An anthropologist returns to his inherited home in Salem's Lot with his estranged, troubled son, only to uncover a hidden vampire society masquerading as a quiet New England community.
Co-written and directed by Larry Cohen, this 1987 theatrical release is a notable departure from the excellent 1979 miniseries directed by Tobe Hooper. Deceptive poster aside, although released in cinemas, it often feels like a television movie and looks considerably older than its years-whether by design or accident.
The film is violent in places, featuring head bashings, stakes through the heart, and some effective practical effects, with plenty of blood and fangs on display. However, the unlikable Joe Weber (Michael Moriarty) proves almost as bratty as his son Jeremy (Ricky Addison Reed).
The real issue lies in the film's uneven tone, which shifts awkwardly between horror and broad humour/satire. Films such as John Carpenter's Vampires (1998), The Lost Boys (1987), and Fright Night (1985) handle that balance far more successfully.
The acting is a mixed bag. That said, veteran performers Andrew Duggan, Samuel Fuller, June Havoc, and Evelyn Keyes bring some much-needed weight to the production.
Moriarty, fresh from Pale Rider (1985), makes for a solid everyman lead and does his best to hold the film together. Interestingly, a very young Tara Reid appears as Amanda Fenton - a role that retrospectively echoes Kirsten Dunst's performance in Interview with the Vampire (1994). Jill Gatsby is also memorable as Sherry. Director Samuel Fuller nearly steals the show as the obsessive vampire hunter Van Meer.
Michael Minard's score is inconsistent, as is Daniel Pearl's cinematography; neither possesses much cinematic refinement. While the town itself looks lush, it fails to generate any real sense of dread. The sets and locations are strong, but the pacing and staging throughout are questionable. Cohen does, however, take clear aim at the American Dream, layering the film with satire, allegory, and moral ambiguity.
While Return to Salem's Lot remains an interesting watch, it ultimately doesn't hold a candle to the Hooper-directed 1979 version starring David Soul.
To get the best out of Cohen's rough, clunky outing, the film is best viewed as a standalone piece, separate from the 1979 adaptation.
When author Ben Mears comes back to his childhood home, he discovers that people in his home town are mysteriously turning into vampires.
Gary Dauberman's Salem's Lot returns to familiar ground, but with a modern horror edge that favours shock over slow-burn dread. Set in the 1970s, it strives to recapture the period texture of King's novel. The intention is clear and often effective, though the era sometimes feels like polished recreation rather than something fully lived-in.
The film's real strength is atmosphere with Cinematography from Michael Burgess. Dauberman sustains a consistent unease. An on location feel and meticulously dressed sets sell the town's creeping infection.
The cast is reliably solid. All the youngsters actors do a great job. Lewis Pullman brings a measured gravity to Ben Mears, while Alfre Woodard and memorable Bill Camp lend weight in support. Pilou Asbæk adds controlled menace as Straker. Alexander Ward is great as classic Nosferatu-like Kurt Barlow, and Spencer Treat Clark holds his own in the ensemble. Notable is William Sadler as Parkins Gillespie and Spencer Treat Clark as Ryerson. Yet it's Makenzie Leigh who commands the screen. Sharp, magnetic, and utterly assured, she cuts through the surrounding mechanics and steals every scene. Both Jordan Preston Carter and Alfre Woodard deserve a mention for their likeable performances.
Unlike the 2004 version of Barlow that sticks closer to the novel, like the 1979 version, this adaptation opts for a traditional, monstrous take on the vampire-predatory and unromanticised.
Where it diverges is emphasis, it leans into modern horror conventions, with a younger cast, deploying frequent jump scares in a manner closer to the It films. The shocks land, but often at the expense of deeper character work and lingering dread.
Oddly Mark seems to feel second fiddle to young Ben, and last act feels more like Stakeland, Monstersquad, and 30 Days of Night.
That imbalance is the film's limitation. Momentum frequently overrides emotional weight, leaving the story feeling slightly surface-level despite its craft.
The sound design and score by Nathan Barr and Lisbeth Scott enhance tension without overwhelming it, and the visuals remain clean, controlled, and often striking.
It's not the definitive Salem's Lot, but an atmospheric retelling that knows how to unsettle-even if it sometimes forgets to breathe and run for the finishing line.
Author Ben Mears returns to his childhood home of Salem's Lot, only to find something ancient and predatory taking root in the town.
Director Tobe Hooper (Texas Chainsaw Massacre and Poltergeist) unfolds a less conventional vampire tale and more a creeping collapse of an entire community-one soul at a time. A quiet town. Empty streets. Curtains twitching just a little too late. Hooper wastes no time in drawing you into its slow-burn nightmare-and, crucially, it never overstays its welcome.
Stephen King adaptations have a reputation for being long-winded, sometimes buckling under the weight of their own detail. Not here. This adaptation of his 1975 novel moves with purpose. The pacing is tight, almost deceptively so, and it flies by while still giving the story room to breathe.
The cast do a tremendous amount of heavy lifting with Paul Monash's screenplay. David Soul anchors the piece with a grounded, believable performance as Mears, while the brilliant James Mason brings a refined, almost theatrical menace as Straker. Kurt Barlow's character is a full-on Nosferatu-style vampire with excellent makeup, played by Reggie Nalder to chilling effect.
Young Lance Kerwin and Bonnie Bedelia (Die Hard) add emotional weight, while Lew Ayres and Ed Flanders (The Exorcist III) round out a cast that makes the town feel lived-in-human-before it all starts to rot. Kerwin's character Mark clearly influenced horror fans and films such as Friday the 13th's Tommy Jarvis and The Monster Squad, to name a few.
Standout is Geoffrey Lewis as the gravedigger Mike. Kenneth McMillan (Dune) appears along with a whole slew of familiar faces.
Technically, yes, it shows its age in places. There are a few zoom-heavy close-ups and the occasional paused transition that firmly date it. But those are surface details. What really matters is how effectively the production sells its world. The sets, the locations, the texture of the town itself-they all contribute to a creeping sense of dread that feels authentic rather than staged.
Harry Sukman's music deserves special mention. It's not just effective-it's essential. It creeps in, lingers, and tightens around scenes in a way that amplifies the horror without overwhelming it. It understands restraint, which is exactly why it works.
There's also a strong case to be made for its influence. You can see its DNA in later genre staples like The Lost Boys and Fright Night-that blend of small-town familiarity colliding with something inhuman.
The original television miniseries is the better version. The theatrical edit trims character beats and connective tissue for a more streamlined, faster-paced experience, but it inevitably loses some of the atmosphere and gradual escalation that the TV version builds so well. The full broadcast version is the one that lets the dread properly take hold.
I didn't catch the 1981 BBC broadcast, but I did watch a VHS recording of the 22 August 1985 repeat (10:10pm). That grain, that late-night atmosphere only added to the unease.
Moments linger. The full-circle Guatemala scenes bookending the series’ impactful epilogue. The vampire kitchen attack, stuff of nightmares. David Soul fashioning a makeshift cross from tongue depressors-simple, desperate, brilliant. Everyone talks about the kid at the bedroom window, and rightly so. It's iconic. But the real nightmare comes later-when he appears again at the hospital window. Face distorted, hair standing on end. That's the moment that genuinely chills. That's the image that stays with you.
This is Salem's Lot distilled with precision. It respects the source without becoming bogged down by it, delivering a lean, atmospheric piece of television horror that still holds its power. An interesting 1987 sequel followed, but it doesn't match this.
A product of its time, yes-but more importantly, a reminder of how effective that time could be when everything aligned.
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.
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.
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.
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?
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?
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.
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…
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Maddie and Trish seek solace in a remote Thai atoll-like lagoon. Their escape becomes a nightmare when Ceto—a vengeful, mistreated orca freshly freed from captivity at a water park—invades the trapped waters. Stranded on a rock with no food or rescue, the women battle a brilliant, merciless predator.
Directed by Jo-Anne Brechin and starring Virginia Gardner as Maddie, Killer Whale leans into a tried-and-tested survival template familiar from 47 Metres Down, The Shallows, Open Water and many other shark survival films. Opening with a great kill setup, there’s nothing inherently wrong with the staging or even the premise. An apex predator remains a solid foundation for tension. Gardner, in particular, gives the film credibility. Her performance is committed, physical and emotionally grounded. She carries the narrative through sheer screen presence, making Maddie – alongside Mel Jarnson’s Trish – resourceful, vulnerable and watchable throughout.
Where the film falters is in its execution: the special effects, sadly, let it down. In a subgenre that depends heavily on believability, the visual renderings – including the backgrounds – often pull the audience out of the moment rather than immersing them in it. What could have rivalled the tight suspense of its aquatic predecessors instead becomes overshadowed by effects that lack weight and realism.
It’s especially frustrating because Jo-Anne Brechin and Katharine McPhee’s writing rightly gives the orca its emotional intelligence and rich thematic potential. There are hints of something more layered beneath the surface, a suggestion that the creature is more than a simple monster. And if it weren’t for the special effects, the film had clout which may have elevated it beyond standard predator fare. The final act, too, feels like a missed opportunity. A more satisfying resolution – something closer in spirit to a Free Willy-style but grounded ending – may have provided emotional payoff rather than what we were given.
Killer Whale is not without merit. Virginia Gardner’s performance deserves praise, and the core concept remains strong. But in a genre where atmosphere and credibility are everything, the weak effects ultimately hold it back from the gripping survival thriller it might have been.
After a devastating viral outbreak leaves parts of the population infected yet not entirely gone, a fractured group of survivors navigate grief, suspicion and the lingering question of what it truly means to be alive — or buried.
Directed and written by Zak Hilditch, We Bury the Dead takes a creepy slow-burning, introspective approach to the zombie-virus subgenre. Rather than leaning solely on carnage, it focuses on broken relationships and unresolved trauma. At times, however, the film becomes bogged down in flashbacks and emotional backstory that dilute the forward momentum of an otherwise compelling premise.
Daisy Ridley leads the film with quiet intensity, delivering a great performance that anchors the film. She knocks it out of the park, carrying the emotional weight with conviction. Alongside her, Brenton Thwaites and Mark Coles Smith provide strong support. Their tensions often prove more engaging than the infected threat itself.
Technically, the film impresses. The make-up effects are excellent, restrained but unnerving, and several eerie set-ups linger in the mind long after. There are genuine jolts and a creeping dread that recalls the more contemplative end of the genre. The film also toys with interesting ideas about infection, memory and identity, though some of these themes are never fully explored.
If anything, a tighter edit, trimming some of the subtext-heavy relationship exposition and focusing more directly on Ridley’s journey, might have elevated it further. As it stands, We Bury the Dead is thoughtful, atmospheric and worth a watch. With a few sharper tweaks, it could have been something truly special.
Kermit the Frog gathers the gang to celebrate fifty years of The Muppet Show, revisiting classic sketches, musical numbers and behind-the-scenes memories while reflecting on what made the Muppets such a cultural fixture in the first place.
It’s genuinely fantastic to see Kermit, Miss Piggy, Fozzie, Gonzo and the wider Muppet family (and newer characters) back together under one banner, celebrating half a century of felt, chaos and heart. Streaming on Disney+, the special leans heavily into nostalgia — and rightly so — reminding us just how sharp, anarchic and oddly sincere Jim Henson’s creations always were at their best.
There is, however, a slight caveat. Some of the voice work feels a little off, which is a shame given how many talented performers can replicate the originals almost spot-on. It never derails the experience, but longtime fans will notice the tonal shifts more than casual viewers.
That said, the warmth, humour and legacy carry it through. This is a loving tribute rather than a reinvention — a celebration of characters who still matter, still charm, and still know how to put on a show. For fans old and new, it’s a welcome reminder of why the Muppets endure.
After a near-fatal motorcycle accident, Rose undergoes an experimental skin graft procedure that saves her life — but leaves her with a hunger that spreads a rabies-like plague through the city. As the infection grows, panic follows, and civilisation begins to quietly unravel.
Written and directed by David Cronenberg, Rabid is an early, confident statement of intent from a filmmaker already obsessed with the fragile boundary between flesh, science and control. Shot largely on real locations in and around Montreal, the film has a gritty, almost documentary realism that grounds its increasingly nightmarish ideas. Cronenberg lets the story unfold slowly, allowing the rabies outbreak subplot to creep into the narrative in a measured, unsettling way rather than relying on shocks alone. It’s thoughtful, patient genre filmmaking, and remarkably ambitious for its modest budget.
Marilyn Chambers is the undeniable centre of the film and its greatest asset. Her performance as Rose is detached, tragic and strangely sympathetic, anchoring the film even as it descends into societal collapse. Chambers carries the film almost entirely, giving it an eerie emotional consistency that never wavers. Around her, Frank Moore, Joe Silver and Howard Ryshpan provide solid support, but this is very much Chambers’ film from beginning to end.
The kills and make-up effects are impressively effective for the period, restrained but disturbing, reinforcing Cronenberg’s clinical approach to horror rather than undermining it. Gun-happy cops appear throughout, from the police station to the shopping mall, heightening the sense of chaos. Notable sequences include a tense shoot-out where a Santa Claus is accidentally caught in the crossfire, officers drilling through cars, and multiple car crashes as panic spreads. These setups are smartly staged, adding suspense and variety — the film’s impact is not just in the rabid, bloody faces and neck wounds, but in how the infection intersects with human recklessness and urban mayhem.
The music — credited to Ivan Reitman — is simple, spare and memorable, with a recurring piano motif that subtly enhances the film’s creeping dread. Structurally, Rabid almost plays like a road movie at times, drifting from place to place as the outbreak spreads, reinforcing the sense of unstoppable movement and loss of control.
Rabid may be rough around the edges, but what Cronenberg achieves on a limited budget is remarkable. It’s smart, unsettling, and quietly devastating — an early body-horror classic that announces a major filmmaker and gives Marilyn Chambers a performance that defines the film long after the final frame.
In Los Angeles, volatile narcotics cop Martin Riggs is partnered with cautious family man Roger Murtaugh. When a suspicious death exposes a major heroin operation, the mismatched detectives are dragged into a violent conspiracy that forges an unlikely bond under fire.
Lethal Weapon (1987) remains a defining moment in modern action cinema - not because it invented the buddy-cop movie, but because it refined and humanised it. Directed by Richard Donner and written by Shane Black, the film pairs two broken cops at opposite ends of life: Mel Gibson's volatile, grief-stricken Martin Riggs and Danny Glover's world-weary family man Roger Murtaugh. What follows is a tough, funny, emotionally grounded action thriller that still holds its shape nearly four decades on.
The heart of the film is the chemistry between Gibson and Glover, which Donner wisely allows to breathe. Their relationship feels earned - antagonistic, wary, and gradually forged through shared danger rather than forced banter. Gibson brings a raw, self-destructive edge to Riggs that was genuinely unsettling at the time, while Glover grounds the film with warmth, humour and restraint. Around them, the supporting cast is strong: Gary Busey is memorable as the unhinged Mr. Joshua, Mitchell Ryan brings icy authority as the villainous General McAllister, Darlene Love gives the film emotional texture, and Tom Atkins adds grit and credibility. Traci Wolfe leaves an impact. Sven-Ole Thorsen appears. Damon Hines and Ebonie Smith are notable along with familiar faces Steve Kahan, and Mary Ellen Trainer.
Visually, the film is elevated by Stephen Goldblatt's cinematography, particularly the striking aerial shots of Los Angeles, which give the film scale and a sense of lived-in geography. Donner's use of real locations - highways, rooftops, suburban streets - grounds the action and gives weight to the danger. Michael Kamen's score, with its bluesy guitar and mournful sax, is iconic, perfectly matching the film's mix of melancholy and hard-edged action.
If there's a weakness, it lies in the extended final fight, which, while entertaining, drags a little longer than it needs to. In hindsight, Gary Busey's demise, though well performed, might have landed with greater impact had it been sharper and more abrupt. Still, these are minor quibbles in a film that fires on almost every other cylinder.
Whether you watch the tighter theatrical cut or the director's cut, Lethal Weapon remains just as effective - funny, tense, emotional and endlessly watchable. It didn't invent the genre, but it perfected the formula through character, craft and chemistry. A timeless action film, and still one of the very best examples of how blockbuster filmmaking can have soul.
Survivors confront violent factions and evolving infected, forcing hard choices about faith, morality, and what it truly means to stay human in a broken world.
28 Years Later: The Bone Temple (2026) picks up directly after 28 Years Later, continuing the saga in a stark, visceral post-apocalyptic Britain. Written by Alex Garland and directed with precision by Nia DaCosta, the film expands the world of the Rage virus while shifting the focus from pure survival horror into the brutal terrain of human cruelty, cult dynamics and moral fracture. Rather than rehash, it moves forward like Romero’s Dead films.
The lead performances are a high point. Ralph Fiennes as Dr. Ian Kelson again brings depth and quiet intensity to every frame to a story packed with brutality.
Alfie Williams's Spike, whose journey through devastation and exploitation anchors the film's human stakes. Jack O'Connell is chilling as Sir Lord Jimmy Crystal, sadistic leader of a vicious gang - his screen presence heightening the film's tension at every turn. Erin Kellyman as Ink (Kellie) and Chi Lewis-Parry as Samson deliver strong supporting work, rounding out a cast that turns this bleak world into something vivid and lived-in.
The direction from DaCosta is assured and unflinching, guiding a story that is linear in its continuation of Danny Boyle's previous film. With great special effects, and gory setups, the cinematography by Sean Bobbitt gives the film a gritty, documentary-like feel, tangible, on-location realism that makes its violence and terror feel immediate and raw.
While the gang's cruelty can be hard to watch, it serves the story's examination of humanity's darker instincts far more potently than the infected themselves.
The score by Hildur Guðnadóttir anchors the film's mood perfectly and the subtle callbacks to the original 28 Days Later theme, especially in the closing moments, give this sequel a sense of thematic continuity. The soundtrack's integration including Duran Duran and Iron Maiden strengthens the narrative's pulse.
Although the story doesn't return the to the island setting of the previous film, thanks to Fiennes it never loses emotional clout. The Bone Temple grapples with questions of morality, survival, faith and loss, giving weight to every blow and every choice. It sets itself up for the next chapter, pleasing 28 Days Later fans while expanding the franchise's emotional and thematic range. Taken together with 28 Years Later, these two films function as one evolving saga - and this instalment stands as a powerful, terrifying, and unexpectedly thoughtful entry in the series.
An ex-revolutionary forced back into conflict when a long-buried enemy resurfaces.
Written by Paul Thomas Anderson and Thomas Pynchon. Anderson also directs, One Battle After Another blending crime, politics and personal stakes into an intriguing, constantly unfolding narrative. Delivering a gripping, character-driven action thriller.
Leonardo DiCaprio is memorable as Bob Ferguson with a mix of humour, exhaustion and resolve, supported by an excellent ensemble: Teyana Taylor, Sean Penn, Benicio del Toro, Regina Hall, and Chase Infiniti. The cast gives the story weight, allowing Anderson's layered storytelling to unfold naturally rather than through exposition. Although Del Toro is excellent, he feels underutilised, while Penn gives one of his best performances todate. That said, Taylor steals every scene.
Anderson's direction is grounded, with a strong on-location feel that gives the film a realistic, lived-in texture. The music by Jonny Greenwood can be a little insistent at times, but it ultimately adds to the gritty crime-thriller atmosphere, reminiscent of 1970s hard boiled films reinforcing tension and momentum.
Overall, intriguing, well-paced and sharply performed, One Battle After Another succeeds through strong storytelling, assured direction and a great cast. It's immersive genre filmmaking - recommended.
