, big-hearted musical drama that wears its love for music—and for people—proudly on its sleeve. Based on the 2008 documentary of the same name, the film arrives as a crowd-pleasing celebration of performance, devotion, and the quietly heroic act of expressing emotion through song. Under Craig Brewer’s direction, the film hums with sincerity, lifted by a strong ensemble cast and the enduring power of Neil Diamond’s music.
At the centre of the story are Mike and Claire Sardina, known on stage as Thunder and Lightning from Milwaukee. They are not presented as mere lookalikes or imitators, but as fully formed performers who carry the Neil Diamond torch with genuine artistry and respect. Their performances are less about mimicry and more about connection—channeling Diamond’s songs as emotional vessels for love, longing, and resilience. The film is at its best when it allows music to speak where words fall short, and Thunder and Lightning embody that truth beautifully.
The acting across the board is excellent. Hugh Jackman and Kate Hudson bring warmth, vulnerability, and an easy chemistry that grounds the film’s emotional core. Their characters feel lived-in and deeply human, making their shared journey feel earned rather than sentimental. Supporting turns from Michael Imperioli, Fisher Stevens, Jim Belushi, Ella Anderson, King Princess, and Mustafa Shakir add texture and personality, giving the film a rich, communal feel that mirrors the supportive world of local performance and fandom it portrays.
Craig Brewer’s vibrant direction leans into the idea that music is not just entertainment, but a lifeline. The film’s big-hearted characters use performance as a way to communicate love, heal wounds, and navigate life’s many trials and tribulations. In that sense, Song Sung Blue (2025) doubles as a loving tribute to Neil Diamond’s songwriting genius—his songs serving as emotional shorthand for feelings that are often too large or too complicated to articulate otherwise.
The film is incredibly dramatic too dealing with life themes relating addiction, depression, debt, disability and family trauma. Arguably it tries to cover too much in the two-or-so-hours finding topics such as the adoption subplot skimmed over in favour of maintaining pace and momentum. While this keeps the film buoyant and accessible, it occasionally feels like a missed opportunity to explore those themes with greater depth.
Still, these minor shortcomings do little to diminish the overall impact. Jackman and Hudson just fly throughout, making Song Sung Blue (2025), a heartfelt, affirming experience—one that understands how music can bind people together and how love, expressed through song, can carry us through even the most difficult chapters of life. It’s a film that leaves you smiling, misty-eyed, and humming a Neil Diamond tune on the way out of the theatre.
The Cinema Fix presents: 12 Favourite Films of 2025!
Happy 2026! I feel like I have watched even more films last year at the cinema and the many streaming platforms.
My instinct is it’s been a decent year overall of quality films, especially from independent or what one would class as indie-minded filmmakers. The bigger budgeted films or traditional blockbusters have been mainly not great or I just didn’t enjoy them. Aside from perhaps the entertaining Mission: Impossible finale.
Of all the genres, horror has really risen to the top in terms of overall quality the last few years, doing big box office and being recognised at awards ceremonies too. Having said that, and this could be my age and is nostalgia-driven, I find myself enjoying older, cult and more obscure film releases than the today’s modern film releases.
Anyway, here my my 12 FAVOURITE films of 2025. Not the BEST films, but the ones I enjoyed the most. There’s a few high quality, critically acclaimed films which do not make the list including Train Dreams (2025), Sorry, Baby (2025), Eddington (2025), Warfare (2025), Good Boy (2025), The Brutalist (2024) andI’m Still Here (2024), but remember these are my FAVOURITE films of the year.
For reference my favourite films of 2024 are below and here.
ALL OF US STRANGERS (2023) AMERICAN FICTION (2023) HERETIC (2024) THE HOLDOVERS (2023) THE IRON CLAW (2023) LATE NIGHT WITH THE DEVIL (2023) MONSTER (2023) POOR THINGS (2023) THE QUIET GIRL (2023) SPEAK NO EVIL (2024) THE SUBSTANCE (2024) THE ZONE OF INTEREST (2023)
Produced by Josh Safdie, Ronald Bronstein, Eli Bush, Anthony Katagas and Timothée Chalamet
Main cast: Timothée Chalamet, Gwyneth Paltrow, Odessa A’zion, Kevin O’Leary, Tyler Okonma, Abel Ferrara, Fran Drescher, Sandra Bernhard, etc.
Cinematography Darius Khondji
Music by: Daniel Lopatin
Anxiety cinema, though always a part of film history, has seen a surge in prominence in recent years, with directors like Gaspar Noé, the Safdie brothers, Sean Baker and Ari Aster leading the charge. These filmmakers specialize in creating films that push audiences to their emotional limits, heightening tension and discomfort without offering the cathartic release often found in more traditional thrillers or suspense films by the likes of DePalma, Hitchcock, and Spielberg. Rather than resolving the anxiety with a tidy ending or a moment of relief, these films leave viewers on edge, their blood pressure elevated, and their minds unsettled, reflecting the growing cultural sense of unease and existential dread.
It’s important to note that it would appear, with the release of the frantic Marty Supreme (2025), it is Josh Safdie and Ronald Bronstein, not Benny Safdie, who could be seen to be the driving forces behind the anxiety-driven films like Good Time (2017) and Uncut Gems (2019). Their collaborative work has come to define the frantic, high-pressure style of modern anxiety cinema. In contrast, Benny Safdie’s more recent work, The Smashing Machine (2025), highlights a shift toward more authentic and subtle character development, offering a quieter, more understated take on human drama. While Josh and Bronstein continue to escalate tension to dizzying heights, Benny’s approach focuses on exploring deeper, more introspective emotional journeys.
So, Marty Supreme (2025), is it any good? Let’s just say that this isn’t a Christmas or feelgood film, so I can only think the marketing team are being ironic with the poster tagline ‘Dream Big – Christmas!’ This is a 1952 period set anti-heroic-rites-of-passage rollercoaster journey profiling Marty Mauser (Timothée Chalamet), a New York shoe salesman with dreams of hitting the big time as a world champion table-tennis player. But rather than being characterised as a Rocky-style underdog sporting personality who the audience can root for, Marty (loosely based on real-life Marty Reisman), is in fact a fast-talking-arrogant-crisis-addicted-confidence-trickster and womaniser who is not averse to “friendly” armed robbery to get what he wants. Oh, by the way, Marty is also a phenomenal table-tennis player.
Having previously cast Robert Pattinson in Good Time (2017) and Adam Sandler in Uncut Gems (2019) as their disaster-prone, masculine leads, Josh Safdie and Ronald Bronstein took a new direction in Marty Supreme (2025) by casting Timothée Chalamet. Known for his charisma and commitment, as showcased most recently in Wonka (2023) and A Complete Unknown (2024), Chalamet brings an entirely new energy to the table. As Marty, he is nothing short of a force of nature—physically commanding as a table tennis player, yet intellectually and verbally dominating the screen. His performance captivates with a magnetic presence, delivering lines with such intensity and precision that he becomes impossible to look away from. Chalamet’s portrayal of Marty is both memorable and transformative, showcasing his versatility as an actor who can take on the manic, chaotic energy required by a character in a Safdie-Bronstein film while adding a unique layer of depth and intrigue.
Marty’s journey represents a fascinating emotional dialectic, one that leaves the audience both drawn to and repelled by his behaviour. While I didn’t necessarily enjoy his character arc, that’s exactly what makes Chalamet’s portrayal so compelling. Marty is, in many ways, his own worst enemy—he can’t follow rules, he’s a liar, and he cheats to get ahead. Yet, his raw talent and unwavering sense of purpose give him an undeniable charisma, pulling the audience in even as his decisions spiral into reckless, life-threatening situations. The character’s hustle, constant scheming, and pursuit of personal gain lead him into a series of humiliating, violent confrontations that highlight his self-destructive tendencies.
Marty’s a deeply flawed person desperately trying to make something of himself. But he also makes his own bad luck through poor decision-making. Whether it’s falling through a hotel ceiling in a bath; retrieving a missing dog for a psychopathic gangster; locking horns with the table tennis authorities and the uber-businessman he’s seeking patronship from; fighting a cuckolded neighbour whose wife, Rachel Mizler (Odessa A’zion) he possibly loves – not forgetting the scintillating table tennis games – the film is a litany of combative and panic-attack inducing set-pieces. The emotional tension lies in watching Marty repeatedly sabotage his own potential, a cycle of ups and downs that plays out as a cautionary tale. Marty’s journey doesn’t just depict failure; it explores the emotional complexity of someone trapped in their own worst impulses.
Marty Supreme (2025) stands as a masterpiece of filmmaking, with creative choices that not only subvert expectations but elevate the entire storytelling experience. From its striking cinematography to the anachronistic 1980s soundtrack, every visual and auditory detail feels meticulously crafted to immerse the audience in the world of Marty Mauser. The gritty, authentic production design brings a raw realism that grounds the film, while the ensemble cast—many of whom are quirky non-actors—brings an undeniable energy and authenticity to the narrative. In conclusion, the collaboration between Chalamet, Josh Safdie and Ronald Bronstein, and the entire cast and crew gave me both a nervous breakdown and an unforgettable cinematic experience.
Cast: Olivia Hussey, Keir Dullea, Margot Kidder, John Saxon, Marian Waldman, Andrea Martin, Art Hindle, etc.
Cinematography by Reginald H. Morris
*** MAY CONTAIN SPOILERS ***
Black Christmas (1974) remains a cornerstone of cult horror, steeped in creeping dread thanks to director Bob Clark’s unnerving ability to build eerie atmospherics. As a series of obscene phone calls begin to plague a sorority house, the film patiently tightens the noose, revealing that a psychopath is homing in on the “sisters” with sinister intent. Even as the police attempt to trace the calls, Clark toys with perception, suggesting that nothing—and no one—is quite what it seems.
Beyond its surface-level shocks, Black Christmas reveals a surprisingly progressive and unsettling thematic undercurrent. The film’s menace is deeply entangled with ideas of toxic masculinity: male entitlement, surveillance, and violence seep into almost every threat faced by the women. The killer’s obscene phone calls aren’t just frightening—they’re exercises in domination, attempts to invade private space through verbal abuse and sexualised rage. Even ostensibly “normal” male authority figures are depicted as dismissive, incompetent, or quietly threatening, reinforcing the sense that danger is systemic rather than anomalous.
Most striking for its era is the film’s pro-choice stance. Jess’s determination to have an abortion—presented as a firm, rational decision rather than a moral failing—grounds the horror in real-world anxiety. Her boyfriend’s furious reaction exposes a fragile masculinity rooted in ownership and expectation, aligning emotional coercion with the film’s broader atmosphere of male control. Horror here isn’t just the killer in the attic; it’s the social pressure bearing down on women’s autonomy.
Familial breakdown also looms large. The sorority house functions as a fractured surrogate family, one that offers warmth and camaraderie but ultimately fails to protect its members. Traditional structures—parents, police, institutions—are either absent, drunk, or found wanting, leaving the women isolated within spaces that should be safe. This erosion of trust amplifies the film’s dread, making the violence feel inescapable.
The ambiguous ending remains divisive. By denying the audience catharsis or moral resolution, director Bob Clark leaves the horror unresolved, lingering long after the credits roll. For some viewers, this refusal to “close the case” is profoundly unsettling; for others, it risks dissatisfaction, as the absence of narrative justice feels incomplete rather than subversive. Yet it’s arguably this very lack of closure that cements Black Christmas’s power. The evil isn’t vanquished—it’s merely unseen, waiting—an idea that would echo loudly through the genre and unsettle audiences for decades to come.
Standout performances from wise-cracking Margot Kidder, ethereal Olivia Hussey, and the intensely unsettling Keir Dullea elevate the material. Revisiting the film after a twenty years hiatus, I felt the fear factor is occasionally undercut by arguably silly humour and moments of heightened over-acting. Yet, its influence is undeniable—paving the way for filmmakers like John Carpenter, who would refine and surpass its template with the classic Halloween (1978).
Main cast: Mari Shirato, Junko Miyashita, Kentarō Shimizu, Jun Etō, etc.
Cinematography by Yonezou Maeda
Music by Toshiyuki Honda
*** MAY CONTAIN SPOILERS ***
I took a gamble on an unknown Japanese film at the Nickel Cinema and walked out genuinely shaken. Mermaid Legend (1984) isn’t just a cult oddity—it’s a film that mutates before your eyes, seducing you with beauty before drowning you in blood. I was stunned by how something so lyrical could also be so brutally confrontational.
The story begins almost modestly, as a coastal drama about a fisherman and his wife, Migiwa. They bicker constantly, their marriage worn thin by poverty and exhaustion, yet there’s an undeniable bond beneath the arguments. That fragile domesticity is shattered when the fisherman stands in the way of an industrial development scheme. The business developers—faceless, polite, and utterly ruthless—have him murdered, disposing of his life as casually as industrial waste.
From there, Mermaid Legend (1984) transforms again. What starts as marital realism becomes a corporate espionage murder mystery, steeped in anger at nuclear energy, environmental destruction, and the cold machinery of corporate greed. Migiwa, a powerful-lunged pearl diver, initially hides, retreating into grief and the sea itself. But this is not a film about quiet mourning. When she decides to act, she does so with mythic force.
Played by the ethereal and astonishing Mari Shirato, Migiwa becomes something halfway between woman, avenging angel, and sea spirit. Shirato’s performance is magnetic—serene, sensual, and terrifying. As her vengeful pursuit begins, the film plunges headlong into extreme violence and explicit sexuality, reclassifying itself yet again as one of the most shocking exploitation epics I’ve seen from Japan in recent years. These scenes aren’t gratuitous in the lazy sense; they’re confrontational, weaponized, daring you to look away while refusing to let you feel comfortable for a second.
What makes Mermaid Legend (1984) so intoxicating is how its elements collide. Poetic underwater cinematography turns the ocean into a womb, a grave, and a cathedral. Religious, angelic, and environmental imagery blur together, as if Migiwa is both martyr and executioner. The music is heavenly—soaring, mournful, almost sacred—creating a surreal contrast with the carnage on screen. Beauty and brutality coexist in the same frame, each intensifying the other.
And then there’s the ending. The final, elongated pier stabbing rampage is completely off the chart—relentless, bloody, and hypnotic. It plays out like a ritual rather than an action sequence, stretching time until violence becomes abstraction, then meaning, then release. By the time the last body falls, Mermaid Legend (1984) has fully shed realism and entered the realm of legend, justifying its title in blood.
This is a film that shouldn’t work, yet does—furiously, defiantly. A genre-shifting fever dream that moves from domestic drama to political thriller to erotic exploitation to mythic revenge tragedy, Mermaid Legend (1984) is both beautiful and brutal, and I can’t stop thinking about it. Seeing it by chance at the Nickel Cinema felt like discovering a secret too powerful to stay hidden.
Production companies: Paramount Network Television, Braga Productions & Rick Berman Productions
Selected writers: Brannon Braga, Rick Berman, Manny Coto, Mike Sussman, Phyllis Strong, Judith Reeves-Stevens, Garfield Reeves-Stevens, André Bormanis, Chris Black, David A. Goodman, Fred Dekker, and more.
Selected directors: Roxann Dawson, LeVar Burton, Robert Duncan McNeill, Allan Kroeker, David Livingston, Winrich Kolbe, James L. Conway, Mike Vejar, Michael Grossman, Marita Grabiak, Brennan Spencer, Michael S. Watkins, Vincenzo Natali, and more.
Main cast: Scott Bakula, John Billingsley, Jolene Blalock, Dominic Keating, Anthony Montgomery, Linda Park, Connor Trinneeretc.
Notable guest actors: Jeffrey Combs, Vaughn Armstrong , Gary Graham, Matt Winston, Randy Oglesby, James Cromwell, Brent Spiner, Daniel Dae Kim, Fionnula Flanagan, Robert Picardo, Tony Todd, Bruce Davison, Seth MacFarlane, Steven Culp, Noa Tishby, Rene Auberjonois, Peter Weller, Dean Stockwell etc.
Composer(s): Dennis McCarthy, Jay Chattaway, Brian Tyler, John Frizzell, Mark McKenzie, David Bell, Velton Ray Bunch, Kevin Kiner & Paul Baillargeon
*** MAY CONTAIN SPOILERS ***
It’s been a while since I reviewed Star Trek on the site. But I have now finally completed the task I set myself to watch and review all the legacy Star Trek series. I am currently on the fence regarding the more recent Star Trek offerings. Anyway, having reviewed Voyager (see below) last year, I can now provide a detailed report back on Enterprise.
Star Trek: Enterpriseoccupies a fascinating corner of the franchise’s sprawling canon. Set a century before Kirk and more than a century after humanity’s first steps into spaceflight, the series charts the formative years of Starfleet—before there even was a “Starfleet” in the sense fans recognize. Its premise alone is rich: a pre-Federation frontier where humanity is inexperienced, unsteady, and often outmatched, yet eager to join a much larger galactic community. In this sense, Enterprise is both a prologue and a missing link, retrofitting the swaggering optimism of The Original Series with a more grounded, early-21st-century sensibility.
The show’s commitment to exploring those transitional years is what secures its place in canon. Enterprise seeds the diplomacy, technology, and interspecies tensions that future shows build upon—from the first warp-5 engine, to early encounters with Vulcans, Andorians, and the ever-shadowy Temporal Cold War. Watching Captain Jonathan Archer and his crew stumble toward the ideals later embodied by the Federation gives the series a distinctive historical weight. It doesn’t merely fit into Star Trek continuity; it actively sculpts the bedrock beneath it.
Central to the show’s appeal is Scott Bakula, whose performance as Captain Archer blends warmth, stubbornness, and a palpable sense of moral growing pains. Bakula gives Archer a grounded humanity that stands apart from the polished command styles of Picard or the passionate Sisko, yet his sincerity and resolve make him every bit their equal. When the writing rises to meet his talent—as in standout episodes like “Cogenitor,” “The Andorian Incident,” “Carbon Creek,” or the Xindi arc’s best moments—the show can reach the emotional and thematic heights of The Original Seriesand The Next Generation.
But Enterprise is also a series defined by uneven execution. For every episode that lands with classic-Trek resonance, there are others hampered by muddled plotting, bland direction, or creative decisions that feel more reactive than visionary. The show often struggled to decide whether it wanted to be a rough-edged prequel, a 2000s-era action drama, or a traditional episodic Trek—frequently trying to be all three at once. While it contains genuinely excellent science-fiction storytelling, its overall writing and directorial cohesion never consistently matched the clarity, ambition, or confidence of its most celebrated predecessors.
Yet despite its flaws, Star Trek: Enterprise remains an essential and often underrated part of the canon—a show whose best moments remind us exactly why Trek endures, and whose imperfections make its aspirations feel all the more human. Here are eight of the best episodes I watched – two per series.
Series 1 – The Andorian Incident (Episode 7)
This episode is the first truly great hour of Enterprise—the point where the show proves it can handle nuanced political storytelling within the Trek universe. The introduction of Jeffrey Combs as Shran is a masterstroke; he immediately brings depth, wit, and volatility to the Andorians. The plot, centered on Archer and his crew discovering that a supposedly pacifist Vulcan monastery is hiding darker secrets, reshapes our understanding of Vulcan–Andorian tensions. Strong direction, tight pacing, and a morally thorny reveal make this the first episode that feels essential to larger Star Trek canon.
Series 1 – Dear Doctor (Episode 13)
A thoughtful, character-driven story told through Dr. Phlox’s personal logs, “Dear Doctor” represents Enterprise at its most philosophically ambitious. It confronts the ethics of medical intervention, cultural evolution, and the limits of humanitarian aid—classic Trek territory handled with sensitivity and restraint. John Billingsley delivers one of the best performances of the season, infusing Phlox with curiosity, compassion, and unsettling pragmatism. The episode’s controversial ending also resonates, sparking debate among fans and critics alike. It’s a quietly powerful hour that demonstrates the series’ potential for moral complexity.
Series 2 – Carbon Creek (Episode 2)
Widely regarded as the highlight of Season 2—and for many, the best Enterprise episode of its first two years—“Carbon Creek” is a charming, unexpectedly heartfelt detour into Trek history. Told by T’Pol as a possibly-true, possibly-mythic story, it follows a stranded Vulcan survey team living incognito in 1950s Pennsylvania. The fish-out-of-water premise is handled with warmth, humour, and subtle social commentary, while Jolene Blalock shines in a dual role that lets her explore a softer, more playful Vulcan persona. It’s imaginative, character-rich, and quietly profound—the kind of tonal experiment that pays off beautifully.
Series 2 – Regeneration – (Episode 23)
A tense, surprisingly effective prequel to The Next Generation’s Borg storyline, “Regeneration” threads a tricky needle: introducing Borg elements without breaking canon. The episode smartly uses the wreckage from Star Trek: First Contact as its entry point, turning the narrative into a chilling, atmospheric thriller. The direction is sharp, the pacing taut, and the danger feels unusually real for this era of Trek. The crew’s desperation—fighting an enemy they can’t possibly understand—creates some of the season’s most gripping moments. It’s both fan-pleasing and genuinely suspenseful.
Series 3 – Twilight – (Episode 8)
Often cited as the masterpiece of Season 3, “Twilight” is a time-bending character drama that blends emotional storytelling with classic Trek sci-fi ingenuity. When Archer becomes afflicted with a neurological condition that erases his short-term memory, the episode jumps forward into an alternate future where humanity has been nearly wiped out by the Xindi. What follows is a surprisingly intimate exploration of Archer and T’Pol’s relationship, played with sincerity and restraint by Scott Bakula and Jolene Blalock. The script balances tragedy, hope, and big ideas without feeling gimmicky. It’s moving, tightly written, and stands alongside the franchise’s finest “what-if” stories.
Series 3 – Azati Prime – (Episode 18)
“Azati Prime” is the moment Season 3’s slow-burn storytelling snaps into urgent, high-stakes clarity. The episode follows Archer’s attempted suicide mission to destroy the Xindi superweapon, giving Scott Bakula one of his strongest performances in the entire series. The moral weight is heavy, the action tense, and the pacing relentless. Crucially, this is where the Xindi cease being abstract antagonists and become three-dimensional political factions torn between fear and diplomacy. The episode’s final act—Enterprise under brutal assault—is among the most cinematic sequences the series ever produced, setting up the endgame of the season with real emotional gravity.
Series 4 – United – (Episode 13)
“United” is Enterprise finally fulfilling its prequel potential—showing the messy, reluctant, and hard-fought beginnings of what will eventually become the United Federation of Planets. The political maneuvering is smart and grounded, the Andorian–Tellarite tension is played with grit and humor, and Jeffrey Combs delivers another magnetic performance as Shran. The episode’s centerpiece—the Andorian duel where Archer must fight to prevent a larger war—is tense, dramatic, and deeply character-driven. It’s classic Trek diplomacy mixed with riveting conflict, all while pushing the franchise’s history forward in meaningful ways.
Series 4 – In a Mirror, Darkly – (Episodes 18–19)
One of the most stylish and purely fun stories Enterprise ever told, this two-parter fully embraces the decadent brutality of the Mirror Universe. The production team goes all-in: redesigned sets, re-imagined uniforms, a pulpy remixed title sequence, and a stunning recreation of the USS Defiant from The Original Series. The cast seems to relish the opportunity to play villainous, unhinged versions of their characters—especially Jolene Blalock and Connor Trinneer. Visually bold, lore-rich, and brimming with dark humour, “In a Mirror, Darkly” is a love letter to both TOS and long-time Trek fans.
Screenplay by Michael Bacall & Edgar Wright – Based on The Running Man by Stephen King
Produced by Simon Kinberg, Nira Park & Edgar Wright
Main Cast: Glen Powell, William H. Macy, Lee Pace, Michael Cera, Emilia Jones, Daniel Ezra, Jayme Lawson, Sean Hayes, Colman Domingo and Josh Brolin, etc.
Cinematography by Chung-hoon Chung
*** MAY CONTAIN SPOILERS ***
As a fan of Edgar Wright’s stylish, kinetic direction, the camp cult charm of the original Arnold Schwarzenegger 1980’s action romp, and of course Stephen King’s sharp literary concepts, I went into The Running Man (2025) with high hopes. The film certainly starts brilliantly where Wright unloads a barrage of inventive visual gags, flashy transitions, and razor-clean action choreography. The set-pieces are spectacular from the outset, and when the film is firing on all cylinders, it’s exactly the sort of propulsive, high-concept entertainment you’d expect from this creative cocktail.
It remains a fantastic concept with a near-future game-show rewarding contestants with great wealth as long as they survive a month on the run and are not killed by all manner of uber-mercenaries chasing them. But as a whole the script and tone never quite settle. As such, the film wavers between being a comedy-actioner and a revolutionary dystopic thriller. It can be both, but here the shifts feel abrupt and under-cooked. The last forty-five minutes and final act especially drag, weighed down by a new character who is introduced mainly to witness Richards (Glen Powell) strike back at his foes, without adding much thematic or emotional heft. Emilia Jones does okay but her character should’ve entered the story much earlier—ideally as one of the contestants—so her eventual role feels earned rather than tacked on.
Powell is solid, charming, and physically believable in the role, but he’s not (at least yet) a true blockbuster star—more a handsome, reliable leading actor as demonstrated in the excellent, Hit Man (2024). I couldn’t help but imagine someone like Lee Pace in the part. Instead he is playing the lead henchmen. Pace is an actor with the gravitas and presence to anchor the story’s darker undercurrents and sell the rebellion with more weight. Indeed, Pace, Michael Cera, Colman Domingo, and Josh Brolin bring depth and texture to The Running Man (2025), each grounding the film’s wild energy with sharply defined performances. Pace delivers charismatic menace, while the underused Cera adds an unexpected nervy humour that sharpens the satire. Domingo, as always, lends personality as the show host, and Brolin rounds it out with rugged corporate authority that makes the world feel dangerous.
Ultimately, even Wright’s trademark ADHD-fueled visual dynamism can’t fully rescue a script that overreaches in ambition. Thus, The Running Man (2025) could have been truly great if it had taken just a little more time to breathe—letting its world, its fears, and its people settle in before the chaos kicked off. Beneath the neon splatter and bombastic satire is a sharp idea about media, violence, voyeurism, and manipulation, but the film races past its own potential. With a touch more patience to build tension, deepen the stakes, and let us actually care about the characters caught in the spectacle, its dystopia might have hit harder, felt richer, and lingered longer after the credits rolled. Still, the craft and energy make it an intermittently thrilling ride—just one that needed sharper focus to become the definitive The Running Man (2025) adaptation fans were hoping for.
Halloween Review Special: Werewolf Films – Part #2
Happy Halloween again! Part 1 of my Werewolf film reviews can be found here on this link. So, on with Part #2 with all films marked out of 11!
*** CONTAINS SPOILERS ***
Ginger Snaps (2000)
Ginger Snaps (2000) is a rare and refreshing take on the werewolf myth, shifting the focus to the female experience with wit and bite. As the awkward Bridget, Emily Perkins gives a wonderfully grounded performance, desperately trying to save her sister Ginger after a fateful wolf attack. Cleverly linking the lunar and menstrual cycles, the film transforms body horror into a sharp coming-of-age allegory. Smart, sexy, and darkly funny, it’s packed with gallows humour, fantastic gore, and a subversive energy that makes it one of the standout horror films of its era. Mark: 9 out of 11
Howl (2015)
Howl (2015) is an underrated British werewolf gem that feels like Dog Soldiers (2002) set on a train — claustrophobic, gritty, and laced with dark humour. Ed Speleers plays a weary, beta-male guard whose routine night shift derails into a fight for survival when the train breaks down in the woods. As tensions rise among the stranded passengers, he’s forced to find his courage against something far more terrifying than “leaves on the line.” Mark: 8.5 out of 11
The Howling (1981)
Joe Dante’s The Howling (1981) may now feel almost plotless in retrospect, but it remains a deliriously inventive slice of horror cinema. The film thrives on unforgettable set-pieces and grotesque energy — from a chillingly unrecognisable Robert Picardo as the predatory Eddie Quist to Elisabeth Brooks’ hypnotic, sensual menace. Dee Wallace delivers a strong turn as the quintessential scream queen, leading to an unintentionally funny change at the end, while Rob Bottin’s groundbreaking transformation effects still stand among the genre’s finest. Mark: 8 out of 11
Red Riding Hood (2011)
A messy yet oddly entertaining blend of Twilight-style romance, fairy-tale gothic, and werewolf whodunnit. Amanda Seyfried glows at the center of the melodrama, giving the film more heart than it deserves, while Gary Oldman chews through his lines — and the scenery — with the gusto of a man earning a very comfortable Hollywood paycheck. Mark: 5.5 out of 11
Silver Bullet (1985)
Silver Bullet (1985) carries many of the familiar hallmarks of Stephen King’s storytelling — small-town paranoia, moral rot beneath the surface, and a sense of homespun Americana under siege — but lacks the sharpness of stronger King adaptations. While it holds a nostalgic charm for 1980’s horror fans, thanks to its mix of pulp, sentimentality, Gary Busey-on-butane, and Corey Haim’s spirited performance, it’s far from essential and not one of my go-to werewolf films. Mark 6.5 out of 11
Teen Wolf (1985)
I’m ashamed to admit I’d never seen Teen Wolf (1985) until now — but it’s a charming coming-of-age comedy that finds Michael J. Fox as Scott Howard, a teenager who discovers a very hairy family secret. Scott juggles puberty, romance, bullies, and basketball glory. The adults are enjoyably eccentric, but it’s James Hampton as Scott’s warm, understanding father who grounds the film with genuine heart. Mark 7 out of 11
Werewolves (2024)
Werewolves (2024) boasts an intriguing premise — scientists racing to cure humanity of a wolf-mutant virus unleashed under a supermoon — and delivers plenty of muscular action-horror energy. Frank Grillo anchors the nocturnal mayhem with his trademark grit, like a U.S. Statham. It’s entertaining, but the world-building feels rushed, as if we’ve dropped into the sequel to an origin story that doesn’t exist yet. Mark 6 out of 11
Werewolves: The Beast Amongst Us (2012)
Werewolves: The Beast Amongst Us (2012) is an entertaining but clearly made-for-TV creature feature that feels like a bargain-bin mashup of Stephen Sommers’ The Mummyand Van Helsing — all gothic flair and monster mayhem, but without the budget, stars, or polish. Still, its pulpy enthusiasm and old-school monster-hunting energy make it a mildly fun watch for fans of B-movie beast action. Mark 6 out of 11
Werewolves Within (2021)
Werewolves Within (2021) has a sharp, witty script packed with humour and clever twists, but its over-the-top direction and eccentric ensemble make it hard to fully connect with. Sam Richardson shines as the affable Forest Ranger caught amid a group of oddball townsfolk — and a monster on the loose. Fast-paced, funny, and gory, it plays like Tremors set in the snow — just without the magic that made that classic so effortlessly great. Mark 7 out of 11
Wolf (1994)
Wolf (1994) suffers from an under cooked corporate-werewolf concept that never quite decides if it wants to be a horror film, a romance, or a satire — and ends up failing at all three. Jack Nicholson and Michelle Pfeiffer, both usually magnetic, seem oddly disengaged under Mike Nichols’ overly restrained direction. The film has flashes of intrigue and style, but it lacks bite; James Spader, simmering with sleaze and menace, could have stolen the show if only he’d been let off the leash. Mark: 6 out of 11
Wolfcop (2014)
WolfCop (2014) is a gloriously bonkers B-movie romp about an alcoholic small-town cop, Lou Garou (Leo Fafard), who becomes a werewolf and stumbles into a plot of witchcraft and sacrifice. Director Lowell Dean brings wild energy and gleeful chaos to the mix, delivering gory action and sharp humor that far outshine the film’s modest budget. It’s ridiculous, rowdy, and an absolute blast from start to finish. Mark: 7.5 out of 11
The Wolf Man (2010)
The Wolfman (2010) is a stylish, brooding gothic remake elevated by Rick Baker’s stunning creature effects and an atmosphere dripping with fog, blood, and tragedy. On rewatch, it’s far more enjoyable than it first seemed, with Benicio Del Toro and Emily Blunt grounding the film’s emotional heart while Anthony Hopkins bellows through his expositional monologues with Shakespearean gravitas. The production design, lighting, and Danny Elfman’s sweeping score are all superb, but the film’s flaws are clear — studio meddling and re-shoots leave the opening character setup feeling rushed and the narrative uneven, hinting at a richer version lost to the editing room. Mark: 7 out of 11
For fans of Upgrade (2018) and The Invisible Man (2020), Wolf Man may feel like a missed opportunity. Those films balanced high-concept storytelling with sharp social commentary, whereas Leigh Whannell’s latest effort feels more like a half-formed howl in the night. See my full review here. Mark: 6.5 out of 11
The Wolf of Snow Hollow(2020)
The Wolf of Snow Hollow (2020) delivers an effective monster story filtered through Jim Cummings’ uniquely neurotic, darkly comedic lens. Cummings stars as a frazzled small-town cop juggling alcoholism, a dementia-stricken father, and a teenage daughter — all while a vicious creature tears through the community. It’s an offbeat, entertaining indie horror with sharp writing, emotional bite, and a fantastic twist buried in the chaotic narrative pile-up of its finale. Mark 8 out of 11
The Wolfman (1941) / Frankenstein meets The Wolfman (1943)
Lon Chaney Jr. has always been my favorite tragic werewolf — a figure of deep sadness and empathy rather than pure monstrosity. I grew up watching those classic Universal horror films, and his portrayal of Larry Talbot still resonates as one of cinema’s most heartbreaking depictions of the cursed outsider. There’s a weary humanity to Chaney’s performance, a sense of a man doomed to repeat his suffering under the full moon, forever torn between guilt and fate.
While the scripts in those early Wolf Man films are often simple and melodramatic, their emotional weight endures thanks to Chaney’s sincerity and Jack Pierce’s groundbreaking makeup effects. Pierce’s work transformed the genre, creating an iconic design that remains unmatched in its tactile, hand-crafted artistry. Together, Chaney and Pierce gave the werewolf myth its soul — one that was less about savagery, and more about the tragedy of being human within a cursed lunar cycle. Mark: 9 out of 11
Halloween Review Special: Werewolf Films – Part #1
Happy Halloween! As loyal readers of this blog will know I am a massive horror film fan. Therefore I have focused August’s viewing on the Werewolf sub-genre and present some short reviews of some of my favourites and some not so good. As usual all marked out of 11!
Werewolf films have long captivated both filmmakers and audiences because they tap into primal fears and psychological complexities that transcend genre. At their core, these stories explore the theme of transformation—both physical and psychological—which resonates deeply with viewers. The metamorphosis from human to beast is not just a spectacle of horror; it’s a metaphor for the loss of control, the unleashing of suppressed desires, and the tension between civilization and instinct. This duality offers rich narrative terrain for directors and screenwriters to explore identity, morality, and the boundaries of human nature.
Psychologically, the werewolf embodies the Freudian concept of the id—the raw, instinctual part of the psyche driven by aggression and desire. The human persona represents the ego, trying to mediate between the id and the constraints of society, or the superego. When the transformation occurs, the id overwhelms the ego, resulting in violent, animalistic behavior that defies social norms. This internal conflict is dramatized through the werewolf’s struggle to reconcile their human conscience with their monstrous impulses, making the character both terrifying and tragically relatable.
The tension between animal and human also reflects broader cultural anxieties. Werewolf films often surface during times of social upheaval, when questions about identity, repression, and conformity are especially potent. The creature’s split identity—man or woman by day, beast by night—mirrors the psychological fragmentation many experience in modern life. For filmmakers, this duality offers a visual and thematic playground: the grotesque transformation scenes, the haunting aftermath, and the moral ambiguity of the protagonist all contribute to a compelling cinematic experience. For audiences, the werewolf is not just a monster—it’s a mirror, reflecting the parts of ourselves we fear, repress, and sometimes secretly crave to unleash.
American Werewolf in London(1981)
One of the greatest lycanthrope films of all time. Full of iconic scenes, scares, gore, jokes, sex and an incredible lunar-inspired soundtrack. John Landis, in a directorial purple patch at the time, managed to combine horror, comedy, mystery and a moving love story to memorable impact. Rick Baker’s make-up effects literally transformed further the art and craft of practical special effects going forward. Mark: 10 out of 11
Bad Moon (1996)
Truly dreadful film with a script that fails on most levels, notably logic. The beast is not only the werewolf in the guise of Michael Paré’s Uncle Ted, but also toxic masculinity. Single mum, Mariel Hemingway and her son spend most of the film failing to guess who the big bad wolf is until it is nearly too late. Mark: 3 out of 11
The Beast Must Die (1974)
So bad it’s almost good! The British studio, Amicus Productions, wolf-dunnit, even has the audience take a “werewolf break” where they get 30-seconds to work out who the monster is. Calvin Lockhart, Michael Gambon, and Tom Chadbon et al chew up the scenery, washing it down with bloody terrible effects. The budget was so low they had to use German Shepherd’s with mock fur as the werewolves. Mark 6 out of 11.
The Company of Wolves (1984)
Neil Jordan’s artful adaptation of Angela Carter’s short stories is a richly atmospheric triumph of mood. Though the film’s episodic structure and bookending narrative can feel a touch uneven, Jordan’s poetic direction and Carter’s dreamlike sensibility merge into something intoxicatingly strange. An excellent ensemble of character actors brings the fable-like vignettes to life, with Angela Lansbury delivering a particularly commanding and memorable turn. Mark 8 out of 11
Cursed (2005)
Wes Craven’s 2005 film The Cursed is a case where the behind-the-scenes turmoil proves far more frightening than the movie itself. A troubled production that saw Craven effectively abandon ship midway through, and it bears the scars of hasty reshoots and studio meddling. What emerges is a patchy, uneven werewolf tale with flashes of potential buried beneath the chaos. Still, a young Jesse Eisenberg lends surprising depth to the material, offering a glimpse of quality amid the hairy dross. Mark: 4 out of 11
The Cursed (2021)
Sean Ellis’s The Cursed (2021) delivers a potent blend of gothic grandeur and visceral horror, transforming familiar werewolf and Gypsy tropes into something deeply atmospheric and unsettling. With its striking visuals, meticulous period detail, and haunting score, the film conjures an eerie, painterly world where the sins of the past literally come back to bite. Beneath the blood and fog lies a thoughtful allegory about greed and the gentry’s theft of land, lending the stylish horror a surprising moral weight and emotional resonance. Mark: 8 out of 11
The Curse of the Werewolf (1961)
Hammer’s The Curse of the Werewolf (1961), is anchored by a powerful, brooding performance from Oliver Reed in his breakout role. A staple of my childhood viewing, it’s a film that surprises with its thoughtful set-up—using its Spanish setting to critique class divisions while evoking real empathy for Reed’s tragic, cursed Wolfman. The gothic atmosphere and emotional depth elevate it above typical monster fare, and Warren Mitchell’s turn as a Spanish watchman adds an unexpected and delightful touch of humour amid the savage murders. Mark: 7.5 out of 11
Dog Soldiers(2002)
Neil Marshall’s Dog Soldiers (2002) is an absolute gem of British horror and easily one of my favourites of the genre. Set in the misty isolation of the Scottish Highlands, it combines gritty military camaraderie with ferocious werewolf mayhem to brilliant effect. Kevin McKidd, Sean Pertwee, and Liam Cunningham are all superb, grounding the film with sharp performances that balance humour, heart, and genuine terror. Funny, moving, bloody, and properly scary, Dog Soldiersis a masterclass in doing a lot with a little—its creature effects and atmosphere are astonishing given the budget. A true modern classic that respects the genre with intelligently terrifying monsters and the film still howls with lunar power. Mark: 10 out of 11
The Cinema Fix presents 