If you’ve seen The Raid or The Raid 2, you’re plenty familiar with the Gareth Evans brand of Gun Fu. With Havoc, he brings the same breakneck blood sport to Netflix. And by the time he’s done, you’ll be amazed none of that splatter got on your sofa.
Expect violence, turned up to eleven.
Tom Hardy takes the lead as Walker, a hardened detective in a seedy, unnamed metropolis. It’s clear Walker has taken part in his share of dirty dealings, and he’s looking for a way to finally get clear of owing local politician Lawrence Beaumont (Forest Whitaker) anything at all.
Walker gets his chance when Beaumont’s estranged son Charlie (Justin Cornwell) is part of a drug deal gone way wrong, and quickly earns a death sentence from a vengeful crime lord.
If Walker can get Charlie out of the city alive, all debts to Daddy Beaumont will be settled.
His forthright partner Ellie (Jessie Mei Li) brings the integrity Walker gave up long ago, and together they sort through increasing levels of goons, guns and corruption to complete the mission.
Yes, levels. Yes, like a video game. Writer/director Evans is careful to craft the setting as a familiar but ambiguous cesspool where escape will only be possible via wave upon wave of martial arts homages, frenetic camerawork and relentless bloodletting.
When it doubt, keep shooting.
Does it get ridiculous? Damn right it does, but Hardy keeps it grounded in anti-hero righteousness, a game supporting cast (including the always welcome Timothy Olyphant and Obstacle Corpse standout Gareth Tidball) fleshes out all the edges, and Evans brings the visual calling cards that anchor a savage ballet of bullets.
Is Havoc deep? Not at all. But does it hit the target? Yes it does, and anything else that might be in the vicinity.
The gorgeous new restoration of 1972’s Pink Floyd at Pompeii delivers a beautifully discordant glimpse of a transitional period for one of music’s most important rock bands. Gorgeously restored image and sound immerse you in Floyd’s music.
Adrian Maben’s doc focuses primarily on Floyd’s 1971 trip to Italy, with performances recorded live in the ruins of the Pompeii Amphitheatre to an audience of only crew . The setlist (including selections recorded later in Paris) consists of some of Floyd’s more loosely constructed symphonic jams—Careful with that Axe Eugene, Echoes, Set the Controls for the Heart of the Sun, One of These Days—which frees Maben visually from the need to capture a singer. Rather, he lets Floyd’s trippier melodic concoctions provide a soundscape for various images. Sometimes eerily beautiful landscapes and vistas populate the screen, while elsewhere the filmmaker turns the camera to period artwork.
Maben punctuates the live cuts with bits of interviews and fly-on-the-wall footage as the band shares a meal. David Gilmour seems forever in need of a glass of milk, while drummer Nick Mason’s request for apple pie goes unanswered. These brief snippets, though borderline Spinal Tap, balance the live performance’s grandiosity with a sweet bit of banality.
Yes, both Gilmour and Roger Waters get their screen time, but late keyboardist Richard Wright also finds his time in the spotlight while Mason often draws most of Maben’s interest. His manic drumming and respectful requests for “no crust” are a delight, and the interplay between all the band members is a bittersweet counter to the rancor that erupted in years to come.
Wisely, the restoration includes material that had made its way into an earlier director’s cut. We spend time in Abby Road studios with the band as they work through tracks for their as-yet-unreleased masterwork Dark Side of the Moon album.
It’s the perfect balance. The live, undiluted imagination and experimentation that marked Pink Floyd’s early career gives way to the masterful, controlled artistry of the album that would redefine the band (and music history).
Even for Floyd fans who have seen much of this before, the new restoration – especially the IMAX version hitting select theaters – is a must. It not only gives some classic early jams due respect, it provides a fascinating glimpse at the days just before a legendary rock band stepped into its future.
Watching the 2011 genre classic Cabin in the Woods when it came out, you couldn’t help but think it would make a great video game. Each new level could bring on a different one of those beasties from the elevator, and you’d have to try to survive them all to win. Fun!
Until Dawn, the new horror flick from David F. Sandberg (Lights Out, Annabelle: Creation), follows exactly this logic. It’s as if someone did make that video game, then turned that game into a movie. Which is kind of what happened.
Sandberg and writers Blair Butler (The Invitation, Hell Fest) and Gary Dauberman (the Annabelle, Nun, and It franchises, among others) retool the popular Until Dawn survival game to give it more of a cinematic structure. Five friends, out on a road trip to remember a pal who’s been missing for a year, stumble upon a long-abandoned welcome center.
They spy their missing friend’s name in the register. It’s in there 13 times.
Next thing you know, time loop horror overtakes the friends as one malevolent force after another descends upon the welcome center. As soon as all five friends are dead, an hourglass resets, they revive, and the next wave of horror hits.
Peter Stormare lends his effortless creepiness to the proceedings, which benefit from his performance as well as work from an ensemble that’s better than the script demands. Belmont Cameli and Hellraiser’s Odessa A’zion are particularly effective, but all five friends break free of the tropiness of their roles to find familiar, human centers.
It had to have been hard, as their characters continually make the dumbest decisions possible.
The film feels terribly confined by its premise. Rather than the gleeful celebration of all things monstrous that made Cabin in the Woods such a joy, Until Dawn lacks inspiration. The set design never rises above a seasonal haunt aesthetic, the creature design lacks imagination, and the repetitive nature of the time loop grows tedious.
It shouldn’t come as a great surprise, given the filmmakers. Dauberman’s hit big a couple of times, but his fare is mainly middling. Sandberg’s genre films are exclusively mediocre, and Butler’s work rarely reaches that height.
But Until Dawnis not a complete waste of time. Sandberg doesn’t skimp on bloodshed, and the cast really elevates the material. It’s no classic, but it offers a bit of bloody fun.
Director Duncan Skiles’s latest, Neighborhood Watch, delivers a tense and unpretentious thriller about a young man debilitated by childhood trauma who witnesses a kidnapping. When the police don’t believe him, he teams up with a disgraced campus security guard to find the victim.
Jack Quaid (Novocaine, Companion) is Simon, so crippled by his childhood that he hallucinates, his every thought accompanied by a running commentary in the voice of his abusive father. He can’t convince the police of what he’s seen, and in his desperation, drags his unpleasant and reluctant neighbor Ed (Jeffrey Dean Morgan) into the mystery.
Neighborhood Watch is a buddy comedy without the comedy, and it is funny how stripping away the humor allows the relationship between these two lonely men to breathe in very human ways.
Morgan’s a spitfire, but one you recognize—your dad, your uncle, your neighbor, somebody who’s fighting the feeling of uselessness with condescension and inappropriate action. It would have been very easy to overplay Ed. Instead, Morgan nails a good-humored bitterness that gives way, little by little, to compassion and genuine usefulness.
Quaid works fiercely against easy, tropey characterization. There’s nothing cloying or patronizing in the performance. Rather, Simon is a frustrated, intelligent, decent person trying to do what’s right. The unselfconscious humility in both performances allows even the most overwritten moments of bonding to feel earned.
Sean Farley’s script includes a few too many plot conveniences, to the point that sometimes Neighborhood Watch feels like a network drama. Except that our focal points are not the police investigators, but two damaged nobodies with nothing better to do. Something about that helps the film transcend cliché.
Neighborhood Watch is an example of direction and performance elevating a script. The plot itself is far from unique. Indeed, its central mystery has become Hollywood shorthand for feel good heroism.
But Skiles looks past knee jerk, self-congratulatory action in favor of context, his camera lingering on the blight of old suburbia. In this unglamorous world of perms and coupons, polyester and bus passes, two losers that life passed by just try to do one good thing. The humble simplicity is surprisingly moving.
Cronenberg’s gonna Cronenberg. Isn’t that why we love him? Whether it’s 1983’s Videodrome or 2022’sCrimes of the Future, Dead Ringers (1988) or A Dangerous Method (2011), 1996’s Crash, 1986’s The Fly, or his first feature, Shivers (1976), David Cronenberg is fascinated by the human body, sex, technology, and conspiracies in a way distinctly his own.
Even as you can kind of expect the expected in his latest, The Shrouds, the film is simultaneously more personal and less like a David Cronenberg movie than anything he’s made.
Vincent Cassel is Cronenberg’s stand in, Karsh Relikh, a man who, like Cronenberg, once made industrial videos but now creates opportunities for those who are interested to watch bodies rot. Karsh owns GraveTech, cemeteries with tech built into shrouds that wrap bodies. The shrouds contain micro xray cameras that allow mourners to see their loved ones—on a screen placed in the headstone, or conveniently on their phone.
It was Karsh’s overpowering grief after losing his wife Becca (Diane Kruger) that inspired the technology. But this being a Cronenberg film, the tech can’t be trusted.
Because Cassel is so clearly, right down to his hair style, playing Cronenberg’s avatar, it’s only fitting that Cronenberg plays with that idea. Hunny, an AI personal assistant programmed by Karsh’s former brother-in-law, Maury (Guy Pearce) even looks like Karsh’s late wife (also voiced by Kruger).
But is Hunny friend or foe? And does Maury have anything to do with the recent vandalism of the graves? Or is Becca’s sister (Kruger again) right in thinking it’s all a medical conspiracy?
The intrigue feels vaguely like Scanners or Videodrome, while the chilly sexuality pulls from the same preoccupations that fueled Crash. But Cronenberg leans more on dialogue and Douglas Koch’s precise cinematography to tell this story than any outright horror.
The Shrouds is not the kind of body horror usually associated with Cronenberg, but his corporeal obsession is more pronounced here than maybe any other film. Karsh is fixated on his wife’s body—the pieces lost during her struggle with cancer, its fate under the ground. It all feels like the filmmaker is asking us to accompany him on his own journey, not just through grief but through his reflection on his own preoccupations as a filmmaker.
Unfortunately, that doesn’t make for an especially compelling or exciting movie. The pace is slow, the performances stilted to match the dialog, and the resolution is nonexistent. The Shrouds has a grotesquely beautiful dreamlike quality, and it teems with notions both weird and fascinating. It just can’t pull that pull it all together into an entertaining whole.
It’s 1973. Men in black suits with wicker cages on their heads lead a goat up a path to a wedding.
“Who invited them?” asks the bride.
“Nobody invites them. That’s the whole point.”
OK. I am in. Writer/director Aislin Clarke’s Frewaka—Irish folk horror told in the ancient tongue—grabs you early and clings to you like a melancholic Irish ballad.
After the wedding prologue, the film jumps to present day with a limp, a song, a lot of rosaries and a bang. Then Shoo (Clare Monnelly) takes a homecare nursing gig out in the countryside, caring for Peig (Bríd Ní Neachtain), who might be a little mad. She talks gibberish of listeners, a house below her house, and of being abducted on her wedding day by mysterious folk.
Clare has her own problems, but the longer she’s with Peig, the weirder the world becomes.
I dig a good Irish horror show and Frewaka (Irish for “roots”) delivers a trippy experience rooted in the fears, history and earth of Ireland. Clarke links generational trauma to Ireland’s traumatic history in a story about the upside-down world of mental illness and the fear of becoming your mother.
Wicker Man moments inject something insidious and sinister into the fable. Monnelly and Neachtain share a natural chemistry. Their performances are never showy, and that low key authenticity grounds the uncanniness of the story.
Clarke’s 2018 feature directorial debut The Devil’s Doorway tread some similar ground, upending the exorcism genre to expose Ireland’s caustic relationship with Catholicism. Her second feature is far more assured, far less predictable, and it boasts a richer and more layered composition.
There’s something obvious and unsatisfying in the climax that limits the film’s impact. Clarke opens strong and her cast keeps you guessing and engaged for as long as they can, but in the end, it feels as if she clung too closely to tales we already know. That can’t erase the mounting dread and nightmare imagery, though.
To Michael Peterson’s credit, he tried something new within the exhausted exorcism subgenre. Working from a script by Tim Cairo, Peterson’s Shadow of God wonders whether God’s will is really such a great deal for humans.
Mark O’Brien (Ready or Not) is Father Mason, an exorcist forced to take a leave of absence when his colleagues begin dying during their rituals. He is forbidden to perform an exorcism until the church can investigate. So, I guess it’s too bad he’s so convinced that his dad (Shaun Johnston) is possessed.
There’s a lot going on with Fr. Mason’s dad, not the least of which is that he died of a gunshot wound years back when police raided the cult he led. Pretty surprising, then, when Dad turns up at the cabin.
Here’s what you’re working with: Catholic priest, undead (resurrected?) father, cultists, isolated small town, cabin. Lucifer (Josh Cruddas, Anything for Jackson) makes an appearance, plus there’s lust in Fr. Mason’s heart for his old friend Tanis (Jacqueline Byers, Prey for the Devil). She’s a war veteran and psychologist, so the battle between divinity and psychology gets a nod as well. Plus, loads of childhood trauma.
Quite a mishmash of horror mainstays. Peterson and his cast make a valiant attempt at keeping it all afloat, but Shadow of God would probably have been better served by a bit of streamlining. The film’s big revelation, a subversive idea that certainly merits its own film, deserved a tighter focus.
Instead, enormous leaps in logic paired with wholly irrational decision-making obscure the mystery that might make the big revelation more intriguing.
The FX are bad. The Raiders of the Lost Ark moment is silly. But in terms of reconsidering exorcism tropes, Shadow of God has some big ideas. They don’t entirely work, but at least it’s novel.
We love Canada! As that nation’s proud neighbors to the south, we were thrilled to welcome Joey from horrorfacts.com to Fright Club to parse out the 5 best Canadian horror films. What makes it Canadian? It has to be directed by a Canadian, shot in Canada and, to the degree it’s possible to tell, set in Canada.
5. Red Rooms (2023)
True crime culture. Serial killer groupies. The Dark Web. Does all of it seem too grim, too of-the-moment, too cliché to make for a deeply affecting thriller these days? Au contraire, mon frère. Québécois Pascal Plante makes nimble use of these elements to craft a nailbiter of a serial killer thriller with his latest effort, Red Rooms.
Plante expertly braids vulnerability and psychopathy, flesh and glass, humanity and the cyber universe for a weirdly compelling peek at how easily one could slide from one world to the other.
His real magic trick—one that remarkably few filmmakers have pulled off—is generating edge-of-your-seat anxiety primarily with keyboard clicks, computer screens and wait times. But the tension Plante builds—thanks to Juliette Gariépy’s precise acting—is excruciating. They keep you disoriented, fascinated, a little repulsed and utterly breathless.
4. Pontypool (2008)
Canadian director Bruce McDonald’s shock jock horror film is best appreciated as a metaphor on journalistic responsibility and the damage that words can do. Radio air personality and general pot-stirrer Grant Mazzy (Stephen McHattie) finds himself kicked out of yet another large market and licking his wounds in the small time – Pontypool, Ontario, to be exact. But he’s about to find himself at the epicenter of a national emergency.
McDonald uses sound design and the cramped, claustrophobic space of the radio studio to wondrous effect as Mazzy and his producers broadcast through some kind of zombie epidemic, with Mazzy goosing on the mayhem in the name of good radio. As he listens to callers describe the action, and then be eaten up within it, the veteran McHattie compels attention while McDonald tweaks tensions.
Shut up or die is the tagline for the film. Fitting, as it turns out that what’s poisoning the throng, turning them into mindless, violent zombies, are the very words spewing at them. It’s a clever premise effectively executed, and while McDonald owes debts all around to previous efforts, his vision is unique enough to stand out and relevant enough to leave an impression.
3. Possessor (2020)
Brandon Cronenberg’s created a gorgeous techno world, its lulling disorientation punctuated by some of the most visceral horror to make it to the screen this year. There is something admirably confident about showing your influences this brazenly.
Credit Cronenberg, too, for the forethought to cast the two leads as females (Jennifer Jason Leigh playing the remarkable Andrea Riseborough’s boss). The theme of the film, if driven by males, would have been passe and obvious. With females, though, it’s not only more relevant and vital, but more of a gut punch when the time comes to cash the check.
Possessor is a meditation on identity, sometimes very obviously so, but the underlying message takes that concept and stabs you in your still-beating heart with it.
2. Ginger Snaps (2000)
Sisters Ginger and Bridget, outcasts in the wasteland of Canadian suburbia, cling to each other, and reject/loathe high school (a feeling that high school in general returns).
On the evening of Ginger’s first period, she’s bitten by a werewolf. Writer Karen Walton cares not for subtlety: the curse, get it? It turns out, lycanthropy makes for a pretty vivid metaphor for puberty. This turn of events proves especially provocative and appropriate for a film that upends many mainstay female cliches.
Walton’s wickedly humorous script stays in your face with the metaphors, successfully building an entire film on clever turns of phrase, puns and analogies, stirring up the kind of hysteria that surrounds puberty, sex, reputations, body hair and one’s own helplessness to these very elements. It’s as insightful a high school horror film as you’ll find, peppered equally with dark humor and gore.
1. Videodrome (1983)
Videodrome was the last truly Canadian film in David Conenberg’s arsenal, and it showed an evolution in his preoccupations with body horror, media, and technology as well as his progress as a filmmaker.
James Woods plays sleazy TV programmer Max Renn, who pirates a program he believes is being taped in Malaysia – a snuff show, where people are slowly tortured to death in front of viewers’ eyes. But it turns out to be more than he’d bargained for. Corporate greed, zealot conspiracy, medical manipulation all come together in this hallucinatory insanity that could only make sense with Cronenberg at the wheel.
Deborah Harry co-stars, and Woods shoulders his abundant screen time quite well. What? James Woods plays a sleaze ball? Get out! Still, he does a great job with it. But the real star is Cronenberg, who explores his own personal obsessions, dragging us willingly down the rabbit hole with him. Long live the new flesh!
Ryan Coogler can direct the hell out of a movie, can’t he?
For Sinners, he reteams with longtime creative partner Michael B. Jordan to sing a song of a 1932 Mississippi juke joint. The Smokestack twins (Jordan) are back from Chicago, a truckload of ill-gotten liquor and a satchel full of cash along with them. They intend to open a club “for us, by us” and can hardly believe their eyes when three hillbillies come calling.
Jack O’Connell (an amazing actor in everything he’s done since Eden Lake) has a brogue and a banjo. He and his two friends would love to come on in, sing, dance, and spend some money, if only Smoke would invite them.
He does not.
The night becomes a standoff between those inside the club and those outside, but by the time Act 2 sets its fangs, Coogler and his terrific ensemble already have you invested in everyone inside.
The great Delroy Lindo effortlessly charms as bluesman Delta Slim. Wunmi Mosaku (His House, Lovecraft Country) works with Coogler’s direction to turn the horror trope “supernatural expert” (the one person who can explain to the others what’s going on and how to stop it) into the film’s broken heart.
Newcomer Miles Caton shines as the young blues guitarist whose voice is so sweet it can conjure the devil.
The setting and period suit the film beautifully, giving Coogler room to play with ideas of religion and redemption, music and temptation, and everything else that offers hope to the powerless. Every character carries a rich history that you can feel.
Jordan impresses in dual roles, carving out unique but dependent characters. O’Connell delivers lines and lyrics with a lived-in magic, twisting together Coogler’s insightful ideas about how prayer and song are often tools of the oppressor.
It’s scary. It’s sexy. The action slaps. It’s funny when it needs to be, sad just as often. It looks and sounds incredible. And there’s a cameo from Buddy F. Guy, in case you needed a little authenticity.
When Ryan Coogler writes and directs a vampire movie, he gives you reason to believe there is yet new life for the old monster.
Are we done clutching our pearls about the recent Snow White update? They’re about to get plenty gooey.
Really, writer/director Emilie Blichfeldt doesn’t care either way, she’s too busy infusing her feature debut with an impossible-to-ignore blast of sharp wit, subdued rage, and grotesque bodily horrors.
Yes, The Ugly Stepsister(Den stygge stesøsteren) the latest new angle to a classic tale, but don’t expect it follow the trend of humanizing misunderstood villains. Blichfeldt makes sure there are plenty of bad guys and girls throughout this Norwegian Cinderella story, punctuated by grisly violence surprisingly close to what’s in the 17th Century French version of the fairy tale penned by Charles Perrault.
As her mother Rebekka (Ane Del Torp) is set to marry the wealthy Otto (Ralph Carlsson), braces-wearing, teenage gawk Elvira (Lea Myren, amazing) dreams of one day marrying handsome Prince Julian (Isac Calmroth). But not long after Mom, Elvira and sister Alma (Flo Fagerli) move into Otto’s manor, he drops dead and new stepsister Agnes (the awesomely named Thea Sofie Loch Næss) drops a bomb.
Otto was the one trying to marry for money. They’re broke.
You know the plan that’s hatched: Elvira has to marry Prince Julian. If she can prove herself to be the most beautiful and charming of the “noble virgins” assembled at the upcoming ball, Elvira can secure the family’s future. Neither physical imperfection nor that slut Agnes is going to get in Elvira’s way.
As Elvira learns that “beauty is pain,” Blichfeldt’s aesthetic recalls both Cronenberg and Fargeat, with wince-inducing procedures, the oozing of bodily fluids, and a proud, unflinching satirical lens. This is Blichfeldt’s reminder that these impossible beauty standards have a long history, as do slut shaming, compromised nobility and the limited options of desperation.
Plenty of ugliness to go around.
Myren carries the film with a transformational performance that parallels the impressive physical changes. Elvira arrives as a shy, impressionable child, but when she begins to resemble the required standard, the toll to keep it – while not quite as garish as in The Substance – is equally destructive.
The Ugly Stepsister is fierce, funny, gross and subversively defiant. But is one feature film enough to immediately put Blichfeldt on the watch list of cinema’s feminist hell raisers?
