CAPSULE MOVIE REVIEWS: 1-16-26
- 3 days ago
- 14 min read
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My Film Critic pants are quite fetching; they are on, pressed, and ironed. I'm ready to review four new movies in this week's capsule (short) movie reviews for Friday, January 16th, 2026.
Here’s the thing right up front: it is not often that a fourth film in a long-running series turns out to be the best one, especially when that series already has a genuine modern classic sitting at its foundation. But 28 Years Later: The Bone Temple is exactly that case.
This is, without question, the strongest, most moving, most thoughtful entry in the entire 28-cycle, and it’s also one of the most surprising films I’ve seen in a very long time.
Written once again by Alex Garland, whose DNA is now embedded in three of the four films in this series, The Bone Temple feels like the culmination of everything he’s been circling around for more than two decades.
Garland is one of the best writers working today, and this script is not just smart, it’s fearless. It’s philosophical, emotional, unsettling, and deeply humane. Garland has always been interested in ideas more than spectacle, and here he leans into that impulse harder than ever.
This is a movie about rage, yes, but even more so it’s about memory, grief, faith, leadership, and the terrifying ease with which people give themselves over to monsters.
Directed by Nia DaCosta, who absolutely redeems herself after the uneven Candyman remake and the outright mess of The Marvels, this is a stunning piece of work.
DaCosta makes a very bold decision to go in almost the opposite stylistic direction of Danny Boyle’s films. Gone are the frantic iPhone aesthetics, the jittery editing, the freeze-frames, and the visual panic attacks. This movie breathes. It watches. It listens. It lets silence and stillness do a lot of the work, and the result is haunting.
For the record, and I say this every time because it matters: these are not zombies. They are infected people. They did not die and come back to life. They are living human beings afflicted with the Rage Virus.
George A. Romero set the rules, not me. With that out of the way, what The Bone Temple does with the infected is one of the most radical turns the series has ever taken.
The story picks up directly after the events of 28 Years Later. Spike, now orphaned after the death of his mother, finds himself absorbed into a roaming cult known as the Jimmies, led by the grotesque and terrifying Sir Lord Jimmy Crystal, played with chilling charisma by Jack O’Connell.
This group is a nightmare version of survivor culture: a mob driven by ritual, violence, and blind obedience, worshipping their leader as a satanic figure they call Old Nick. They skin people, hang bodies, murder at will, and justify everything through warped mythology and groupthink.
Spike, played again by Alfie Williams, is pulled into this world against his will, watching his remaining innocence erode as he’s forced to survive among monsters who look human. Williams was excellent in the previous film, and while his role here is quieter, his presence is still crucial. He is the emotional anchor inside this madness.
Running parallel to this is the story of Dr. Ian Kelson, played magnificently by Ralph Fiennes, who is the beating heart of the movie. Kelson lives in isolation, having constructed the Bone Temple itself, a vast memorial made from the sterilized bones of the dead.
He is eccentric, brilliant, lonely, soaked in iodine, and clinging to his humanity through memory, music, and stubborn compassion. Fiennes gives one of the best performances of his career: layered, gentle, strange, funny, and profoundly sad.
Kelson forms an unexpected relationship with an Alpha infected known as Samson, played by Chi Lewis-Parry. Instead of killing him, Kelson sedates him, studies him, and slowly begins to communicate with him.
What develops between them is extraordinary. The film dares to suggest that the infected are not lost, that rage may not be the end of the story, and that humanity can flicker back on even in the darkest places.
There is a scene where Kelson and the Alpha sit together listening to Duran Duran’s "Ordinary World," and I’ll be honest, I was wrecked. It’s one of the most beautiful, unexpected, and moving moments I’ve seen in any genre film in years.
The use of music throughout the movie is inspired. Kelson survives by listening to vinyl, to Duran Duran, Radiohead, and Iron Maiden. Music becomes memory. Memory becomes resistance.
And then there’s the moment where Kelson pretends to be Old Nick himself, staging a deranged performance for the Jimmies and breaking into Iron Maiden’s "The Number of the Beast." It is terrifying, hilarious, operatic, and unforgettable. That scene alone is worth the price of admission.
What this movie ultimately argues is that the infected are victims, and the true horror lies in what uninfected humans willingly become. Cult leaders. Mob followers. Skin-wearers. True believers.
This is where Garland directly echoes Romero, who eventually made zombies the protagonists of his own saga and revealed humanity as the actual disease. The Bone Temple completes that evolution.
Visually, the film is gorgeous. Sean Bobbitt’s cinematography is restrained, painterly, and eerie. The violence, when it comes, is brutal, but it’s never indulgent.
This is not a splatter film. This is not a jump-scare factory. It’s quiet, contemplative, and deeply emotional. Some people will be disappointed by that. I was exhilarated by it.
I cried during this movie. More than once. I was spellbound. I walked out shaken, energized, and grateful that a film like this exists.
It ties back beautifully to 28 Days Later without nostalgia-baiting, and it sets the stage for a fifth film that Garland has already written. If that movie gets made, I will be there on day one.
It’s early in the year, but I would be shocked if 28 Years Later: The Bone Temple doesn’t end up on my Top 10 list for 2026.
This is an exceptional film. Thoughtful, brave, emotionally devastating, and quietly hopeful. A masterpiece of post-apocalyptic cinema and one of the best movies I’ve seen in a long, long time. - ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
Night Patrol is an original new horror film and a piece of social commentary that absolutely needs one clarification right up front. This has nothing (and I mean nothing) to do with the terrible, goofy, unfunny 1984 comedy Night Patrol with Linda Blair, Pat Paulsen, Billy Barty, and the Unknown Comic.
This Night Patrol could not be further removed from that nonsense if it tried. This is a ferocious, strange, funny, violent, politically charged, genre-mashing horror film that takes some very big swings. Not all of which connect, but when it works, it works like gangbusters.
It is also, roughly, 1,000 times better than the insanely overrated Sinners, which also features vampire-like creatures and shares similar political, racial, and cultural themes. The difference is that Night Patrol succeeds without ripping off better, more competent films as shamelessly as Sinners did.
The setup starts out grounded enough, rooted in the realities of life in the Los Angeles housing projects, where gang rivalries between the Crips and the Bloods define survival.
Jermaine Fowler plays Xavier, an LAPD officer who grew up in the projects and escaped that life, while his brother Wazi, played by RJ Cyler, is still caught inside it.
When Wazi witnesses his girlfriend’s brutal murder at the hands of an elite LAPD unit known as the Night Patrol, the movie veers hard into territory you absolutely do not see coming. Because this is not just a corrupt police task force story.
This is a full-on supernatural horror movie where that elite unit turns out to be a group of vicious, blood-drinking monsters using gang warfare as cover to wipe out entire communities.
From there, the movie just keeps piling on ideas. Gangs are forced to unite. Cops turn into literal monsters. Zulu mythology and spiritual protection enter the picture. Vampirism becomes a metaphor for systemic violence and exploitation.
And all of it unfolds over the course of one night that feels dangerous, chaotic, and completely unhinged in the best possible way.
Ryan Prows is the kind of filmmaker who loves throwing ten ideas into a blender and hitting purée. Sometimes that works beautifully, sometimes it splatters all over the walls, but it’s never boring.
If you’ve seen his earlier work, like the terrific Lowlife or his segment in the V/H/S series, you know he’s fascinated by the dark underbelly of Los Angeles and by smashing together genres that don’t seem like they should coexist.
In Night Patrol, he’s combining gang warfare, police corruption, vampire mythology, social satire, and grindhouse excess, and the energy level is off the charts.
The cast is clearly having a blast. Jermaine Fowler brings real emotional weight to the role of a man torn between two worlds, while RJ Cyler gives Wazi a mix of vulnerability, rage, and desperation that makes the stakes feel real.
Justin Long continues his fascinating late-career pivot into weird, offbeat horror projects, and he’s terrific here, balancing comedy, creepiness, and genuine pathos. Over the past several years, Long has carved out this strange niche for himself in horror films that are daring, bizarre, and often very funny, and Night Patrol fits right into that streak.
Then there’s CM Punk, the professional wrestler, who turns out to be shockingly effective as a brutal, sadistic leader of the Night Patrol unit. He’s genuinely menacing, clearly enjoying himself, and completely committed to the insanity.
It’s one of those performances that reminds you how great it can be when filmmakers cast outside the usual acting pool and let someone lean into their natural intensity.
The supporting cast, including appearances from musicians and filmmakers like Flying Lotus, only adds to the movie’s strange, lived-in texture.
What really makes Night Patrol stand out is how seriously it takes its social commentary, even while going completely over the top. The movie doesn’t trivialize gang violence or systemic injustice.
Instead, it reframes those horrors through genre filmmaking, turning cops into literal vampires who feed on marginalized communities. It’s not subtle, but it’s not meant to be. This is big, loud, confrontational horror that wants to provoke as much as it wants to entertain.
That said, this is not a flawless movie. Prows throws a lot at the screen, and not every joke lands. Some ideas feel underdeveloped, especially the mythology surrounding the supernatural elements, and the final act does feel rushed, like it’s sprinting to the finish line before it fully earns some of its biggest moments.
There are times when the tonal shifts might make you groan, and moments where the ambition slightly outpaces the execution.
But here’s the thing: I’d much rather watch a movie that swings this hard and occasionally misses than one that plays it safe. Night Patrol is messy, loud, angry, funny, violent, and bursting with personality.
Some people are going to absolutely hate it, and I get that. But I had a great time. It scratches multiple itches at once: crime movie, horror movie, social satire, exploitation flick, and midnight madness crowd-pleaser.
So yes, I’m recommending Night Patrol, with the caveat that you need to be ready for something wild. This is not polite horror. This is not subtle commentary.
This is a big, bloody, ridiculous, and inspired genre mashup that knows exactly what it wants to be, even when it’s tripping over its own ambition. When it works, it's off-the-charts insane. And again, it's so, so much better than Sinners. - ⭐️⭐️⭐️
The Rip brings Matt Damon and Ben Affleck back together once again. At this point, their partnership is one of the most fascinating long-term creative relationships in modern Hollywood.
From Good Will Hunting, where they won an Oscar together and announced themselves as major talents, through early collaborations like School Ties, the Kevin Smith movies, and later projects like The Last Duel and Air, these two have figured out how to evolve together.
They’ve grown older, more confident, more serious, and more willing to take risks, and The Rip feels like a very deliberate attempt to make a tough, unsmiling, old-school crime movie.
This is also the first film from their Artists Equity banner that goes straight to Netflix, which is interesting in itself. Air was meant to be a streaming title too, until early buzz pushed it into theaters.
The Rip doesn’t have that crowd-pleasing, conversational quality. This is a dark, grimy, angry film that clearly wants to echo the gritty crime cinema of the 1970s, and Joe Carnahan leans into that influence hard. You can feel shades of Sidney Lumet all over this thing, along with the lingering shadow of Heat and the moral rot that defined so many great crime movies of that era.
The setup is simple and familiar. A Miami Tactical Narcotics Team stumbles upon a massive stash of cartel money during a raid, the kind of “rip” that cops fantasize about and fear in equal measure.
Once the cash is found, protocol traps the team inside the stash house overnight, and that’s when the paranoia starts to spread. Trust erodes. Old resentments surface. Everyone begins to wonder who’s going to blink first, who’s already compromised, and who’s willing to burn everything down to walk away rich.
This is not a new story. Movies about stolen money and the corrosive power of greed have been around forever, and some of the best films ever made are built on that exact premise.
I kept thinking about Sam Raimi’s A Simple Plan, which I still think is the gold standard for this particular subgenre, along with films like No Country for Old Men, The Killing, and Hell or High Water.
The idea that “found” money will somehow come without consequences has always been one of cinema’s great lies, and The Rip understands that tradition very well.
What makes the movie work as well as it does is the cast and the seriousness of the approach. Damon and Affleck play against type in an interesting way. Damon’s Dane Dumars is the more measured presence, a guy trying to keep some sense of order as everything starts to unravel.
Affleck, on the other hand, is pure volatility, like a lit fuse pacing the room, daring someone to step on it. Their tension feels real, lived-in, and dangerous, and it’s refreshing to see them play this material completely straight.
There’s no winking at the camera, no buddy-movie charm offensive, no jokey callbacks to their past collaborations. This is grim business, and they treat it that way.
Joe Carnahan, who has always been a frustratingly uneven filmmaker, finally feels like he’s back in his wheelhouse here. After exploding onto the scene with Blood, Guts, Bullets and Octane and then making the excellent Narc, his career has zigzagged wildly.
There have been some fun detours, like The A-Team and The Grey, and some real misfires. But The Rip is easily his strongest work in years and his best crime film since Narc.
You can tell he’s energized by the material, and he stages the action with confidence, clarity, and brutality. The shootouts are tense, the violence feels ugly and consequential, and the pacing, for the most part, keeps the pressure cranked high.
The supporting cast is outstanding. Steven Yeun continues to be one of the most reliable and interesting actors working today, bringing quiet intensity and ambiguity to his role.
Teyana Taylor, coming off an incredible year and riding the momentum of her work in One Battle After Another, proves once again that she’s a force. She brings depth, intelligence, and emotional weight to a character that could have easily been a stock supporting role.
Scott Adkins, who never gets enough credit for how physically gifted and disciplined he is, delivers some terrific, grounded action work that gives the movie real muscle.
Visually, the film looks great. Miami is photographed as a sweaty, nocturnal pressure cooker, all neon glow and moral decay. The atmosphere does a lot of the heavy lifting, and Carnahan wisely lets the city become part of the story.
This is not a glossy postcard version of Miami. It’s grimy, dangerous, and claustrophobic, which fits the tone perfectly.
That said, the movie is not without its problems. At over two hours, it’s too long, and there are at least twenty minutes that could have been shaved off to tighten the tension.
The story, while effective, doesn’t offer many surprises, and if you’ve seen enough crime movies, you can predict where most of this is heading. The themes of greed, corruption, and moral compromise are well-worn, and The Rip doesn’t reinvent them so much as execute them competently.
But competence counts for a lot when it’s paired with strong performances, solid direction, and a clear sense of purpose. This feels like a grown-up movie made by people who care about craft, tone, and character, even if the narrative terrain is familiar.
As a return to form for Carnahan and a showcase for Damon and Affleck doing serious, grounded work together, it’s a success.
Is it perfect? No. Is it original? Not particularly. But it’s tough, well-made, tense, and anchored by a terrific cast, and it scratches that itch for a solid, old-fashioned crime thriller.
For a Netflix release, this is better than most, and it’s absolutely worth your time. - ⭐️⭐️⭐️
The title Sheepdog comes straight out of the opening moments of the film, referencing a quote from Lieutenant Colonel Dave Grossman: “I’m a sheepdog. I live to protect the flock and confront the wolf.” In combat, the wolf is the enemy.
But Sheepdog is really interested in what happens when the war is over. The battlefield is gone, and that sheepdog comes home still wired for danger, still braced for attack, still unable to shut it off. That’s where this movie lives, and that’s where it hurts.
This is the second feature film from actor-director Steven Grayhm, and it confirms something his first film already suggested: this guy knows what he’s doing behind the camera. His debut, The Secret of Sinchanee, was a moody, creepy little folk-horror gem that flew way under the radar but showed real control over atmosphere, pacing, and tone.
Sheepdog is a very different animal. This is not a horror film, although it absolutely contains horrific elements. Emotional horror. Psychological horror. The kind that doesn’t let you relax because it feels too real.
Grayhm writes, directs, and stars here as Calvin Cole, a decorated U.S. Army combat veteran suffering from severe PTSD. After a violent public incident witnessed by his wife and child, Calvin is court-mandated into therapy.
Enter Dr. Elecia Knox, a VA trauma therapist-in-training played by Virginia Madsen, who brings warmth, humor, patience, and a very grounded humanity to the role. She’s not portrayed as some miracle worker or pop-psychology savior.
She’s learning. She’s working nights at a diner to pay for school. She’s figuring it out as she goes, just like Calvin is.
As if therapy alone weren’t enough, Calvin’s already fragile progress is complicated by the arrival of his estranged father-in-law, Whitney St. Germain, a Vietnam veteran who’s just been released from prison after thirty years.
He’s played by Vondie Curtis-Hall, and he is phenomenal. Curtis-Hall brings authenticity, gravity, and lived-in pain to the role, and every scene he shares with Grayhm crackles with history and unspoken resentment.
This is generational trauma made flesh. Two soldiers from two different wars, both damaged, both carrying their own versions of silence, guilt, and rage.
What Sheepdog does better than most films about PTSD is that it doesn’t pretend healing is neat or cinematic. It’s messy. It’s repetitive. It’s frustrating. The film leans heavily into the concept of post-traumatic growth, the idea that something positive can emerge from trauma, not by erasing it, but by confronting it honestly.
Real veteran organizations were involved in the making of this film, and that authenticity shows. The therapy sessions, the language, the emotional beats: all feel earned. Nothing here feels glib or manufactured.
That said, the movie is not without its flaws. It does drift into soap-operatic territory at times, leaning on familiar emotional shorthand when it doesn’t always need to. The film is a bit too long, and it is repetitive in places.
The flashback structure, particularly the scenes involving Calvin’s children, is muddy and distracting. It’s often unclear where these moments fit in the timeline, and instead of deepening our understanding, they sometimes pull focus away from what’s happening in the present.
There’s also a supporting character problem. Matt Dallas plays Calvin’s best friend and fellow veteran, a role that feels like it should matter more than it ultimately does. He’s set up as important, but then largely sidelined, which feels like a missed opportunity.
The final act brings a lot of characters together and gestures toward resolution without fully earning it, leaving some emotional threads hanging.
Despite those issues, Sheepdog works. It works because of its performances. It works because of its sincerity. It works because it is clearly made by people who care deeply about the subject matter.
Steven Grayhm gives a raw, committed performance that never feels self-indulgent. Virginia Madsen, one of my favorite actresses, is terrific here, bringing humor, compassion, and realism to a role that could have easily turned preachy.
And Vondie Curtis-Hall is the emotional backbone of the movie, delivering scenes that are deep, uncomfortable, and genuinely moving.
This is not an easy film to watch. Nor should it be. It confronts the reality of PTSD, the isolation many veterans face, and how often they are ignored, misunderstood, or left to fend for themselves once they come home. It asks hard questions and doesn’t always provide tidy answers.
Yes, the film has structural problems. Yes, some clichés creep in. Yes, the flashbacks don’t work as well as they should. But the message is strong, the authenticity is undeniable, and the central performances are powerful.
Despite its flaws, Sheepdog is absolutely worth seeing, especially for anyone who wants a deeper understanding of what combat trauma looks like long after the war is supposedly over. I recommend it. - ⭐️⭐️⭐️
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