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Hirokazu Kore-eda, the director of Monster, skilfully tells a tale that explores the nature of truth and perception in a small Japanese town. The protagonist of this emotional maze is Minato, a young child who begins acting strangely and worries his mother because she thinks something is off at his school. As different perspectives on the same event emerge, Kore-eda delicately crafts a narrative that challenges our assumptions about innocence, guilt, and society's role in shaping them.

The plot unravels like a multi-layered puzzle, allowing us to glimpse events through the eyes of different characters, each with their own biases and motives. Monster touches on the complexities of bullying, parent-child relationships, and the struggle to discern right from wrong. Although Kore-eda frequently addresses family themes, in this film he also addresses societal ones. The movie's tone oscillates between tense and tender, leaving us alternating between outrage and empathy.

Most of the performances are excellent, with Sakura Andô (the mother) and Eita Nagayama (the teacher) taking the lead. They deliver nuanced portrayals that give emotional heft to scenes involving institutional pressure and maternal anxiety. However, the child actors occasionally struggle to fully embody the nuances required for their roles, leading to some stiff moments that detract from the emotional weight of certain scenes. Still, when the characters' internal battles are laid bare, the results are often compelling.

The directing of Kore-eda displays his distinctive sense of understated drama, favouring realistic lighting and deliberate camera movements that allow the actors to really shine. A poignant score by Ryuichi Sakamoto deepens the tension, while the muted colour palette reinforces the film's reflective tone. Kore-eda's use of long shots provides a sense of isolation, underscoring the social fragmentation at the heart of the story.

The editing, however, could be tighter. The movie sometimes drags, especially in the second act when the layers of perspective start to take away from the story's momentum. A shorter movie might have given the storytelling a stronger thrust.

Monster is a complex study in perspective that, in the end, makes for a satisfying but occasionally tedious watch. The nuanced storytelling, strong performances from the leads, and Kore-eda's deft hand at weaving emotional tapestries elevate the movie above a standard whodunit. While it doesn't always sustain its grip, its poignant themes and layered narrative make it worth the journey. Though it falls short of its lofty goals, Monster is a thought-provoking watch for fans of slow-burning dramas that subvert stereotypes.

Can appearances be deceiving? That's the central question in Candy, a slow-burn true-crime drama following picture-perfect housewife Candy Montgomery (Jessica Biel) and her descent into darkness. Biel delivers a chilling performance, but the story itself struggles to balance its exploration of suburban ennui with genuine thrills. While the 1980s setting and pitch-perfect period details are a treat for nostalgia buffs, the pacing can feel molasses-slow at times, and the "why" behind Candy's actions feels frustratingly underdeveloped. If you're looking for a quick, suspenseful whodunit, this isn't it. But for those who enjoy a character study wrapped in a small-town scandal, Candy might just satisfy your curiosity, even if it doesn't leave you screaming.

Kingdom of the Planet of the Apes swings back onto the big screen, this time set centuries after Caesar's revolution. Apes now rule, with various societies scattered across the landscape. We follow Noa (Owen Teague), a young chimpanzee from the peaceful Eagle Clan, whose life is upended when a brutal ape leader, Proximus Caesar (Kevin Durand), enslaves his people. Thrown together with a mysterious human woman named Mae (Freya Allan), Noa embarks on a quest for freedom that forces him to confront the past and forge a new future.

Director Wes Ball, known for the Maze Runner series, injects the film with thrilling action sequences. The ape-on-ape combat is brutal and visceral, reminiscent of battles in Rise of the Planet of the Apes. However, the plot feels derivative at times, borrowing heavily from classic post-apocalyptic tropes. The "chosen one" narrative treads familiar ground, and some character motivations could have been fleshed out more.

The creation of its world is where Kingdom truly excels. The ape societies are diverse and intriguing, with the Eagle Clan's reverence for nature in stark contrast to Proximus Caesar's militaristic regime. The film cleverly avoids getting bogged down in exposition, letting the visuals speak volumes. The sweeping landscapes and ape cities are beautifully rendered, with a muted colour palette emphasising the harsh realities of this dystopian world. The special effects, particularly the performance capture, are seamless, making the apes fully believable characters.

The performances are generally strong. Teague portrays Noa's innocence and determination with a sincerity that anchors the film. Allan is a captivating presence as Mae, her character shrouded in secrets that keep us guessing. However, some of the supporting cast fall victim to underdeveloped roles, particularly Proximus Caesar, who feels more like a generic villain than a complex threat.

The score by John Paesano is effective, using pulsating rhythms to heighten the tension during action sequences and melancholic strings to underscore the film's emotional core. The editing is efficient, maintaining a brisk pace that keeps the story moving. But at times, it feels like the film prioritises action over character development, leaving some emotional beats unearned.

Kingdom of the Planet of the Apes is a visually stunning film with a compelling central performance by Teague. However, a predictable plot and underdeveloped characters hold it back from reaching the heights of its predecessors. Fans of the franchise will likely enjoy the return to this world, but those looking for a truly groundbreaking story might be left wanting. With a more nuanced script, Kingdom could have been a roar; instead, it's a respectable, if uninspired, sequel.

Babak Jalali's Fremont is a slow burn character study that lingers on the quiet struggles of Donya (Anaita Wali Zada), an Afghan immigrant trying to piece her life back together in California. Donya, a former translator for the U. S. military, now toils away writing cryptic messages for a Chinese fortune cookie factory. The film follows her introspective journey as she grapples with displacement, cultural clashes, and the ghosts of her past.

While Fremont boasts a beautiful black-and-white aesthetic, reminiscent of classic foreign films, and a lead performance by Zada that's both nuanced and deeply affecting, the narrative itself treads familiar territory. We've seen the immigrant experience explored countless times before, and Jalali doesn't offer much in the way of fresh perspectives. The plot unfolds at a glacial pace, with long, meditative sequences that, while establishing Donya's loneliness, can feel uneventfully drawn-out at times.

There are moments of genuine humour, though. Donya's sessions with her delightfully awkward therapist (Gregg Turkington) provide some much-needed comic relief, and the film's exploration of the absurdity of fortune cookie messages is clever. The score is subtle and melancholic, perfectly complementing the film's introspective tone. The black-and-white cinematography, however, while undeniably stylish, can feel a bit restrictive at times.

While the film doesn't break new ground thematically, it excels in its portrayal of the complexities of navigating a new life, particularly one built on the foundation of displacement. Zada delivers a breakout performance, capturing Donya's quiet strength and vulnerability with remarkable authenticity. Her understated portrayal is the heart and soul of Fremont.

Fremont is a gentle film, a slow, character-driven exploration of loss, resilience, and the search for connection. While its deliberate pace and familiar themes might leave some viewers wanting more, Zada's captivating performance and the film's melancholic beauty are undeniable strengths. If you're looking for a quiet, contemplative film that lingers on the emotional complexities of immigration, Fremont might just resonate with you. But for those seeking a more dynamic narrative or a deeper exploration of cultural identity, this one might feel a bit like a fortune cookie with a bland message: pleasant enough, but ultimately forgettable.

Anh Hung Tran's The Taste of Things is a slow-burning drama that hinges on the relationship between a renowned chef, Dodin (Benoît Magimel), and his talented sous-chef, Eugénie (Juliette Binoche). Their bond, simmering for over two decades, finally bubbles into a quiet romance. But instead of a feast for the senses, the film feels more like an underseasoned amuse-bouche.

Let's be clear: the cinematography is gorgeous. Long, lingering shots showcase the beauty of the French countryside and the meticulous preparation of exquisite dishes. Food porn enthusiasts will find themselves practically drooling at the close-ups of glistening sauces and perfectly plated creations. The problem is, there's just not enough substance beneath the surface.

The plot, like the film's pacing, is agonisingly slow. We spend an eternity watching them cook, garden, and steal shy glances across the kitchen counter. While some may find this meditative, it left me fidgeting. The central conflict-Eugénie's hesitance to fully commit-feels underdeveloped, and the dialogue, when it appears, is sparse and repetitive. It's a shame, because Binoche and Magimel are both phenomenal actors, capable of conveying volumes with a mere flicker of expression. Here, they're simply not given enough to work with.

The film aspires to be a profound exploration of love, passion, and the art of creating something beautiful together. There are hints of this, particularly in a late scene where Dodin attempts to win Eugénie over through his cooking. But these moments are fleeting, lost in a sea of uneventful sequences. The score, a collection of melancholic piano pieces, reinforces the film's overall muted tone, which some might find soothing, but I found it downright sleepy.

There's a whiff of Babette's Feast here, a film that also celebrates the power of food to connect people. However, Babette's Feast packs an emotional punch that The Taste of Things sorely lacks.

Ultimately, The Taste of Things is a beautiful but frustrating film. If you're looking for a slow, meditative experience and appreciate food cinematography, you might find some solace here. But for those craving a story with a bit more bite, this film might leave you feeling hungry for something more.

Ptolemy Grey, a 91 year old man grappling with dementia, gets a shot at regaining his memories to solve his nephew's mysterious death. Although the main mystery is a little predictable, Samuel L. Jackson gives a powerful performance as Ptolemy. He portrays the character's confusion and vulnerability with raw honesty, making you forget you're watching a movie star and see a man wrestling with mortality. The supporting cast, especially Dominique Fishback as Ptolemy's unlikely caretaker, Robyn, is equally impressive. However, the plot itself meanders a bit, and the emotional payoff could've been stronger. Still, The Last Days of Ptolemy Grey is a thought-provoking watch, thanks to its stellar acting and unflinching portrayal of ageing and memory loss. So, grab some tissues and settle in one person's poignant journey through the twilight years.

Unassuming settings can breed surprising tension, and that's exactly the case with The Teachers' Lounge. This German thriller takes place mostly within the confines of a school faculty room, transforming the space from a place of tired mugs and lesson plans into a pressure cooker of suspicion and moral quandaries. Newcomer Carla Nowak (Leone Benesch), a passionate teacher with immigrant roots, throws a wrench into the established dynamic when she becomes determined to defend a student accused of theft. What starts as a well-meaning intervention snowballs into a tangled web of accusations, hidden agendas, and the simmering frustrations of a burnt-out faculty.

The film excels at capturing the claustrophobic atmosphere of the staff room. Director Ilker Çatak stages scenes with a keen eye for detail, making the beige walls and flickering fluorescent lights feel increasingly oppressive as the situation escalates. There's a constant sense of "walking on eggshells," with characters delivering pointed barbs disguised as casual conversation. It's reminiscent of Sidney Lumet's 12 Angry Men, but with a dash of dark humour and an added layer of social commentary specific to the German education system.

The strength of The Teachers' Lounge lies in its characters. Benesch delivers a powerful performance as Carla, with her idealism slowly crumbling under the weight of institutional pressure. The supporting cast is equally impressive, each teacher a complex study in jadedness, ambition, and hidden vulnerabilities. We see glimpses of their lives outside the school-a quick phone call to a disinterested spouse, a furtive glance at a dating app-but it's the way they interact within these walls that truly reveals their inner struggles.

The film doesn't rely on jump scares or flashy special effects. Instead, the tension builds steadily through dialogue that's both sharp and naturalistic. There's a scene where a seemingly innocuous conversation about a missing wallet explodes into a full-blown argument, showcasing the brilliance of the script and the actors' ability to deliver a masterclass in passive-aggressive hostility.

The pacing can be quite slow at times, and the ending, while thought-provoking, might leave some viewers wanting more concrete answers. However, these minor quibbles don't detract from the overall impact of the film.

This is a slow burn that lingers long after the credits roll. It compels you to question the complexities of authority, the burden of good intentions, and the cracks that can form within even the most seemingly stable institutions. If you're looking for a character-driven thriller that will make you think twice about the next time you step into a staff room, The Teachers' Lounge is a must-watch.

Freud's Last Session aims to depict a profound intellectual showdown but falls short of delivering impactful moments. Taking place on the brink of World War II, the movie imagines a fictional encounter between psychoanalyst Sigmund Freud (played by Anthony Hopkins) and author C. S. Lewis (portrayed by Matthew Goode). The concept itself is undeniably fascinating: a clash of ideas about God's existence between these two intellectual giants, set against a world on the edge. However, the actual presentation lacks any potency.

The standout aspect of the film lies in the exceptional performances by its lead actors. Hopkins shines with his portrayal of Freud, capturing both his brilliance and his cantankerous nature with a glint in his eye. Goode holds his ground opposite the seasoned actor, portraying Lewis with a subtle conviction that makes him a worthy adversary. Their verbal sparring forms the core of the movie, showcasing moments of genuine intellectual intensity. One memorable scene involves Lewis challenging Freud's dismissal of religion as mere illusion-a moment that sparks both contemplation and emotion. But most of the focus is on Freud's talking and Lewis's quiet listening. I've read a lot about both of these historical figures, and it is hard to believe that Lewis wouldn't have been a more intellectually challenging interlocutor.

Despite the strong performances, the film falters in other areas. With most scenes confined to Freud's study, the singular setting becomes tedious, and attempts to intersperse it with flashbacks come across as contrived. The historical backdrop-the impending war-feels underutilised and fails to leave a lasting impact. The sense of urgency adds an interesting layer to the film, but it falls short of truly delving into how these events impact the characters' beliefs.

The dialogue, despite aiming for deep insights, mostly misses the mark. The film heavily relies on characters explaining their philosophies rather than letting them naturally unfold through conversation-mostly dominated by Freud's talking and controlling the dialogue. This approach makes the intellectual debates seem rehearsed, lacking the authentic spontaneity of a real discussion. It's akin to watching a tennis match where players announce their shots before making them-that's the vibe you get here.

Similarly, while the musical score is competent, it doesn't quite enhance the film as intended. It leans on typical orchestral swells to emphasise key moments without delving into deeper thematic layers that could have resonated with its philosophical themes. Likewise, the cinematography serves its purpose but lacks creative inspiration. The muted colour palette reflects the overall tone of the film but fails to deliver any visually striking moments.

Freud's Last Session aims to be a thought-provoking exploration of faith and reason. The lead performances are solid, and the premise is certainly intriguing. However, it struggles due to its confined setting, clunky dialogue, and lacklustre technical aspects. Despite a few scattered instances of intellectual stimulation, the movie's flaws overshadow them. In the end, Freud's Last Session is like a boxing match between heavyweights that turns out to be more of a lightweight showdown. Some may wish for more if they enjoy historical dramas and philosophical debates. If you're in search of a truly impactful exploration of faith and reason, you might want to explore other options.

David Leitch's latest action-comedy, The Fall Guy, boasts a charming cast and a premise ripe with comedic potential. However, much like a stuntman missing his mark, the film stumbles in its execution, leaving me with a feeling of "been there, done that."

The plot centres around Colt Seavers (Ryan Gosling), a washed-up stuntman lured back into the game when a Hollywood star mysteriously vanishes from a big-budget production. While the idea of a stuntman doubling as an investigator is intriguing, the mystery itself feels derivative. We've seen this whodunit play out countless times before, complete with red herrings, double-crosses, and a climax that feels telegraphed a mile away.

The film's saving grace, however, is its charismatic lead duo. Gosling brings a winning blend of cockiness and vulnerability to Colt, while Emily Blunt shines as Jody Moreno, the film's sharp-tongued director and Colt's potential love interest. Their banter is genuinely funny at times, and their chemistry is undeniable. But even their talents can't elevate the film's predictable script, riddled with clichés and groan-worthy jokes.

Leitch, known for his work on action films like John Wick, delivers on the stunt sequences. The practical effects are impressive, showcasing the daring and skill of stunt performers. There's a clear love for the craft on display, reminiscent of classic action comedies like Rush Hour. However, the frenetic editing style, with its rapid cuts and shaky camerawork, often undermines the impact of these scenes, leaving me feeling disoriented rather than exhilarated.

The Fall Guy tries to capture the spirit of 80s action-adventure flicks, but it lacks the heart and humour of those films. The soundtrack, while energetic, leans heavily on nostalgia without offering anything fresh. The cinematography is serviceable, but the use of colour feels bland and uninspired.

Ultimately, The Fall Guy is a frustrating missed opportunity. It has the potential to be a crowd-pleaser, but its derivative plot, underwhelming direction, and forgettable score hold it back. While there are moments of genuine amusement, thanks largely to the cast, the film feels like a pale imitation of its action-comedy predecessors.

So, should you see it? If you're looking for a mindless action flick with a forgettable plot and some decent stunts, The Fall Guy might do it for you. But for those seeking a truly entertaining and clever experience, this one's a flop.

Ryûsuke Hamaguchi's Evil Does Not Exist is a very slow burn of a film, a character study disguised as an eco-drama. Nestled in the serene Mizubiki Village, a community thrives on a deep connection to nature. Their tranquility is shattered by the arrival of slick Tokyo suits proposing a glamping resort-a luxurious "escape" to nature for city dwellers. What follows is a clash of values, a meditation on the complexities of progress, and the blurry line between good and evil.

Hamaguchi doesn't hit us over the head with environmental messages. Instead, he lets the beauty of the Japanese countryside speak for itself. Lush forests and tranquil rivers become characters, a stark contrast to the sterile, neon-lit world the city reps represent. This visual poetry is amplified by the film's score, a melancholic blend of strings and woodwinds that perfectly captures the tension between tradition and modernity.

The acting is understated, mirroring the film's pacing. Hitoshi Omika, as Takumi, the gruff but conflicted villager, delivers a nuanced performance. We see his internal struggle-the fear of change wrestling with the desire to protect his way of life. The Tokyo reps, played by Ryô Nishikawa and Ryûji Kosaka, are initially portrayed as villains, all smiles and empty promises. However, as the film progresses, their own vulnerabilities peek through, reminding us that there's rarely a clear-cut bad guy in real life.

The plot of Evil Does Not Exist unfolds deliberately, sometimes feeling glacial. There are long stretches of dialogue that, while beautifully written, could test the patience of viewers expecting a more action-oriented film. The ending, too, occurs at a point where there is no resolution to the story, leaving us to scratch our heads wondering what might happen rather than being told. But there is a reason for this. By ending the movie (but not the story) in this way, Hamaguchi forces us to confront our own perspectives on the story, a tactic that might backfire for those seeking easy answers. There aren't any.

This won't be a film for everyone. Forget it if you want a fast-paced thriller. You will be disappointed. However, if you appreciate slow cinema and nuanced character studies, Evil Does Not Exist offers a rewarding experience. While the untranslated credits rolled, I just sat there, reflecting on our relationship with nature, the allure of progress, and the shades of grey that exist between good and evil. If you enjoyed contemplative films like Burning or Drive My Car (I enjoyed Evil Does Not Exist more), Evil Does Not Exist is definitely worth a watch. Just be prepared for a slow burn and an ending that will leave you pondering.

Abigail serves up a campy horror cocktail that's more Scream than Nosferatu. Giancarlo Esposito, who plays the enigmatic Lambert, leads a ragtag group of kidnappers in the abduction of Abigail, the seemingly innocent daughter of a powerful crime lord. But this isn't your typical hostage situation. After a series of hilariously botched plans and some genuinely creepy moments, the crew discovers their captive is anything but ordinary-she's a full-fledged vampire with a taste for, well, blood.

The film throws it all at the wall: dark humour, buckets of gore (courtesy of some impressive practical effects), and a surprising amount of heart. While the plot won't win any originality awards, borrowing heavily from familiar "home invasion gone wrong" tropes, it's the execution that keeps things entertaining. The first act crackles with energy, establishing the bickering dynamic of the kidnappers, a motley crew that feels straight out of a Quentin Tarantino flick. We've got the hothead (complete with a questionable neck tattoo), the tech whiz with a penchant for cheesy one-liners, and the obligatory damsel (who, thankfully, gets a chance to shine later on).

Esposito, channelling his inner Don Draper, is a scene-stealer, even with limited screentime. But the real breakout performance comes from newcomer Alisha Weir as Abigail. She effortlessly shifts between wide-eyed innocence and bloodthirsty predator, making the character both terrifying and strangely endearing. The supporting cast holds their own, with some genuinely funny exchanges.

The direction by Matt Bettinelli-Olpin walks the tightrope between stylish and self-aware. The camerawork is dynamic, with some clever slanting and tilting angles during the more intense sequences. The score, a blend of classic gothic horror cues and modern synth, perfectly complements the film's offbeat tone. The editing is sharp, keeping the pace brisk, although a few jump scares feel a tad forced.

Sometimes the dialogue can be uneven, with witty banter interspersed with awkward exposition dumps. The ending, while satisfying in its own campy way, feels a little rushed. Die-hard horror purists might find the humour undermines the scares, but for those looking for a fun, gory romp with a surprising amount of charm, Abigail delivers.

Overall, Abigail is a solid genre-bender that knows exactly what it wants to be-a popcorn flick with a bite (pun intended). If you're in the mood for some laughs alongside the shrieks, this one's for you. Just don't expect a cinematic masterpiece.

Luca Guadagnino's latest, Challengers, throws viewers onto the centre court of a passionate but messy love triangle. Tashi (Zendaya), a former tennis prodigy turned coach, is desperate to reignite the fading flame of her husband Art's (Mike Faist) career. Her unorthodox solution? Enter Patrick (Josh O'Connor), Art's estranged best friend and Tashi's ex-boyfriend, into a low-level challenger event. Let's just say things get complicated-fast.

On paper, Challengers has all the ingredients for a gripping neo-noir drama. The sizzling chemistry between Zendaya and Faist is undeniable, and the psychological warfare that unfolds between the three leads is initially captivating. However, the film quickly fumbles its potential. The plot, while intriguing at its core, takes nonsensical detours that leave the audience feeling lost. The editing, with its jumpy cuts and unnecessary slow-motion sequences, disrupts the narrative flow rather than enhancing it. The dialogue, riddled with cliches and overly dramatic pronouncements, feels like a bad tennis pun-all forehand, no finesse.

Guadagnino's direction is a mixed bag. There are moments of visual brilliance, like the camerawork that mimics the frenetic energy of a high-stakes tennis match. But these glimpses are overshadowed by a general lack of focus. The film's pacing is uneven, lurching between drawn-out melodrama and rushed plot points. The use of symbolism is heavy-handed, with shots lingering on tennis balls and trophies as if the audience needs the emotional subtext spelt out.

The saving grace of Challengers lies in its central performances. Zendaya delivers a fierce and committed portrayal of Tashi, a woman consumed by ambition and a flicker of unresolved feelings. O'Connor is equally compelling as the brooding Patrick, his character simmering with resentment and a hint of vulnerability. Faist, however, struggles with the underwritten role of Art, who mostly functions as a pawn in the emotional tug-of-war.

While the film attempts to explore themes of ambition, love, and betrayal, it all feels a bit surface-level. There's a lack of depth to the characters' motivations, and the emotional payoffs fall flat. Compared to classic sports dramas that delve into the complexities of the athlete's psyche, Challengers feels like a missed volley.

Ultimately, Challengers is a frustrating watch. It boasts undeniable star power and intriguing thematic potential, but squanders it all with a convoluted plot, questionable direction, and clunky writing. If you're looking for a thought-provoking sports drama or a steamy love triangle, this film is a double fault.

Jeanne du Barry plunges into the opulent world of 18th-century Versailles, following the remarkable rise of Jeanne Bécu (played by director Maïwenn herself), a woman born into poverty who claws her way up the social ladder to become the last mistress of King Louis XV (Johnny Depp). The film chronicles their unconventional romance amidst the whispers and machinations of a jealous court.

While Jeanne du Barry boasts undeniable strengths, it ultimately settles for a comfortable mediocrity. Maïwenn's portrayal of Jeanne is the film's heart and soul. She imbues the character with a sharp wit and a fierce determination to survive, causing you to admire her improbable journey. However, Depp's Louis XV feels muted. Trapped under layers of powdered wigs and regal attire, his performance lacks the spark needed to truly capture the complexity of a king burdened by ennui.

The historical context, though not deeply explored, provides a fascinating backdrop. We see glimpses of a society teetering on the brink of revolution, where the extravagance of the court clashes with the growing discontent of the people. This juxtaposition adds a touch of weight to the narrative, but the film doesn't fully explore the social commentary it seems to hint at.

Visually, the film is a treat. The production design meticulously recreates the opulent halls of Versailles, with rich fabrics, gilded furniture, and sparkling chandeliers transporting you to another era. The costumes are equally impressive, a dazzling array of silks and satins that bring the characters to life. The camerawork is steady, but doesn't take many risks, relying on traditional shot compositions.

The score is a pleasant mix of classical and orchestral pieces that complement the on-screen action without being overly dramatic. The editing is efficient, ensuring a smooth and brisk pace. The dialogue, however, can be uneven at times. While some scenes crackle with witty repartee, others fall flat, relying on exposition rather than letting the visuals do the talking.

Jeanne du Barry reminded me, in some ways, of Sofia Coppola's Marie Antoinette. Both films explore the lives of women who, despite their positions of privilege, are ultimately trapped by societal expectations. However, Marie Antoinette leans into a dreamlike aesthetic and a more melancholic tone, whereas Jeanne du Barry strives for a more grounded historical drama.

Overall, Jeanne du Barry is a visually stunning and entertaining movie that benefits from Mawenn's captivating performance. However, a shallow exploration of its themes and a somewhat underwhelming lead performance from Depp hold it back from greatness. If you're looking for a lavish historical romance with a strong female lead, this is worth watching. But for those seeking a deeper exploration of the characters and their place in history, you may leave with a desire for more.

Back to Black isn't just a biopic; it's a raw exploration of a singular talent battling inner demons. The film chronicles Amy Winehouse's (Marisa Abela) passionate but volatile relationship with Blake Fielder-Civil (Jack O'Connell), a whirlwind romance that fueled her Grammy-winning album of the same name.

Director Sam Taylor-Johnson doesn't shy away from the darkness. We see Amy's struggles with addiction laid bare, the paparazzi feeding off her descent. There's a harrowing scene in a bathroom, the fluorescent lights casting a cold, clinical glow on a moment of despair. It's a tough watch, but it underscores the human cost of fame.

Abela (who actually did all the singing-no miming) delivers a phenomenal performance. She captures not just Amy's swagger and signature beehive hair, but also her vulnerability. There's a heartbreaking sequence where Amy pours her soul into a recording booth, her voice cracking with raw emotion. You believe she's channelling her pain into music, and Abela deserves a standing ovation for that.

The film falters slightly in its focus. While the love story is central, it occasionally overshadows Amy's musical brilliance. We see glimpses of her creative process, her smoky jazz influences, but it would've been great to delve deeper. This isn't a criticism of the film's length but rather a testament to Amy's multifaceted life.

Then there's the soundtrack. Oh, the soundtrack! It's a masterstroke. Hearing Amy's iconic songs, from the sassy Rehab to the torchy ballad Love Is a Losing Game, in full cinematic glory is a gift. The score by Nick Cave and Warren Ellis complements the music perfectly, adding a melancholic edge.

Back to Black isn't a sugar-coated biopic. It's a cautionary tale, a love letter to a lost talent, and a testament to the enduring power of music. It left me wanting more Amy, more music, but also with a profound respect for her artistry. If you're a fan or simply appreciate raw talent battling for expression, this film deserves a spot on your watchlist. Just be prepared for an emotional rollercoaster; it's a wild ride, but undeniably powerful.

In Alex Garland's enigmatic Civil War, the year is a fractured 2024, and America is embroiled in a chillingly familiar conflict. We follow four journalists as they navigate a warzone with no clear battle lines. Their mission: to capture the truth amidst the chaos, a truth that feels just out of reach. Two of the journalists who are the primary focus of the movie are the jaded veteran Lee (Kirsten Dunst) and the wide-eyed rookie Jessie (Cailee Spaeny).

Garland masterfully weaves historical echoes into the film's fabric. The haunt of the original American Civil War hangs heavy, with desolate landscapes mirroring those of iconic photographs. This isn't a history lesson, though. It's a nightmarish reflection, forcing us to confront the potential consequences of America's current divisions. The film doesn't spoon-feed answers; it invites uncomfortable conversations, a quality that elevates it from a mere war film to a powerful social commentary.

Thematically, Civil War is a gut punch. It explores the dehumanising effects of war, the erosion of trust, and the numbing power of constant violence. Every scene has a palpable sense of dread, with brief glimpses of unadulterated humanity. One scene, a tense exchange between Lee and a lone soldier guarding a desolate outpost, exemplifies this perfectly. Dunst delivers a heart-wrenching performance, conveying years of war weariness in a single, tear-filled glance. Spaeny complements her brilliantly, portraying a character grappling with the brutal realities of a conflict she barely understands.

Technically, the film is flawless. Garland's direction is assured, building tension without resorting to cheap thrills. The score is a haunting soundscape, perfectly matching the film's bleak atmosphere. The cinematography is raw and unflinching, placing the audience directly in the heart of the conflict. The use of colour is particularly striking. Washed-out greys and browns dominate, creating a sense of hopelessness that mirrors the characters' struggle.

The editing is sharp, keeping the pace relentless and mirroring the chaotic nature of war. The dialogue is sparse but impactful, with every word carrying weight. Unlike some war films that glorify violence, Civil War doesn't shy away from its ugliness. It forces us to confront the human cost, leaving a lasting impression.

Civil War isn't an easy watch. It's a film that will stay with you, provoking thought and discussion. It's reminiscent of classics like Apocalypse Now in its unflinching portrayal of war's brutality, but with a chillingly contemporary twist. This isn't just a movie, it's a reminder of the fragility of peace and the very real dangers of a divided nation.

This is a film that demands to be seen. It's a powerful, thought-provoking masterpiece.

Dev Patel's directorial debut (which he also wrote), Monkey Man, is a whirlwind of action and vengeance, set against the backdrop of a teeming, unnamed Indian metropolis. We meet our protagonist, a nameless young man (also played by Patel), shrouded in mystery. By night, he dons a gorilla mask and throws fists in a brutal underground fight club, his body etched with cryptic scars. He travels the city's underbelly during the day, his rage simmering. A chance encounter sets him on a collision course with the city's corrupt elite, and the Monkey Man emerges, a symbol of rebellion unleashing a bloody reckoning.

The film is undeniably stylish. The fight choreography is visceral and balletic, drawing inspiration from Asian martial arts films. Patel throws himself into the action with impressive commitment, and the camera lingers on the raw brutality, making the violence feel impactful, if not gratuitous at times. The score throbs with energy, mirroring the frenetic pace of the action sequences.

However, Monkey Man stumbles when it attempts to balance its pulpy action with social commentary. The film weaves in themes of poverty, corruption, and forgotten communities, but these elements feel underdeveloped. Flashbacks to the protagonist's past are heavy-handed, spoon-feeding emotional beats that could have been more effectively conveyed through Patel's stoic yet expressive performance.

That performance is, undeniably, the film's strongest element. Patel embodies the quiet intensity of a man consumed by vengeance. He's ably supported by Sharlto Copley, who is chilling as the film's villain, a man who oozes a sense of entitlement that makes him utterly loathsome.

The cinematography is serviceable, capturing the grit and grime of the city, but it lacks the visual flair that could have elevated the film's aesthetic. The editing, while frenetic during the action sequences, feels sluggish at times in the expository scenes.

Monkey Man reminds me of films like John Wick with its balletic brutality but without the world-building or emotional depth. It's a film that's more interested in style than substance, but Patel's charismatic performance and the sheer visceral thrill of the action sequences keep it watchable.

Ultimately, Monkey Man is a frustrating mix of potential and missed opportunities. It's a film with a pulsing heart but a muddled mind. If you're looking for a stylish action flick with a hint of social commentary, Monkey Man might scratch that itch. I enjoyed it, but it left me less than satisfied.

Ava DuVernay's Origin isn't a conventional biopic. It's the story of Isabel Wilkerson's (Aunjanue Ellis-Taylor's) intellectual journey as she writes her ground-breaking book, Caste: The Origins of Our Discontents, published in 2020. We see Wilkerson grapple with personal loss while meticulously researching and weaving together the insidious threads of racism that bind seemingly disparate historical events-American slavery, the Holocaust, and India's caste system.

The film's greatest strength lies in its ambition. It tackles weighty themes without shying away from unflinching honesty. Brutal historical reenactments punctuate Wilkerson's personal journey, forcing us to confront the ugly truths about humanity's capacity for cruelty. This approach can feel jarring at times, but it undeniably leaves a mark.

Origin stumbles a bit in its execution. The narrative structure can be disjointed, jumping between timelines and locations. While this reflects Wilkerson's own intellectual process, it sometimes left me feeling a tad disoriented. The film also leans heavily on dialogue, with some scenes feeling overly didactic. Think history lesson, not edge-of-your-seat thriller.

That said, the acting is uniformly strong. Ellis-Taylor delivers a powerhouse performance, capturing Wilkerson's unwavering determination and vulnerability with equal measure. The supporting cast, including Connie Nielsen as a sceptical German intellectual, adds depth to the exploration of these complex issues.

Visually, Origin is mostly a muted affair. The colour changes for present, flashbacks, historical events, and fictionalised episodes. The camerawork is steady and unobtrusive, putting the focus squarely on the characters and their stories. The score, a blend of melancholic strings and understated percussion, complements the emotional weight of the film.

While Origin doesn't quite reach the heights of DuVernay's best work, it's still a compelling and thought-provoking film. It's a film that will stay with you, prompting reflection and perhaps even uncomfortable conversations.

Origin isn't easy to watch. It's a movie that demands your attention and confronts you with uncomfortable truths. But if you're up for a challenging and ultimately rewarding cinematic experience, then this film is worth your time. Just be prepared to grapple with some heavy material.

A moving Sudanese drama, Goodbye Julia explores questions of guilt, atonement, and the intricacies of human relationships. Set against the backdrop of Khartoum's tumultuous conditions, this film invites viewers to explore the raw emotions and societal tensions that shaped Sudan's history.

A former northern Sudanese singer named Mona (Eiman Yousif) is haunted by guilt as she nears the end of her career in the years leading up to South Sudan's 2011 independence. As a means of atonement for her complicity in the demise of a man from the South, she employs the innocent Julia (played by Siran Riak), the man's widow, as her housekeeper. As she adapts to her new reality, Mona struggles with her past and the inability to admit her wrongdoing. Little does she know that the country's turmoil will find its way into her home, forcing her to confront her sins face-to-face.

The film's tone oscillates between melancholy and hope. It delves into the human psyche, exposing how lies and distrust can lead to calamities-even when intentions are honourable. Loveless marriages, class structures, and the longing for voice resonate universally. As viewers, we witness the harsh realities faced by Sudanese people during a time of immense social and political upheaval.

Eiman Yousif and Siran Riak breathe life into their roles. Their chemistry is palpable, portraying the tension between North and South Sudan. Yousif's haunting songs add depth, while Riak's portrayal of an unsuspecting widow is both heartbreaking and powerful.

Kordofani's directorial debut surprises with its artistry. The film's visual language captures the essence of Sudan-its vibrant colours, dusty streets, and sun-soaked landscapes. Pierre de Villiers' cinematography immerses us in the characters' emotional turmoil. Mazin Hamid's score complements the narrative, evoking emotions that linger. The unexpected sound mixing heightens the impact. Heba Othman's editing maintains a steady pace, allowing the story to unfold organically.

The pacing of Goodbye Julia occasionally falters, and some scenes could be tighter. Yet, it's a soulful journey worth taking. For every Sudanese and anyone seeking a glimpse into a nation's heart, this movie is definitely worth watching.

Perfect Days, the latest offering from veteran director Wim Wenders, is a quiet contemplation on finding contentment in the everyday. We follow Hirayama (Koji Yakusho), a man who finds solace in his simple routine-cleaning public toilets in a bustling Tokyo. The film unfolds over a series of seemingly ordinary days, weaving a tapestry of quiet observations and unspoken emotions.

While the plot itself is threadbare, Perfect Days excels in its exploration of themes. It's a poignant reminder that happiness doesn't reside in grand gestures or chasing dreams. Instead, it whispers in the rustle of leaves, the warmth of the sun on your face, and the quiet satisfaction of a job well done. Think of it as the antithesis of films with high-octane plots; here, the beauty lies in the absence of drama.

Yakusho delivers a masterclass in understated acting. With minimal dialogue and a repertoire of subtle expressions, he conveys Hirayama's inner world with profound depth. We see the weariness of his days etched on his face, but also a quiet joy in the simple things. There's a scene where Hirayama meticulously cleans a particularly grimy toilet. It could have been a throwaway moment, but Yakusho imbues it with a sense of purpose and even pride. It's a testament to his skill that he can make such a mundane act feel so poetic.

The film is visually stunning. Wenders, along with cinematographer Franz Lustig, paints Tokyo in soft, muted tones. The bustling cityscapes are juxtaposed with scenes of serene nature, creating a sense of balance. There's a recurring motif of water-glistening rain on pavement, a gentle stream flowing by-that symbolises both purification and the constant flow of time. The score is carefully curated with songs like The House of the Rising Sun and Perfect Day by Lou Reed that Yakusho plays on old cassette tapes.

The pacing in Perfect Days is deliberately slow, and some viewers might find it lacking in conventional narrative drive. The film also relies heavily on symbolism, which can feel a tad opaque at times. However, these minor quibbles fade away when compared to the film's overall impact. Perfect Days is a deeply moving meditation on life's quiet joys. It's a film that lingers long after the credits roll, prompting us to appreciate the beauty in our own everyday routine.

If you're looking for an adrenaline-pumping thrill ride, look elsewhere. But if you're open to a slow, meditative journey that celebrates the ordinary, Perfect Days is a film that will stay with you. With its beautiful visuals, exceptional performances, and profound themes, Perfect Days is a reminder that sometimes, the most perfect days are the ones that seem most ordinary.

Godzilla x Kong: The New Empire throws humanity's favourite giant monster brawl back into the ring, but this titanic tussle feels more like a tired rehash than a worthy successor. We open with the uneasy alliance between Godzilla and Kong, tasked with protecting humanity from lurking threats. However, whispers of a hidden danger soon tear this fragile peace apart, dragging our ape and atomic lizard into a clash for survival.

The film's biggest strength lies in its breathtaking visuals. The battles between Godzilla and Kong are undeniably impressive. Director Adam Wingard stages these showdowns with a chaotic energy, taking us from the neon-drenched streets of Hong Kong to the gravity-defying caverns of Hollow Earth. The special effects are top-notch, with both titans rendered in stunning detail. Godzilla's atomic blasts illuminate the screen, while Kong swings through the air with a balletic grace that belies his immense size.

Unfortunately, the impressive visuals can't mask the film's narrative shortcomings. The plot feels cobbled together, relying on tired tropes and predictable twists. The human characters, once again relegated to monster movie peanut gallery duty, are given little to work with. There's a valiant effort to establish a connection between Kong and a newfound ape companion in Hollow Earth, but it's underdeveloped and ultimately inconsequential. Meanwhile, bland dialogue and clichéd motivations make it hard to care about their fate.

The pacing is another culprit. The film lurches between slow, exposition-heavy stretches and frenetic action sequences. The editing feels choppy at times, leaving some fight choreography confusing and hard to follow. The score by Tom Holkenborg (Junkie XL) is a mixed bag. While it boasts some pulse-pounding tracks during the fights, it lacks the thematic depth or memorable motifs that truly elevate a monster movie.

Godzilla x Kong: The New Kong Empire feels like a missed opportunity. It evokes memories of classic monster brawls but fails to capture the spirit of what made them special. While Kaiju fans might find some enjoyment in the big-budget slugfests, the film ultimately disappoints with its forgettable story, underdeveloped characters, and uneven execution. If you're looking for a monster movie masterpiece, look elsewhere. This one's best left on Skull Island.

Io Capitano, meaning "I Am Captain" in English, follows two Dakar, Senegal, teenagers, Seydou and Moussa, as they embark on a moving voyage. Filled with dreams of a brighter future in Europe, they embark on a perilous trek across the Sahara Desert and the unforgiving Mediterranean Sea. Filmmaker Matteo Garrone takes audiences on a stirring journey that confronts the realities of illegal immigration head-on while injecting them with optimism and resiliency.

While the plot itself is relatively straightforward, Io Capitano's strength lies in its immersive portrayal of the human experience. The film transcends a mere travelogue, weaving historical and cultural context into the narrative tapestry. We witness the desperation that fuels migration, a stark reminder of the global economic disparity. Garrone doesn't preach or paint the protagonists as saints; they're flawed individuals driven by a yearning for a better life. This adds a layer of authenticity that makes their struggles all the more relatable.

The performances are nothing short of remarkable. Newcomer Seydou Sarr, as Seydou, delivers a powerful portrayal of youthful determination slowly withering under the weight of hardship. Talent shines through even in the non-professional actors, lending a raw, unfiltered quality to the film. The camaraderie between Seydou and Moussa is beautifully captured, offering a beacon of light in the face of adversity.

Garrone masterfully establishes the film's tone. It's a slow burn, mirroring the arduous nature of the characters' journey. The documentary-style camerawork throws us right into the thick of things, making the dangers and deprivations all the more palpable. The lack of a bombastic score allows the natural sounds of the environment and the characters' voices to take centre stage, further amplifying the film's realism.

Cinematographer Paolo Carnera takes full advantage of the vast landscapes, capturing the unforgiving beauty of the desert and the ominous vastness of the sea. The use of colour is particularly noteworthy, changing to reflect the emotional journey of Seydou and Mouusa. The visual shifts effectively underscore the characters' loss of innocence and the harsh realities that await them.

The editing is deliberate, building tension without resorting to cheap thrills. Pacing can feel slow at times, but it allows us to fully absorb the characters' physical and emotional struggles. The dialogue, a mix of French, Italian, and Wolof, adds another layer of authenticity, even if viewers rely on subtitles.

Io Capitano isn't without its shortcomings. Even though it leaves room for optimism, some may find the ending to be a little too convenient. There are also moments where the film's handheld camerawork can feel shaky and distracting.

However, these minor quibbles don't detract from the film's overall impact. Io Capitano is a powerful and thought-provoking cinematic experience that lingers long after the credits roll. It inspires empathy, reminding us of the human cost of global inequality. Watch Io Capitano if you want to see a film that delves into a complicated issue with humanity at its heart and is both visually stunning and brutally honest. Just be prepared for a journey that's as emotionally draining as it is ultimately hopeful.

You'll Never Find Me throws you headfirst into a suspenseful game of cat and mouse. Patrick (Brendan Rock), a recluse dwelling in a remote mobile home in a caravan park, is startled by a knock on his door one stormy night. There stands a mysterious young woman, the Visitor (Jordan Cowan), drenched and desperate for help. Patrick hesitantly lets her in, but as the power cuts out and the night deepens, a chilling distrust creeps in. Both harbour secrets, and the line between victim and villain blurs with every passing hour.

This Australian slow-burn chiller is reminiscent of classic Hitchcockian thrillers, relying on building tension and psychological unease rather than jump scares. The film excels in its simplicity. Confined to a single location-Patrick's cluttered mobile home-the directors, Josiah Allen and Indianna Bell, masterfully crank up the claustrophobia. Every creak of the floorboard and flicker of the emergency light becomes a potential threat.

The strength of the film lies in its two lead performances. Rock delivers a nuanced portrayal of Patrick, a man shrouded in a past he desperately wants to outrun. His quiet desperation and flashes of hidden intensity are riveting. Cowan is equally impressive as the Visitor. Her wide eyes and trembling voice initially evoke sympathy, but hints of a steely resolve simmer beneath the surface. Their on-screen dynamic is electric-a constant push and pull of suspicion and forced camaraderie.

The dialogue is sharp and economical, each word dripping with unspoken meaning. Long, uncomfortable silences speak volumes about the unspoken dread that hangs heavy in the air. The pacing is deliberate, allowing the tension to simmer before delivering well-placed bursts of violence. The editing is tight, with jump cuts mirroring the characters' increasingly fractured mental states.

Where you might feel like You'll Never Find Me falters slightly is in its ending. While ambiguous conclusions can be powerful, here it feels a touch unsatisfying. A final reveal, however cryptic, could have added an extra layer of complexity. The most potent aspect of the ending of the movie was when the title of the film appeared starkly on the screen.

Despite this possible minor quibble, You'll Never Find Me is a suspenseful and thought-provoking film. It's a slow burn, but if you are patient, it will reward you with a masterclass in atmosphere and unsettling character dynamics. If you're looking for a film that will keep you guessing long after the credits roll, then this is one you won't want to miss.

Rose Glass, the visionary director behind Saint Maud, throws another punch with Love Lies Bleeding, a neo-noir crime thriller that's both stylish and unsettling. Lou, a cautious gym manager, has her world turned upside down when she develops feelings for Jackie, a dedicated bodybuilder in Las Vegas training for a competition (Katie O'Brian). Sparks fly, but their budding romance gets entangled with Lou's dark family secrets, propelling them down a violent path.

Love Lies Bleeding isn't afraid to push boundaries. It evokes memories of classic thrillers like Body Double, with its neon-drenched aesthetic and underlying themes of obsession and desire. However, Glass injects a contemporary dose of female empowerment, subverting the stereotypical femme fatale trope. Jackie isn't just a damsel in distress; she's a complex character with her own agency, which adds a layer of intrigue to the narrative.

The film's greatest strength lies in its central performances. Stewart delivers a raw and intense portrayal of Lou, a woman yearning for connection but burdened by her past. O'Brian matches her intensity, embodying the steely determination and vulnerability of Jackie with remarkable nuance. Their chemistry is undeniable, making us invested in their tumultuous relationship, even as things spiral out of control.

While the plot takes some wild turns, it's the film's thematic exploration that lingers. Glass dissects the destructive nature of desire, and the lengths people go to in the name of love-or perhaps, obsession. The violence, though brutal, feels purposeful, serving as a metaphor for the emotional turmoil the characters endure.

Admittedly, the pacing can be uneven at times. The first act establishes the characters and their connection beautifully, but the middle section drags a bit as the focus shifts towards the criminal underbelly. However, the film regains its momentum in the final act, culminating in a climax that's both shocking and strangely cathartic.

Technically, Love Lies Bleeding is a knockout. The cinematography is sharp, using bold colours and contrasting lighting to create a visually arresting world. The pounding score complements the film's intensity, while the editing keeps the narrative taut without sacrificing character development.

Love Lies Bleeding isn't for the faint of heart. It's a film that revels in its own darkness, challenging us with its graphic violence and unconventional love story. But for those seeking a neo-noir experience that's both thrilling and thought-provoking, this is a film that will stay with you long after the credits roll.

Love Lies Bleeding is a film with flaws, but its bold direction, phenomenal performances, and exploration of complex themes make it a worthwhile watch, especially for fans of unconventional thrillers. Just be prepared for a wild ride.

The Great Escaper sets sail with a heartwarming premise: Bernie, a WWII veteran residing in a care home, hatches a daring escape to fulfil a lifelong dream-attending the 70th-anniversary commemoration of the D-Day landings in Normandy. Michael Caine delivers a charming performance as Bernie, with a twinkle in his eye despite the wrinkles on his face. Glenda Jackson portrays his wife, Rene, and their love story as a quiet thread woven throughout the narrative.

However, the film struggles to maintain momentum. The historical context, ripe for exploration, feels like a missed opportunity. Sure, there are flashbacks to Bernie's wartime experiences, but they're fleeting and lack depth. Similarly, the cultural impact of D-Day and its significance for veterans like Bernie are barely touched on. This is a shame, because a deeper dive into these themes could have resonated powerfully.

The plot itself, while sweet, feels predictable. Bernie's escape is executed with unbelievable, surprising ease, and the challenges he faces on his journey are fairly mild. There's a sense of wanting him to encounter more obstacles and truly feel the weight of his escapade. The film's tone, aiming for heartwarming with a touch of humour, lands somewhere in between. There are moments that elicit genuine smiles, but they're often undercut by a sentimentality that feels a bit forced.

The saving grace of the film lies in the performances. Caine, as always, is a delight to watch. He imbues Bernie with a quiet determination and vulnerability that make him endearing. Jackson, though given less screen time, delivers a poignant portrayal of a wife grappling with her own limitations while supporting her husband's dream. The supporting cast is solid, but their characters lack the same depth as the leads.

Director Oliver Parker keeps things visually pleasant. The French countryside is beautifully captured, and the cinematography is unobtrusive. The score is forgettable, failing to evoke much emotional resonance. The editing is competent, but the pacing feels uneven, particularly during the middle section of the film. Dialogue is mostly functional, with a few witty lines sprinkled in, but it lacks the spark that could have elevated the film's emotional impact.

Honestly, The Great Escaper left me feeling a little let down. It has the potential for brilliance, but the execution feels uninspired. Films like The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel come to mind, which handle similar themes of ageing and chasing dreams with a touch more humour and heart.

If you're looking for a light, predictable watch with a charming lead performance, then The Great Escaper might be worth a shot. There is not much here about the intricacies of love, loss, and memory that will satisfy those seeking a more profound exploration of these themes.

Sydney Sweeney sheds her good-girl persona in Immaculate, a horror film that throws a devout young nun, Cecilia, headfirst into the nightmarish underbelly of a secluded Italian convent. While the premise is deliciously creepy, the execution lands somewhere between a campy throwback and a missed opportunity for deeper thematic exploration.

There's no denying the film's fun factor. The first act lures you in with idyllic Italian countryside visuals and a warm welcome for Cecilia. But the cracks soon begin to show, and the movie gleefully dives into increasingly bizarre and bloody territory. Think The Wicker Man meets Suspiria with a dash of Sweeney's signature intensity. The special effects, while not top-of-the-line, lean into a practical, grotesque quality that complements the film's grindhouse vibe.

Sweeney is the undeniable star here. She beautifully portrays Cecilia's transformation from wide-eyed innocent to a woman fighting for survival, both physically and emotionally. There's a vulnerability in her performance that makes you root for her, even as she descends into badassery. The supporting cast, however, feels a bit one-note. Their portrayals of the enigmatic nuns are more stereotypical than chilling.

The historical and cultural context of Catholicism is undeniably present, with religious iconography and rituals fueling the film's atmosphere. However, Immaculate doesn't quite commit to a deeper social commentary on faith or female subjugation. It throws out intriguing themes but doesn't fully explore them, leaving me wanting more.

The score is a haunting blend of choral music and discordant strings, perfectly capturing the unsettling duality of the convent. The editing is sharp, keeping the pace brisk and the scares coming. There's a sense of stylish chaos to the film, particularly in the later acts, that's undeniably entertaining.

Immaculate isn't immaculate. The script could have benefited from tighter plotting and a clearer thematic focus. But for fans of campy horror with a strong leading performance, it delivers a wild ride. So, if you're looking for something to shock you and maybe make you laugh a little (nervously), then step into the convent with Cecilia. Just don't expect a profound spiritual experience.