Produced by: Andrew Morrison, Joshua Horsfield, Viktória Petrányi, Mona Fastvold, Brady Corbet, Gregory Jankilevitsch, Klaudia Śmieja-Rostworowska, Lillian LaSalle, Mark Lampert, etc.
Main cast: Amanda Seyfried, Thomasin McKenzie, Lewis Pullman, Stacy Martin, Tim Blake Nelson, Christopher Abbott, etc.
Cinematography by William Rexer
** MAY CONTAIN SPOILERS **
The Testament of Ann Lee (2025), directed by Mona Fastvold and co-written with Brady Corbet, is an ambitious historical musical drama that explores the life of Ann Lee, the charismatic 18th-century founder of the Shaker religious movement. With Amanda Seyfried at its centre, the film approaches Lee less as a traditional saintly figure and more as a woman shaped by trauma, conviction, and spiritual fervour. Fastvold’s direction leans heavily into atmosphere, presenting Lee’s rise to spiritual leadership as something both mystical and deeply human. The result is a film that feels reverent yet curious, as if studying a figure whose faith borders on mania.
Amanda Seyfried delivers an extraordinary performance that anchors the entire film. She plays Ann Lee with an intense interiority—equal parts fragile and formidable—capturing the fervent certainty of a woman who believes she has been chosen for a divine purpose. Seyfried’s physicality, particularly in the film’s musical and ritual sequences, gives Lee a magnetic presence that makes it easy to understand why followers might be drawn to her. It’s the kind of performance that lingers long after the film ends, and it stands as one of Seyfried’s most committed and transformative roles.
Visually, The Testament of Ann Lee (2025), is stunning. The film’s cinematography and production design immerse viewers in the harsh textures of 18th-century religious life, favouring natural light, muted palettes, and a palpable sense of dirt, wood, and candle smoke. The musical sequences—staged as ecstatic communal expressions of faith—are beautifully choreographed and filmed, capturing the hypnotic rhythms of Shaker worship. Yet while these moments are striking, they begin to feel somewhat repetitive as the film progresses, emphasizing mood over narrative momentum.
For viewers fascinated by charismatic religious figures or the psychology of belief, the film offers a compelling entry point. As someone not particularly religious but drawn to stories of spiritual zeal and cult-like devotion, I found the story initially captivating. Still, Ann Lee’s narrative arc ultimately feels less dramatically satisfying than the film’s aesthetic ambitions might suggest. Rather than a searing drama or a definitive testament to a heroic religious figure, The Testament of Ann Lee (2025), settles into something quieter: a haunting, beautifully crafted piece of moving art that observes its subject with reverence but stops just short of fully interrogating her legacy.
Given I am a low-budget filmmaker myself I am amazed I had never seen, American Movie (1999) before. Thankfully The Nickel Cinema in London screened it at the weekend and I really enjoyed it. Filmed between 1995 and 1997, this cult classic documentary American Movie (1999) chronicles Borchardt’s heroic, chaotic, and deeply Midwestern quest to finish his indie horror short Coven (pronounced ‘COH-ven’, and yes, he will correct you). The short is meant to raise money for his real passion project, a feature called Northwestern. But first? He has to survive reality. And reality is brutal.
Mark has not just zero money; zero organization; a rotating cast of confused friends and relatives as crew; functioning alcoholism; mounting debts, but also has the gift of the gab and a never ending passion for filmmaking. What unfolds is less “behind-the-scenes documentary” and more Shakespearean comedy AND tragedy staged in Milwaukee houses, static caravans, cars, junkyards and local woods.
Borchardt is equal parts Ed Wood and tortured auteur — passionately explaining his artistic vision one minute, begging his elderly uncle for production money and picking up his editing assistant from prison the next. His crew ranges from loyal-but-clueless to openly skeptical, yet somehow the production lurches forward. Barely.
The documentary crew shot over 90 hours of 16mm footage, capturing every awkward take, every blown line, and every moment of Mark’s delusional optimism. We watch as Coven repeatedly derails thanks to bad planning, worse luck, and the universal law that says: if something can go wrong on an indie film set, it absolutely will. But here’s the twist — it’s weirdly inspiring. Because underneath the chaos is something pure: a guy who just refuses to stop making movies. No money. No resources. No safety net. Just pure passion and obsession.
What’s most hilarious is the double act comedy exchanges between Mark and his best friend and Mike Schank. Mike, a very capable musician, has a permanent grin and the look of an acid-trip casualty, yet almost-perfect comedy timing. He clearly loves Mark’s passion and helps as best he can. I was sad to read Mike had passed away in 2022 from cancer.
If you stumbled into American Movie (1999)blind, you’d swear it was a proto-sitcom about delusional dreamers armed with a battered 16mm camera, a camcorder and misplaced confidence — a spiritual ancestor to Trailer Park Boys and It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia. It plays like a painfully funny hangout comedy about a self-proclaimed auteur and his band of well-meaning screw-ups trying — and repeatedly failing — to make something “serious.” The arguments are petty, the ambition is sky-high, and the incompetence is operatic. You laugh, you cringe, and somewhere along the way you realize this isn’t scripted chaos — it’s just raw, unfiltered obsession captured on camera.
Romford Horror Film Festival & The Cannibal Man (1972) review
From 19th–22nd February 2026, Romford, Essex emerged not just as a venue, but as a creative crucible for genre storytelling as the Romford Horror International Film Festival — affectionately dubbed HorRHIFFic — returned to the Lumiere Cinema with its most ambitious programme yet – details can be found here: https://www.romfordhorrorfestival.com
This four-day celebration of horror cinema is rooted in the independent filmmaking spirit: championing works from emerging voices around the world, blending them alongside classic cult favourites, and generating an atmosphere of passion, community, and shared reverence for the genre. What makes this festival truly special isn’t just the size of its programme — though over 130 films certainly made for a thrilling schedule — but its wholehearted dedication to independent filmmakers who bring new ideas, daring vision, and personal passion to every frame.
Across its programme, the festival showcased a thrilling mix of guests and films that honour horror’s breadth including: Classic Retro Treats, Special Guests and Actors from Horror, New Independent Features & Shorts from countries such as South Korea, Canada, Spain, USA, and Italy, plus Creative Diversity — with screenings that embraced psychological depth, gory slashers, ghost stories, off-beat genre hybrids, and boundary-pushing work from both early-career filmmakers and seasoned indie pros.
Romford Horror Festival is also renowned for the community it builds. Horror fans come together not just to watch films, but to share experiences, meet creators, and feel at home in an environment that values innovation over commercialism. The Lumiere Cinema, itself a community-saved venue, became a home for filmmakers and fans alike — proving that in Romford, horror isn’t just screened… it’s commemorated. I for one am so grateful they screened my short horror film The Suicide Shift (2026).
As well as the short film showcases I watched a few retro classics including The Cannibal Man (1972) – (original title: La semana del asesino), directed by Eloy de la Iglesia. It is less a horror film than a slow, suffocating moral collapse. What begins as an unfortunate act of violence spirals into a weeklong descent into hell for Marcos, played with haunted fragility by Vicente Parra. Each subsequent killing feels less like cruelty and more like inevitability — the grinding machinery of fate closing in on a man already spiritually trapped.
Set against the decaying outskirts of Madrid in the final years of the Franco regime, The Cannibal Man (1972) doubles as a bleak portrait of a society rotting from repression. The slaughterhouse where Marcos works becomes an unsubtle but potent metaphor: under Francoism, bodies are processed, identities erased, dissent quietly carved up and discarded.
What makes the film especially daring is its undercurrent of homoerotic tension. Marcos’ wealthy, enigmatic neighbour Néstor hovers at the edges of the carnage, offering protection and silent understanding. Their charged glances and coded conversations suggest a longing that cannot safely speak its name under Franco’s moral authoritarianism. In this reading, Marcos’ spiral is not only about guilt but about internalized repression — desire twisted inward until it manifests as self-destruction. The horror is as much psychological as physical.
And yes, the gore is blunt and ugly. Bodies are dismembered with the same cold pragmatism as livestock. But de la Iglesia never lets the blood eclipse the tragedy. Marcos is not a monster in the conventional sense; he is a man cornered by circumstance, class stagnation, and a society that offers no mercy to the weak. By the end, his descent feels preordained — less a fall from grace than a revelation that grace was never available to him.
So, if you love horror films do check out indie film festivals such as – HorRHIFFic– whether it’s the electrifying surprises in the indie showcases or the nostalgic thrill of classic screenings, the Romford Horror Film Festival 2026 made it clear: independent horror cinema is alive, vibrant, and boldly inventive. This festival is a testament to the creativity and ingenuity of filmmakers who refuse to be confined by convention — and to the audiences who cheer them on.
Cult Film Review: Thriller – A Cruel Picture (1974)
Directed by Alex Fridolinski
Screenplay by Alex Fridolinski
Produced by Bo Arne Vibenius
Main cast: Christina Lindberg, Heinz Hopf, Despina Tomazani, etc.
Cinematography by Andreas Bellis
Edited by Brian Wikström
**Viewer discretion is advised – this film contains scenes that many will find disturbing**
Thriller – A Cruel Picture (1973) (Swedish: Thriller – en grym film) is a 1973 Swedish exploitation film from writer-director Bo Arne Vibenius, working under the pseudonym Alex Fridolinski, starring Christina Lindberg and Heinz Hopf. Infamous for its unflinching depictions of sexual violence, drug abuse, and degradation, the film charts the ordeal of a mute young woman who is coerced into heroin addiction and forced into prostitution before embarking on a brutal campaign of revenge against her tormentors.
Released in the United States in a heavily cut version by American International Pictures—under lurid alternate titles such as They Call Her One Eye, Hooker’s Revenge, and The Swedish Vice-Girl—the film has earned a reputation as a deeply disturbing and confrontational work. Its graphic content and relentless tone make it a challenging and potentially distressing viewing experience, best avoided by those sensitive to extreme subject matter.
Unsurprisingly, due to the violent scenes, on-screen drug use, nudity and also inclusion of hardcore pornography, Thriller – A Cruel Picture (1973) was either banned outright or heavily censored on release. I had heard so much about this film on various YouTube videos expounding the shocking nature of the themes and scenes. Allied to this, Quentin Tarantino has also “championed” the movie and it’s star, Christina Lindberg. With this in mind the film I got tempted and purchased the recent Blu Ray version released in the UK. This version DOES NOT, thankfully, include the pornographic scenes which were filmed by the director with a Swedish couple who did live sex shows.
So, is Thriller – A Cruel Picture (1973) actually any good? Well, it is safe to say that it is a relentlessly harsh watch. That said, it would be unfair to dismiss the film outright as mere grindhouse provocation. Vibenius employs striking stylistic flourishes that elevate certain sequences into something oddly hypnotic. Most famously, the extended slow-motion shotgun reprisals—henchmen blasted backwards in balletic, almost operatic fashion—are staged with a visual patience that borders on the surreal. These, as well as the lengthy final act car pursuit sequence, are technically memorable, even as their brutality remains confronting.
Where the film becomes almost nightmarish is in its internal logic. Once Madeline (Christina Lindberg) is captured and brutalized by the sadistic drug dealer Tony (Heinz Hopf), the narrative takes on a dreamlike, disjointed quality. Despite being forcibly addicted to heroin, she somehow manages to train herself in hand-to-hand combat, driving, and sharpshooting—preparing an elaborate revenge while still under the grip of addiction. The plotting feels less realistic than hallucinatory, as though the film operates on the logic of trauma and fantasy rather than grounded cause and effect.
A great deal of the film’s lasting impact rests on the striking screen presence of Christina Lindberg, as well as her character’s grim journey.Already known internationally in the late 1960s and early 1970s for her work as an erotic actress and glamour model, Lindberg brings an arresting, almost statuesque quality to the role. Her icy stare—especially once framed by the now-iconic eyepatch—gives the character a mythic, comic-book intensity. At the same time, the creative decision to render her character mute inevitably shapes how that performance is perceived. Silence becomes a stylistic device, amplifying the film’s cold and detached tone. The director’s choice to sidestep the demands of more dialogue-heavy dramatic scenes actually works in the film’s favour.
Overall, Thriller – A Cruel Picture (1973) is a film that oscillates between exploitation rawness and stark, almost avant-garde stylization. For hardened genre enthusiasts, it may be a grim curiosity with undeniable visual audacity. For many others, however, its graphic content and relentless tone will make it a deeply uncomfortable, even distressing experience. Proceed carefully.
Directed by Harry Lighton Written by Harry Lighton – Based on Box Hill by Adam Mars-Jones
Produced by Emma Norton, Lee Groombridge, Ed Guiney & Andrew Lowe
Main cast: Harry Melling, Alexander Skarsgård, Douglas Hodge, Lesley Sharp, Jake Shears, etc.
Cinematography by Nick Morris
Edited by Gareth C. Scales
There’s a tender audacity to Pillion (2025), an erotic rom-dom-com that sneaks up on you with the gentleness of a confession. What begins as an off-kilter meet-cute blooms into something far more vulnerable: a rites-of-passage story about sexual awakening, self-recognition, and the courage it takes to accept pleasure without apology.
At its heart is Colin, played with exquisite restraint by Harry Melling. Melling has always been an actor of intelligence, but here he finds a new register—soft-spoken, watchful, quietly aching. His performance never reaches for easy beats; instead, it accumulates detail. A look held a fraction too long. A smile that arrives late. Colin’s desire isn’t announced; it’s discovered, moment by moment, and the effect is deeply empathetic.
Opposite him, Alexander Skarsgård’s Ray is all smoulder and swagger on first impression—an insouciant masculinity that seems effortless, almost cocky. But Skarsgård is doing something more interesting beneath the surface. The sexuality is undeniable, yes, but it’s armoured. Pain leaks through the cracks, giving Ray a bruised romanticism that complicates the dominant energy he projects. The push and pull between the two men becomes the film’s most potent charge.
Director Harry Lighton deserves enormous credit for navigating this tonal tightrope. His direction is fantastically nuanced, allowing intimacy and humour to coexist without deflating either. The film understands that eroticism can be funny, awkward, even faintly ridiculous—especially when it’s new—while still honouring its emotional stakes. The explicit moments are handled with confidence rather than coyness, lacing the heartfelt beats with risqué shocks that provoke gasps, laughter, and the occasional wince. The physical opposites of Harry’s mild-mannered traffic warden versus Ray’s macho biker also add characterful humour to the mix.
The contemporary setting, rooted in the London suburb of Bromley, is another inspired choice. This is not a glossy, aspirational London; it’s resolutely unglamorous, familiar, and quietly stifling. That ordinariness makes Colin’s awakening feel all the more radical, a private revolution unfolding in plain sight. Furthermore, strong support comes from Lesley Sharp and Douglas Hodge as Colin’s parents, whose love is real but imperfect, shaped by generational discomfort and unspoken fears. Their scenes add texture rather than judgment, grounding the film in a recognisable family dynamic.
Be warned: Pillion (2025) doesn’t shy away from explicit sex scenes or moments of leather-adorned domination (including BDSM), and those elements may provoke strong reactions. But they’re not there for provocation alone. Lighton uses them as part of the emotional grammar of the film, insisting that tenderness and risk, humour and heat, can occupy the same frame. Ultimately, Pillion (2025) reveals itself as something quietly radical—a deeply touching romantic comedy that treats sexual self-discovery with empathy, intelligence, and a disarming lack of shame. It lingers not because of what it shows, but because of how carefully it listens to its characters while they learn who they are.
Classic Movie Scenes #16- They Live (1988) – the really long fight scene!
Directed by John Carpenter
Screenplay by John Carpenter
Based on: “Eight O’Clock in the Morning” by Ray Nelson
Produced by Larry Franco
Main cast: Roddy Piper, Keith David, Meg Foster, etc.
Cinematography by Gary B. Kibbe
Music by John Carpenter & Alan Howarth
** CONTAINS SPOILERS **
They Live (1988) is the kind of action sci-fi film that only John Carpenter could turn into a cult classic. On paper, it’s gloriously bizarre: a nameless drifter called Nada—Spanish for nothing—wanders into Los Angeles looking for work and instead stumbles into a hidden alien occupation. The key to the whole rotten system? A pair of hacked sunglasses that reveal the truth behind billboards, TV, and smiling authority figures. OBEY. CONSUME. CONFORM. No metaphor required.
Nada is played by professional wrestler Roddy Piper, whose performance is all flint-eyed suspicion and working-class fury. He’s not a chosen one or a scientist or a cop—he’s a guy at the bottom of the ladder who starts noticing the ladder itself is rigged. When Nada puts on the glasses, the world drains of colour and illusion, revealing a bleak black-and-white nightmare of propaganda and skull-faced elites hiding in plain sight. It’s one of Carpenter’s smartest tricks: truth isn’t glamorous, it’s ugly and exhausting.
The film’s low budget sometimes shows—rubber masks, stripped-down sets, and a finale that feels like Carpenter had to sprint to the finish line before the money ran out. But that rawness is also part of They Live’s (1988) charm. It plays like a B-movie manifesto, a midnight scream against a world quietly selling your soul back to you at retail prices. And yes, the legendary alleyway fistfight is absurdly long, but it also feels like the point: waking someone up hurts, takes effort, and nobody thanks you for it.
Carpenter has been clear that They Live (1988) is a critique of consumerism, Reagan-era greed, and the way capitalism anesthetizes resistance. But watching it today, the film has mutated—like all good cult cinema—into something more unstable and more dangerous. In the age of culture wars, algorithmic outrage, and weaponized paranoia, They Live (1988) can be read in a dozen conflicting ways. Is it anti-corporate? Anti-elite? A warning about media manipulation? A Rorschach test for conspiracy culture itself? That ambiguity is why it endures.
They Live (1988) doesn’t tell you what to think—it hands you the glasses and dares you to look. And once you do, it’s hard not to feel a little like Nada: broke, angry, awake, and deeply suspicious of anyone telling you everything is just fine. As someone who has recently been researching a lot about conspiracy theories or apparent truther activists, I have my feet dangling above the rabbit hole while simultaneously holding a red pill in my hand. Yet, I am hesitant to jump in. How do I know the so-called “truthers” are not lying or serving their own agenda or career too? Which is why the fight scene is so good. Because, it shows the struggle one can have as to what to believe and who to trust. In this case, Nada is telling the truth and he is prepared to fight to reveal it.
According to IMDb “the big fight sequence was designed, rehearsed and choreographed in the back-yard of director John Carpenter’s production office. The fight between Nada (Roddy Piper) and Frank (Keith David) was only supposed to last twenty seconds, but Piper and David decided to fight it out for real, only faking the hits to the face and groin. They rehearsed the fight for three weeks. Carpenter was so impressed he kept the scene intact, which runs five minutes, twenty seconds. David recounted the event, smiling giddily as he said, “It was good fun! I never felt safer in any fight,” as Piper, a professional wrestler, coached David on how to sell the look of the punches and savage moves in exaggerated form, making it appear more brutal than it actually was.”
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)
Netflix’s auteur-driven cinema push has seen the platform hand enormous creative freedom—and budgets—to filmmakers like Noah Baumbach, Rian Johnson, Kathryn Bigelow, Edward Berger, and Guillermo del Toro, pairing them with world-class casts and top-tier crews to produce works of unmistakably cinematic ambition.
The paradox is that many of these films—designed with theatrical scale, craft, and seriousness—ultimately premiere to mass audiences via Netflix’s online platform rather than traditional movie theatres, reflecting a fundamental shift in how prestige cinema is financed, distributed, and culturally consumed in the streaming era.
What can you do? Well, pay the Netflix subscription and watch them from the comfort of one’s living room. Here are my reviews with usual marks out of eleven. Happy 2026!
A House of Dynamite (2025)
Kathryn Bigelow’s A House of Dynamite (2025) is an expertly directed and intriguingly structured disaster movie, unfolding across three interlocking chapters that chart a nuclear attack on the United States by an unknown enemy. Each section reframes the same escalating crisis through a different lens—the White House intelligence apparatus, the military response, and the political sphere—culminating in the perspective of the President, played with sensitivity and gravitas by Idris Elba.
As events overlap and repeat, the script cleverly ratchets up tension, revealing new information through subtle shifts in context, while Bigelow’s command of pacing and scale, combined with sterling filmmaking and a who’s-who ensemble cast, keeps the film gripping on a moment-to-moment level. Yet for all its craft, the film ultimately plays like a fear-mongering piece of propaganda and an implicit recruitment advert for the U.S. government and military. Its refusal to name a perpetrator suggest the U.S. has many enemies thus justifying huge spending on defence and weapons. The abrupt ending could be interpreted as brave storytelling, but for me it undercut the suspense, leaving the experience feeling oddly hollow and non-plussed rather than provocatively unresolved.
Mark: 6 out of 11
Ballad of a Small Player (2025)
The Ballad of a Small Player (2025) follows Lord Doyle, played by a magnetic Colin Farrell, as he lies low in Macau, numbing himself on casino floors with deep debt, bad bets, and the stubborn hope that the next hand will fix everything. Farrell is phenomenal here, turning compulsive gambling into a form of slow self-harm, his performance layered with exhaustion, bravado, and quiet panic. When he’s offered a fragile lifeline by the enigmatic Dao Ming, played with poised restraint by Fala Chen, the film hints at redemption.
Director Edward Berger and his production team deliver a ravishingly beautiful film, capturing Macau’s neon glow and claustrophobic interiors as both seduction and trap. At its best, the film is a melancholy character study about addiction for a protagonist who is often deeply annoying and morally bankrupt. However, the final act falters, introducing fuzzy, unearned twists that soften the film’s harder truths and dilute its emotional impact. While the journey is engrossing and Farrell’s performance alone makes the film worth seeing, the conclusion ultimately cheats the audience out of a powerful Uncut Gems (2019)-style denouement.
Mark: 7 out of 11
Frankenstein (2025)
Is Guillermo Del Toro’s big budget adaptation of Mary Shelley’s classic gothic novel really necessary? There are much better versions out there, yet, Netflix and Del Toro certainly thought so. Oscar Isaac is a great actor but miscast or misdirected here for me. Then again, even in Shelley’s seminal novel Dr Frankenstein is a colossal whinger! Thankfully, Jacob Elordi gives a hearty and emotional rendition of the tragic creature, who again is the most interesting character. Safe to say the majestic production values provide a visual and aural feast, but, aside from a scintillating opening in the North Pole, Del Toro’s slog of a script ultimately fails to bring Shelley’s story to life in a sustained enjoyable fashion. Don’t get me wrong, the production and design is of the highest order but I just didn’t connect emotionally or philosophically or even as a horror fan.
Mark: 6 out of 11
Jay Kelly (2025)
Jay Kelly (2025) is a mild, reflective comedy drama that sees George Clooney doing what he’s long perfected: playing a famous film star grappling with past and present relationships while barely appearing to break a sweat. As Kelly travels to Tuscany to collect a lifetime achievement award, the film drifts between memories, regrets, and professional compromises, offering Clooney ample opportunity to deploy his trademark charm—stretching his range (not), but doing so with effortless ease. The more grounded emotional texture comes from Adam Sandler, who is quietly excellent as Kelly’s long-suffering manager, bringing a lived-in, humane quality that feels more emotionally honest.
Director Noah Baumbach has delivered far sharper and more incisive work and Jay Kelly (2025) never quite pushes its Hollywood satire of spoiled first-world creatives as far as it could. Still, there’s an undeniable pleasure in Baumbach’s dialogue and structure, with clear echoes of Wild Strawberries (1957) and 8½ (1963) filtering through in its introspective, memory-haunted moments. The film ultimately has its cake and eats it—content to indulge its characters rather than interrogate them—but it remains a very pleasant cake all the same: soft, well-made, and easy to enjoy.
Mark: 7 out of 11
Wake Up Dead Man: A Knives Out Mystery (2025)
Wake Up Dead Man (2025) stands as the clear high point of Netflix’s auteur-driven releases from November and December 2025, confirming Rian Johnson as a post-modern master of the classical whodunnit. Once again drawing from the elegant clockwork of Agatha Christie’s works, Johnson constructs a devilishly complicated mystery centred on the murder of the tyrannical Monsignor Wicks, played with thunderous menace by Josh Brolin. The suspect list is gloriously stacked—church staff and parishioners portrayed by Glenn Close, Jeremy Renner, Kerry Washington, Andrew Scott, Cailee Spaeny, Daryl McCormack, Thomas Haden Church, and a young visiting priest, Jud Duplenticy (Josh O’Connor)—each performance feeding into a puzzle that’s as playful as it is precise.
What elevates the film beyond genre excellence is its sharply observed character work, particularly in the portrayal of Wicks as a Trump-like authoritarian figure ruling his congregation through fear and humiliation. Johnson smartly frames the mystery as a moral clash between Old Testament wrath and New Testament compassion, allowing the film to interrogate power, faith, and hypocrisy without ever losing its entertainment value. The script crackles with brilliant one-liners and sly, witty exchanges, especially when Daniel Craig’s Poirot-style detective peels back layers of deceit with theatrical relish. Among the ensemble, Josh O’Connor delivers a superbly nuanced performance, injecting emotional specificity and intelligence that rise above what could have been more generic material. Clever, funny, thematically sharp, and immaculately engineered, Wake Up Dead Man isn’t just Netflix’s best auteur offering of the season—it’s one of Johnson’s most satisfying achievements to date.
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.
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