The Phantom (1996) Review

 

Kit Walker, the latest in a long line of masked protectors known as The Phantom, battles to stop a megalomaniac from acquiring ancient skulls of power tied to a lost legend.

The Phantom (1996) is one of those mid-90s comic-book adaptations that was too quickly filed away in the "also-ran" drawer. On revisiting, it deserves a fairer shake than it originally received.

At the time, I wrote it off as a Batman and Indiana Jones imitation, especially in a crowded market that already featured more stylised and cynical takes such as The Shadow and Darkman. There was also a growing sense of superhero saturation even before the internet era, with films like Dick Tracy, The Crow, The Mask, and The Rocketeer all competing for tonal space and audience attention. In that environment, The Phantom struggled to carve out its own identity.

It is pulpy, straight-faced adventure storytelling with a clear lineage back to Saturday matinee serials, rather than the darker reinventions that dominated the era. The comic predates both Superman and Batman, and the film captures that bygone era wonderfully. The locations and sets are impressive, the majority of the effects hold up well, and its reliance on practical effects rather than solely CGI works strongly in its favour.

There is a refreshing sincerity to the film that plays to its strengths. It leans unapologetically into its comic-strip roots instead of deconstructing them. The deliberately old-fashioned tone, which I initially misread as a weakness, is now one of its most appealing qualities.

Created by Lee Falk, the legendary writer who introduced the iconic comic-strip hero in 1936, the film features a faithful and spirited screenplay by Jeffrey Boam that captures the pulp essence perfectly. Simon Wincer directs with energetic, old-fashioned adventure flair, while David Burr's lush cinematography brings the exotic locations and striking visuals to life. David Newman's rousing, orchestral score further elevates the proceedings with memorable heroic themes that perfectly suit the film's sincere, swashbuckling spirit.

At the centre is Billy Zane's committed performance as the Phantom. He plays the role straight, almost stubbornly so, which suits the material perfectly. There is no ironic detachment, just a clean, earnest embodiment of the character's mythic weight.

Treat Williams brings solid 1930s menace and swagger as the villain Xander Drax, grounding the character in something physical rather than purely cartoonish. James Remar adds a harder edge in support, reinforcing the film's pulp-adventure DNA without tipping into parody.

Notable Catherine Zeta-Jones is striking as Sala, given action-forward material and holding her own with a confidence that hinted at the major career ahead of her. Memorable Kristy Swanson provides a more traditional romantic counterbalance as Diana Palmer, anchoring the emotional thread effectively. Both Swanson and Jones leaves a mark giving some good turns in the action sequences.

Patrick McGoohan's presence as the previous Phantom lends the film an unexpected gravitas, giving the mythology a sense of continuity and weight that the script only partially earns. Cary-Hiroyuki Tagawa adds sharp, controlled intensity in his supporting role - another reminder of how often he elevated genre material of this era through sheer screen presence.

In hindsight, what's most interesting is how The Phantom sits just outside the major tonal shift that would soon reshape superhero cinema. It belongs to a pre-fracture moment - before irony and postmodern deconstruction became the default.

The film does not fully transcend its limitations, but it certainly doesn't deserve the dismissiveness it received on release. It is a straight, earnest pulp adventure, and there is real value in that clarity.

The Alien Epilogue You Missed: How Alien 3 Is the True Sequel (with Aliens as a Flashback)

There’s a version of the Alien saga that’s been hiding in plain sight, buried beneath expectation, studio interference, and the noise of what audiences thought they wanted.

Much like my true sequel to Star Wars: Return of the Jedi (see post: https://breathingdead.wordpress.com/2026/03/19/the-star-wars-epilogue-you-missed-the-hidden-return-of-the-jedi-sequel/), the true continuation of Alien isn’t where most people instinctively look.

It isn’t Aliens.

It’s Alien 3.

And preferably—the Assembly Cut. And more over it, isn’t Ripley’s hyper-sleep nightmare.

On the surface, James Cameron’s brilliant Aliens feels like the natural progression: scale, firepower, numbers. It’s a superb film in its own right—but it fundamentally alters the DNA of what came before.

Alien was never about winning. It was about surviving something you were never meant to face. Alien 3, in its truest form, understands that.

It doesn’t escalate.

It corrects course.

To make this case it best you discard the theatrical cut of Alien 3. That version is compromised—reshaped by studio demands, faster and less coherent and opt for the superior Assembly Cut.

The Assembly Cut—often mislabelled as a “producer’s cut”—restores roughly 30 minutes of material and, more importantly, emphasises the original intent. This is the version where the film finally aligns with Alien—both structurally and thematically.

And crucially, its script and narrative framing do something often overlooked: They re-explain the premise from the ground up. And though there is dialogue exposition, you do not need Aliens to understand it.

• A survivor arrives.

• A creature is loose.

• Containment fails.

• Death follows.

It’s all there—clean, brutal, self-contained.

The host creature change:

• Theatrical Cut: a dog—quick, visceral, immediate

• Assembly Cut: an ox—discovered in a slow, grim, almost ritualistic sequence

The shift is tonal. The ox sequence feels ancient, almost biblical—less a jump scare, more a contamination of something sacred.

It belongs to horror, not action.

Then there’s Ripley’s Death:

• Theatrical Cut: a chestburster erupts as she falls—an obvious final shock

• Assembly Cut: no eruption—her sacrifice is quiet, controlled, absolute

This isn’t cosmetic. It restores Ripley’s character. The moment plays not as spectacle—but as decision.

The Assembly Cut breathes:

• More time with the prisoners

• A clearer sense of their belief system

• A slow, creeping dread as the creature moves unseen

It transforms the film from something reactive… into something inevitable.

When Ridley Scott described Alien as “a haunted house in space,” he defined the franchise in a single line.

What Alien 3 does—properly, in this version—is bring that idea down to earth.

Not a spaceship.

A monastery-prison.

A place that feels like:

• A crumbling church

• A forgotten hospital

• An asylum where guilt lingers in the walls

Everything a haunting requires is present:

• Isolation

• Ritual

• Confession

• The slow certainty of death

This is where the film quietly surpasses expectation. It doesn’t try to outdo Aliens.

It returns to something older. Colder. More spiritual in its dread.

Stripping the films back to their essentials:

Alien

• One creature

• No weapons

• Claustrophobic terror

• Survival by chance

Alien 3

• One creature

• No weapons worth trusting

• Claustrophobic despair

• Death by choice

The symmetry is unmistakable. This is not a sequel to Aliens. It is a direct continuation of Alien’s logic.

Here’s where the perspective sharpens.

If you place Aliens after these two films—not as continuation, but as a psychological death flashback—the entire saga locks into place.

In Aliens:

• Ripley gains control

• She rebuilds a family

• She fights back—and wins

It’s catharsis. Power. Resolution.

But it doesn’t belong to the bleak, indifferent universe established in Alien.

So when Alien 3 begins—brutally stripping that away—it doesn’t “undo” Aliens.

It exposes it.

As memory. As trauma. As a fleeting illusion of control before reality reasserts itself.

Viewed after Alien 3, Aliens works as a grandiose flashback and what Ripley went through. It finishes the trilogy off on an action-packed high.

One of the long-standing criticisms of Alien 3 is that it destroys the hope Aliens created.

But reposition Aliens—and that criticism collapses.

What you’re left with is something far cleaner:

• Alien: survival against the impossible

• Alien 3: sacrifice to end it

No escalation.

No mythology spiral.

Just a complete, merciless arc.

Even within its troubled production, David Fincher’s instincts are visible.

Strip away excess. Remove comfort. Deny easy victories.

What emerges—especially in the Assembly Cut—is not a film trying to compete with Aliens, but one dragging the series back toward the cold purity of Alien.

Watch Alien.

Then watch the Assembly Cut of Alien 3. What you’ll find isn’t a misfire or a compromised sequel. You’ll find an ending.

A true one.

Ripley doesn’t conquer the perfect organism.

She ensures it dies with her.

No spectacle. No victory lap. No illusion of control.

Just a final, deliberate act in a universe that never offered mercy to begin with. And in that light, Alien 3 doesn’t sit as the franchise’s failure.

It stands as its conclusion—quietly waiting, like the creature itself, to be understood.

Have you watched the films? Does this reframing change how you see the trilogy?

The Star Wars Epilogue You Missed: The ‘Hidden’ Return of the Jedi Sequel!

What if there was a ‘hidden’ sequel to Return of the Jedi? And you already have everything you need to view it?

And I don’t mean the Ewok films or tie-in media. Pretend Force Awakens and The Last Jedi didn’t exist. I watched Return of the Jedi straight into The Rise of Skywalker again… and it absolutely works. More than that, it reframes the entire ending of the saga.

You’re thrown 31 years forward into a galaxy still shaped by what came before, and The Rise of Skywalker plays like a direct continuation—an Episode VII epilogue that closes the Skywalker story with surprising clarity and weight.

There’s no sense of missing pieces. Just legacy, carried forward.

Based purely on the films and not tie in material, a few things immediately lock into place.

Vader’s Redemption Endures — The funeral pyre doesn’t end his story—it echoes through Kylo Ren, literally touching the remnants of his grandfather’s legacy. The conflict is inherited. The redemption still matters.

Luke Skywalker: From Man to Myth — Luke has become legend. Stories, whispers, belief. When Rey meets him as a Force ghost, it lands with far more impact—this isn’t just a cameo, it’s a moment of generational closure. The Jedi Master returns when he’s needed most.

Palpatine’s Return Feels Immediate — Jumping straight from Jedi, his survival plays like unfinished business rather than a late twist. His contingency plans—cloning, essence transfer—align perfectly with his established arrogance. The threat never truly left for three decades years.

Han and Luke’s Off-Screen Deaths Strengthen Their Legacy — With no intervening chapters, both characters feel almost mythological. Han lives on through memory and vision—his final reach toward Ben carries even more emotional weight. Luke, now part of the Force, guides from beyond. Their absence isn’t a loss—it’s elevation.

Leia’s On-Screen Death Carries Greater Clout — In contrast, Leia’s sacrifice hits harder because we witness it directly. She becomes the emotional anchor of the story—the last bridge between past and present—making her passing feel like the true turning point.

Lando’s Return Feels Seamless — He steps back in, a hero with his accomplishments in Return of the Jedi along with Wedge. Lando names drops, but it’s his reflection on Luke—their past adventure—that adds texture. It subtly reinforces Luke’s legend while giving Rey renewed purpose. That conversation doesn’t just move the plot forward—it deepens Rey’s own search for identity.

Leia’s Force intuition comes full circle — Leia’s “I know. Somehow, I’ve always known” in Return of the Jedi reveals her deep Force sensitivity to family bonds. Retroactively, it echoes the carbon-freeze scene in Empire Strikes Back: she steps back instinctively from Vader; it appears that this ignites her Force power (even if she doesn’t realise it yet). Then Han descends, sensing a profound connection before fully surrendering to her love (“I love you”). Then Luke calls for Leia on Bespin, again through the Force—the same way Vader is able to communicate with Luke. In Rise, this culminates when Leia reaches out through the Force to Ben in her final moments—open and receptive, guided by Luke’s call, pulling her son toward redemption. No barriers exist; it’s a natural, powerful extension of her ROTJ intuition.

Leia’s Jedi Path Comes Full Circle — Her Force sensitivity evolves into something meaningful. Training Rey, passing on wisdom, and ultimately handing down Luke’s lightsaber—symbolically and spiritually. The flashbacks of her training with Luke give this real weight. This is legacy in motion.

Hux’s Demise and Pryde’s Callback — emphasizing how Hux’s quick, petty-spy-reveal death works better in this direct-viewing order (as a sharp, no-nonsense payoff to his rivalry with Kylo, without needing sequel buildup), and how Pryde’s presence/line about the old Empire days feels like a seamless bridge back to the original trilogy’s Imperial remnants.

Brief Appearances Gain Lasting Weight (Maz, Rose, etc.) — addressing that skipping the sequels removes setups/origins for characters like Maz and Rose, but this actually enhances their impact: their limited screentime mirrors the original trilogy’s style (e.g., brief but memorable roles), giving them mythic, lasting appeal without needing exhaustive explanations or backstories.

Chewbacca’s Loyalty & Closure — Chewbacca pilots the Falcon, fights fiercely, and delivers classic Wookiee heart straight from the original trilogy. His grief for Leia is raw, he collapses in anguished roars after her final Force reach. Maz gives him Han’s Medal of Bravery (kept by Leia), finally honoring the overlooked hero from Yavin 4—a simple, poignant tribute and connection to Han that closes his arc with dignity.

The Dagger and Sith Trail Gain Mythic Weight — The dagger leading to the Death Star holocron feels less like convenience and more like ancient design. A relic forged with foresight—part ritual, part prophecy—created long before the Death Star’s destruction. It adds a layer of Sith inevitability, as if this path was always waiting to be found.

The Death Star Ruins: Echoes of the Dark Side — Rey’s journey to the wreckage of the second Death Star to retrieve the wayfinder becomes profoundly resonant. The ruins themselves are a direct callback to the Empire era—Endor’s moon, the site of the Emperor’s defeat. Aligning the dagger with the wreckage feels like destiny unfolding from the very events of Return of the Jedi. Inside the throne room, the sudden confrontation with her dark mirror self (Sith Rey, hooded and wielding a double-bladed red saber) hits with raw intensity. This isn’t just a vision—it’s a visceral test of her inner conflict, mirroring the Dagobah cave in The Empire Strikes Back where Luke faced his own darkness (the Vader helmet reveal under the mask). Without the sequel trilogy’s dilution, the scene echoes Yoda’s warning: “Only what you take with you.” Rey’s temptation by her Palpatine lineage and the pull of the dark side feels like a direct evolution of that same fear—the battle within oneself—making her ultimate rejection of it land as true generational triumph over inherited evil.

Yoda’s Absence Preserves His Final Peace — Notably, Yoda’s Force ghost is nowhere to be seen in The Rise of Skywalker. This choice gains weight when viewed straight from Return of the Jedi: his quiet passing on Dagobah, body remaining as he fades into the Force, feels complete and irreversible. No later appearances dilute the solemnity of that moment—he has truly become one with the Force, allowing the new generation (Rey, guided by Luke) to carry the torch without revisiting old masters. It honors the closure Yoda achieved in 1983.

Luke Skywalker’s Full-Circle Triumph — In The Empire Strikes Back, Luke famously fails to lift his X-wing from the Dagobah swamp, leading to Yoda’s iconic line: “That is why you fail.” Now, as a Force ghost appearing to Rey on Ahch-To, Luke effortlessly raises his long-sunken X-wing from the ocean depths—complete with Yoda’s theme swelling and that knowing, satisfied smirk. In this direct sequel viewing, it becomes Luke’s ultimate redemption: he finally succeeds where he once doubted the Force, proving he’s grown beyond his fears from the original trilogy. No intermediate failures or isolation needed—he’s the confident Jedi Master we left on Endor, now helping the new generation believe again and move forward. 

 R2-D2 and C-3PO Shine Like Old Times — The droids get heartfelt, classic spotlight moments that echo their iconic roles throughout the original trilogy and especially in Return of the Jedi (comic relief, loyalty, heroism). C-3PO risks everything by allowing his memory to be wiped to translate the Sith dagger, delivering exposition and emotional stakes in a way that feels true to his protocol-droid personality—fussy yet brave. Then, R2-D2 steps up to restore C-3PO’s memories (including a touching “You’ve been a real friend, Artoo—my best one, in fact” line), showcasing their unbreakable bond and R2’s resourceful, silent heroism. These beats recapture the droids’ dynamic duo energy from the OT, giving them meaningful contributions and closure that land perfectly when jumping straight from Jedi.

Rey Skywalker — The ‘Rise’ Made Literal — With The Force Awakens and The Last Jedi omitted (even if viewed later as prequels), the meaning of Rise becomes clearer. Leia gives her life force to reach Ben, and in turn, Ben returns that to Rey healing him, and gives his life—that same energy of his, and both Leia and Rey—to revive Rey. In that moment, she doesn’t just take the Skywalker name—she rises as one. Through the Force, sacrifice, and transference, Rey quite literally becomes part Skywalker. The name isn’t just symbolic—it’s fulfilled in the act of her rising.

Rey and Kylo’s Story Stands Complete — Kylo as Han and Leia’s son, his fractured identity, Rey’s lineage—it’s all delivered cleanly through dialogue, memory, and vision. Rey being Palpatine’s granddaughter lands harder when it’s revealed directly, without delay. The contrast is stark: inherited darkness versus chosen light. Mystery Strengthens the Galaxy — Not everything is explained—and that’s a strength. The world feels ancient, layered, and lived-in, just like the original Star Wars. You’re dropped into it and trusted to follow.

What’s most striking is how this order reframes everything.

The legacy characters feel sharper. More defined. Their arcs carry straight through, undiluted. Han, Luke, and Leia aren’t fragmented across multiple chapters—they exist as a unified legacy, culminating here.

And crucially—nothing essential is lost.

Everything you need is present: in dialogue, in memory, in myth, in the Force itself.

The emotional beats land harder because they aren’t stretched—they arrive with purpose.

This allows the new characters and the old and new droids to shine.

The Rise of Skywalker stops feeling like the end of a trilogy. It becomes something else entirely. A final chapter. A closing movement. An epilogue to a story that began with a farm boy staring at twin suns.

While there are strong moments in the omitted two films, stepping past them reveals something unexpected…

The Rise of Skywalker stands stronger on its own—as a direct continuation. Focused. Mythic. Complete. I didn’t expect it to work this well. But it does.

Is this the way you’d watch it going forwards? Would you recommend this viewing order to Star Wars newcomers? Does this order, even watching the Force and Last after Rise as prequels hit differently for you too?

The Score (2001) Review ​

 

One last job in Montreal draws a seasoned thief into uneasy partnership - where precision matters, and trust is everything.

Directed with calm control by Frank Oz, The Score is mature, restrained and quietly gripping. Robert De Niro gives the film weight as the weary professional, Edward Norton adds sharp-edged tension, and Marlon Brando, in his final screen role, commands every scene he's in.

Cool, deliberate and grounded in atmosphere rather than spectacle, it's a heist film that trusts performance over noise, and is all the stronger for it. Recommended.

Cold Storage (2026) Review

 

When a dangerous parasitic fungus escapes from a long-sealed military facility beneath a storage complex, a small group must contain the outbreak before it spreads beyond control.

Directed by Jonny Campbell and written by David Koepp from his own novel, Cold Storage opens with a strong setup. The premise is engaging, though some of the exposition is a little repetitive in the opening. Koepp’s script has a few novel surprise sequences throughout, including infected people, rats, cats and deer. It’s sharp, with plenty of nods and references that never become tiresome.

The tone carries modern echoes of The Return of the Living Dead (1985), Lifeforce (1985), The Cabin in the Woods (2011), Slither (2006), and The Last of Us — pulpy creature horror with a knowing sense of fun. Laid-back Joe Keery and the grounded, excellent Georgina Campbell make likeable leads, while Liam Neeson adds gravitas as the veteran bioterror operative. The supporting cast are on top form: Smile’s Sosie Bacon appears, along with Lesley Manville — acclaimed for Phantom Thread and Mrs Harris Goes to Paris — and the legendary Vanessa Redgrave, to name a few. Richard Brake cameos as Wesley Jerabek, and leather-clad Justin Salinger is memorable.

What stands out most are the production values. The production design and on-location feel give the film weight, and even the tighter interior spaces feel convincingly claustrophobic rather than stage-bound. The subtle score by Mathieu Lamboley, along with a solid soundtrack including Blondie, complements the on-screen shenanigans, while cinematography by Tony Slater-Ling helps maintain the tension throughout.

The CGI is pretty good for the most part. There’s a strong contrast between the military and the storage workers.

Entertaining — a pulpy, modern B-movie with plenty of atmosphere and craft to make it worth a watch, with plenty of Campbell spore-creature chaos to elevate it even further. Destined for cult status…

The Long Good Friday (1980) Review

 

Over a single Easter weekend, a London crime boss's carefully built empire begins to collapse as unseen forces strike from all sides, turning ambition into paranoia.

Directed by John Mackenzie and written by Barrie Keeffe, The Long Good Friday is a sharp, grounded British gangster film that thrives on tension and character. Shot on real London locations, the film gains a raw authenticity, elevated by Phil Meheux's strong, naturalistic cinematography, which captures the city with grit and scale.

At its centre, Bob Hoskins delivers a commanding performance as Harold Shand, while Helen Mirren (known for Excalibur) brings intelligence and quiet authority. A young Pierce Brosnan also makes an effective early appearance.

The supporting cast is packed with recognisable faces. Paul Freeman appears as Colin - known to many from Raiders of the Lost Ark. P. H. Moriarty stands out as Razors, later seen in Dune. Derek Thompson (long-running Casualty) also appears, alongside a host of familiar British character actors that give the film texture and credibility.

The band plays Dancin' (on a Saturday Night), sung by Joe Fagin, later known for That's Living, Alright from Auf Wiedersehen, Pet.

Driven by performance rather than spectacle, the film builds tension through dialogue, presence and atmosphere, underscored by Francis Monkman's distinctive score.

Lean, tense and character-led - a defining British crime film, elevated by its cast, its locations, and its authenticity. Caped off by a subtle and unforgettable conclusion.

Ronin (1998) Review​

 

A group of mercenaries are brought together to retrieve a mysterious briefcase, but shifting loyalties and hidden agendas quickly turn the job into a tense, dangerous game of survival.

Directed by John Frankenheimer, Ronin is a masterclass in grounded action and atmosphere. Set against real European locations, the film has a cold, lived-in feel that adds weight and authenticity to every scene.

The cast is exceptional. Robert De Niro leads with quiet authority, while Jean Reno provides a strong counterbalance. Stellan Skarsgård adds depth, and Sean Bean, in a smaller role, leaves a memorable impression.

The standout remains the car chases — still among the best ever put to screen — raw, fast and expertly staged without reliance on excess effects. Frankenheimer builds tension through precision, letting the action breathe and the stakes feel real.

Lean, smart and gripping — a modern action throwback done properly.

Alienator (1990) Review

 

An escaped alien prisoner lands on Earth, forcing the authorities to dispatch a relentless extraterrestrial hunter to retrieve him - leaving a violent trail through small-town America.

Directed by Fred Olen Ray and written by Paul Garson, Alienator feels very much like an '80s sci-fi actioner that simply arrived late. It opens with an exposition text crawl and a lengthy prologue before the main credits roll - a structure that immediately signals its era.

There are several recognisable genre faces. Jan-Michael Vincent, famous for the television series Airwolf, appears here late in his career. Unfortunately he looks - and often sounds - inebriated, which is a shame given the strong screen presence. Horror fans will also spot Joseph Pilato, remembered as Captain Rhodes in Day of the Dead, alongside cult favourite John Phillip Law of and The Golden Voyage of Sinbad. Teagan Clive cuts an imposing figure as the mechanical bounty hunter.

The plot carries echoes of Critters, more than Alien or The Terminator - a dangerous creature loose on Earth pursued by something even deadlier. Despite the small budget, the film has energy. Even though costumes look recycled, some of the practical effects, including creatures burrowing into victims' faces, are enjoyably tactile, while the action editing and optical effects are better handled than one might expect..

The pulsing electronic score by Chuck Cirino adds welcome drive, and cinematographer Gary Graver makes solid use of real locations rather than obvious studio sets.

Cheap, rough and unapologetically pulpy, Alienator survives on enthusiasm, practical effects and late-'80s B-movie charm but once they get to Earth it never matches the highs of its opening sequence.

Primate (2025) Review

 

A remote estate becomes a pressure cooker when a group of women find themselves hunted by a lethal primate, descending their weekend into brutal survival horror.

Directed by Johannes Roberts and written by Roberts and Ernest Riera, Primate leans firmly into slasher territory. It wears its influences openly, with flashes of Cujo (1983), The Shining (1980) in its isolating atmosphere, Halloween (1978) in its stalking rhythms, while structurally it replaces the masked killer with a rampaging ape. There are also shades of aquatic entrapment thrillers like The Pool (2018), 12 Feet Deep (2017) and Night Swim (2024), particularly in its confined set-pieces and tension-driven staging. And a touch of animal communication that was seen in Congo (1995).

Visually, the film impresses. Director of photography Stephen Murphy lights the estate with moody precision, evoking the sleek menace of The Invisible Man (2020) and the nocturnal unease of The Night House (2020). The score by Adrian Johnston is a standout - its synth-driven pulse clearly echoing John Carpenter's Halloween (1978) themes without feeling derivative. The sound design is equally sharp, amplifying every scrape, breath and distant movement to unnerving effect.

Performance-wise, Johnny Sequoyah delivers a memorable turn as Lucy. Victoria Wyant is also notable, while Miguel Torres Umba gives Ben real presence, the character realised convincingly through a blend of practical effects and digital augmentation. The dialogue is solid throughout, and the ensemble commit fully to the escalating carnage.

The gore and special effects are strong and impressive, the kills are particularly brutal, though the film works best in its tense, stalking sequences rather than its broader action beats. It echoes animal-attack predecessors like Monkey Shines (1988), Shakma (1990), Nope (2022) and especially Link (1986), though it lacks the emotional weight of the aforementioned and the likes of Greystoke: The Legend of Tarzan, Lord of the Apes (1984) or The Ape Man (1988). There's even an opportunity missed with a "good ape versus bad ape" dynamic or twist that (it wasn't Ben at all, but a second ape) which might have elevated it beyond straightforward slasher mechanics.

Ultimately, Primate plays as a modern, gorier, sharper riff on the killer-animal template - more slasher horror than psychological exploration. It's worth checking out if you favour brutal creature features, though the on-screen animal 'cruelty' and violence may prove too much for some especially in the closing, which denies it an emotional connection or pay off.

Return to Silent Hill (2026) Review ​

James Sunderland returns to the fog-drenched town of Silent Hill, drawn back by memory, grief and the promise of lost love, only to descend once more into psychological and physical torment.

Watching Return to Silent Hill felt like I’d slipped a DVD into a player in 1996. I admire what Christophe Gans achieved with Silent Hill (2006), bleak, visually committed, and genuinely unsettling. That film embraced despair and strangeness with conviction.

This, however, is something else entirely.

The costumes feel synthetic, the hair and make-up distracting, and the CGI distractingly artificial. The setting lacks texture; the voice-over narration overexplains rather than deepens; the flashbacks drain momentum instead of enriching character. Where the earlier film felt oppressive and immersive, this feels assembled, not conjured.

It’s frustrating because the foundations are there. Silent Hill thrives on mood, ambiguity and dread. Instead, the film stumbles through hollow recreations of imagery without the weight behind them. One keeps asking: did Gans really direct this? The confidence, the atmosphere, the control that defined his earlier effort seem absent.

A bitter disappointment, not merely flawed, but strangely lifeless.