CAPSULE MOVIE REVIEWS: 10-10-25
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My Film Critic pants are quite fetching; they are on, pressed, and ironed. I'm ready to review six new movies in this week's capsule (short) movie reviews for Friday, October 10th, 2025.
I'm going to start by saying something that might get me kicked out of a certain nostalgic corner of sci-fi fandom: I am not a Tron fan.
When the original came out in 1982, I was a junior in high school heading into my senior year. It was the summer of Road Warrior, Blade Runner, The Thing, and Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan.
And in the middle of all that brilliance came this supposedly "revolutionary" computer movie that, for all its groundbreaking visual effects, felt dull, soulless, and just plain boring.
Even with Jeff Bridges (my favorite actor on the planet), Tron was a slog. It was like watching someone describe programming while trapped in a blacklight poster. People called it "visionary." I called it "nap time."
But Tron, of course, became a cult classic. People loved the neon grids, the identity discs, the "End of Line" nonsense. I didn't. Even the video game, which everyone in every arcade loved, left me cold. (I'll give it this: the light cycles were cool. Everything else? Dumb.)
Then came Tron: Legacy in 2010, which was a sequel that was supposed to revive the franchise, reimagine the world, and "push visual storytelling into the next generation." It was just as stupid as the first one.
Once again, I didn't care about the programs or the programmers, the digital realm or its glow-stick politics. The effects were fine, the story nonexistent, and the infamous "de-aged" Jeff Bridges was nightmare fuel; it was like watching The Dude run through a PlayStation 2 cutscene.
Now, fifteen years later, we get Tron: Ares, a movie that somehow manages to be worse than both. It's a reboot, a sequel, a "soft continuation," and a loud, blinding migraine all at once.
This time, the story centers around Ares (Jared Leto), a self-aware digital program who somehow makes it into the real world.
He's created by Julian Dillinger (Evan Peters, playing a tech-bro villain so cartoonish he makes Jesse Eisenberg's Lex Luthor look restrained) and sent on a mission that involves something called "the Permanence Code."
I could try to explain what that is, but it doesn't matter. It's a glowing MacGuffin that everyone wants because it controls "the future of AI," whatever the hell that means.
Greta Lee plays Eve Kim, the CEO of ENCOM, trying to keep things noble while Dillinger Systems (run by Peters) tries to weaponize Ares' technology.
There's talk of AI supremacy, 3D printing, permanence algorithms, you know, all the buzzwords you can cram into a screenplay written by people who clearly learned everything they know about computers from watching The Matrix on mute.
Meanwhile, Ares (the digital messiah, named after the Greek god of war) starts having "feelings" and learning to be human. It's Pinocchio in a server rack. Or maybe Frankenstein with better lighting. It's every bad sci-fi trope about machines yearning to be real, just recycled, rebooted, and rendered in retina-searing CGI.
This movie is loud. I saw it in IMAX, and I swear my ears are still ringing. The score by Nine Inch Nails is relentless. It is pounding, overmixed, obnoxious, and completely overwhelming. It's like they scored the entire movie with one long bass drop. I would've fallen asleep (and trust me, I wanted to) if it weren't so damn loud.
Visually, it's the usual Disney spectacle: dazzling effects, endless CGI, everything polished within an inch of its life. But none of it means anything. The visuals are gorgeous, sure, but they're serving a story that's as hollow as a broken hard drive.
Let's start with Jared Leto. Once again, he's terrible. He's a void of charisma, a walking blank slate, and somehow perfect casting for a soulless AI program... but not in a good way. Every time he opens his mouth, it feels like a parody of "intensity."
Greta Lee looks completely lost here; you can see her thinking, "Why did I sign up for this?" Jodie Turner-Smith channels Grace Jones as Ares' lieutenant, Athena, and deserves better material. Hasan Minhaj shows up as a smirking tech guy who clearly knows how bad this script is.
And Evan Peters...oh my God. He's a pretty reliable, good young actor, but this performance is unwatchable. He plays Julian Dillinger like he's auditioning for a cyberpunk remake of The Mask. Every line is shouted, every gesture is exaggerated, and every second he's on screen is agony.
Even Gillian Anderson can't save it, though she tries, bringing her natural gravitas (and a hint of X-Files nostalgia) to a nothing role.
Jeff Bridges shows up for one scene, and, of course, he's the only good thing in the movie. He's older now, no de-aging, no fake face, just Jeff being Jeff.
He slides into that cool, soulful, "Dude Zen" space that only he can do. It's a tiny spark of warmth and humanity in a film that otherwise feels entirely synthetic. He makes terrible material bearable because, well, he's Jeff Bridges, and Jeff Bridges rules.
Disney reportedly spent around $170 million on this thing, and you can see every dollar; unfortunately, none of it went to the script. It's a soulless, corporate Frankenstein of recycled IP and algorithm-approved story beats.
It's Johnny Mnemonic without the Keanu coolness, Pinocchio without the heart, and The Matrix Reloaded without the brilliant philosophy.
And yeah, it looks good (slick, shiny, glowing), but so does an empty pop can.
Even the attempts at humor or cultural commentary are embarrassing. There's a pseudo-clever exchange about Depeche Mode versus Mozart that tries to be witty and ends up being painful.
They refer to Depeche Mode as an "'80s pop band," completely ignoring that their best, darkest work came in the '90s... you know, when Nine Inch Nails, the guys who scored this fiasco, were making lesser music. So even their pop culture references are wrong.
Tron: Ares is everything wrong with modern blockbuster filmmaking. It's big, loud, joyless, and pointless. It is a product, not a movie. It's an overlong, overproduced, neon-glazed assault on the senses that mistakes volume for energy and CGI for imagination.
If you're a diehard Tron fan, you may find some nostalgia in the glowing lines and digitized landscapes. But for everyone else (and especially for me, someone who never cared about this world to begin with), this was sheer torture.
It's one of the worst movies of 2025. A noisy, empty, soulless reboot nobody asked for. The longest two hours I've spent in a theater all year.
A glorified two-hour Nine Inch Nails music video masquerading as cinema. And like the worst music videos, it looks cool, sounds loud, and says absolutely nothing. - ⭐️
You really couldn't make up a story like this if you tried, though it's wild enough that Hollywood finally did. Roofman tells the true-life tale of Jeffrey Manchester, a former U.S. Army Reserve officer who became a remarkably polite fast-food bandit. Yes, polite.
This guy robbed over forty McDonald's restaurants in North Carolina, not by kicking down doors or waving a gun around like some cheap action movie villain, but by crawling through the roof in the middle of the night, cleaning out the safe, and apologizing for the inconvenience.
At one point, when locking employees in the freezer during a heist, he noticed a manager didn't have a coat… and gave him his own.
That's Roofman. A criminal, sure, but also a strangely sweet one.
After getting caught and sentenced to forty-five years in prison, Manchester literally pulls a Shawshank-lite move and escapes under a prison bus. Where does he go? To a Toys "R" Us. Yes, a functioning, open-to-the-public Toys "R" Us in Charlotte, North Carolina.
He sneaks into a space between the walls of a display area and sets up shop. He lives undetected for months, sneaking out at night, selling stolen video games for cash, going to church, and even falling in love with a single mom who works in the store. It's insane, but true.
And in Derek Cianfrance's hands (the guy behind Blue Valentine and The Place Beyond the Pines), it's not the wacky caper you might expect. It's a melancholy, beautifully observed story about desperation, loneliness, and the impossible dream of redemption.
Let's get something straight: Roofman is not the goofy, "quirky true crime romp" that the trailers are selling. The ads (with their fast cuts, punchlines, and upbeat indie music) make it look like Napoleon Dynamite robs McDonald's.
That's a lie. This is not a comedy. It's a somber, heartfelt, and occasionally heartbreaking character study. In other words, it's a Derek Cianfrance movie through and through.
You can tell from the first frame. The 35mm cinematography has that grainy, tactile texture he loves. The music is haunting, melancholic, and intimate. The pacing is deliberate, not jokey. There are funny moments, sure, but they're natural... not the "look at this kooky guy living in a toy store!" kind of humor the marketing promises.
What Roofman really is, thematically and emotionally, is of a piece with Blue Valentine and The Place Beyond the Pines: it's about broken men trying to build or rebuild families, haunted by their own bad choices, torn between decency and self-destruction.
Manchester isn't just robbing fast-food joints. He's trying, in his warped way, to prove that he's capable of providing, of being a father, of being a man. Masculinity, fatherhood, guilt, and the impossibility of redemption, all of Cianfrance's recurring obsessions, are here.
Channing Tatum gives what might be his best performance to date. Seriously. He's always had charm, humor, and a surprising emotional depth (Foxcatcher, Blink Twice), but here he taps into something raw.
His Jeffrey Manchester is a man constantly at war with himself; he's a soldier, a criminal, a lover, and a dreamer all wrapped into one exhausted body. He's funny when he needs to be, heartbreaking when he doesn't want to be.
Kirsten Dunst matches him perfectly as Leigh, the Toys "R" Us employee and single mom who falls for him. Their relationship, which is tender, doomed, and quietly electric, feels real. You want them to make it, even though you know it can't end well.
And then there's the rest of this killer ensemble:
Ben Mendelsohn plays the pastor who sees the good in everyone.
Uzo Aduba as his sharp, skeptical wife.
Peter Dinklage as Mitch, the insufferable Toys "R" Us manager who gets under everyone's skin.
LaKeith Stanfield, wonderful as always, plays a fellow vet and black-market hustler who connects Manchester's military past to his criminal present.
Juno Temple brings wild energy as Stanfield's girlfriend.
And the kids, Lily Collias and Kennedy Moyer, are terrific as Dunst's daughters, especially in the way they respond to Tatum's well-meaning but chaotic attempts to fit in.
Like Blue Valentine and The Place Beyond the Pines, Roofman is about what happens when good intentions meet bad instincts. Jeffrey Manchester is a man who wants love and belonging but keeps sabotaging himself.
He's "good" at being a criminal. He's meticulous, methodical, polite, but terrible at being a person. He keeps reaching for connection and keeps breaking everything he touches.
That's the Cianfrance DNA right there: the sadness, the yearning, the tears, the moments of fleeting joy between long stretches of regret. There are balloons. There are fireworks. There's music that aches.
There's even a certain nostalgic beauty in the way Cianfrance shoots the Toys "R" Us itself, with the aisles of blinking lights and colorful toys that feel like a weird, artificial version of the family life Manchester can't quite have.
And while there is humor here, it's rooted in humanity, not irony. The absurdity of the story gives way to empathy, not mockery. You don't laugh at Jeffrey Manchester; you ache for him.
There's one moment near the end that goes a little too far. It's a scene that dips into melodrama when it doesn't need to. But aside from that, Roofman works beautifully.
It's serious, emotional, and strangely exhilarating. It's a film that manages to make you root for a man who absolutely shouldn't be a hero, yet somehow is.
It's also another reminder that Derek Cianfrance is one of the most emotionally honest filmmakers working today. His fascination with broken people trying to patch their lives together continues here, with sensitivity, style, and compassion.
And Channing Tatum (yeah, the Magic Mike guy) proves again that he's way more than a charming face.
That said, I couldn't help but think how fascinating it would've been if Ryan Gosling (Cianfrance's usual muse) had taken this role. With Blue Valentine and The Place Beyond the Pines, this could've been an unofficial trilogy of lost men chasing redemption. But that's just film-nerd speculation. The role belongs to Tatum, and he nails it.
So yes... I'm highly recommending Roofman. Just don't go in expecting a laugh-a-minute, crime-comedy caper. Go in ready for a strange, soulful, unexpectedly moving film about a man who literally hides inside a toy store to escape his reality, only to realize the walls he's trapped behind are the ones he built himself.
A fascinating true story. A terrific film. And a quietly devastating reminder that sometimes the people who most want to do good are the ones who can't stop screwing it up. - ⭐️⭐️⭐️1/2
Few names in comedy bring an instant smile just by saying them out loud. John Candy is one of them. The man was a force of warmth, chaos, and unfiltered kindness wrapped in a mountain of talent.
Colin Hanks' new documentary John Candy: I Like Me takes us back through the life and legacy of one of the most beloved comedians of all time, tracing his path from Toronto kid to Second City legend to international movie star, and, sadly, to his premature death in 1994 at just 43 years old.
The film is, by design, a loving tribute. It plays like a highlight reel of laughter and affection: interviews with Candy's family (his children Christopher and Jennifer, his wife Rosemary), and an all-star list of collaborators and admirers: Tom Hanks, Steve Martin, Eugene Levy, Catherine O'Hara, Mel Brooks, Dan Aykroyd, Martin Short, Bill Murray, Conan O'Brien, and more.
It's a who's who of comedy royalty, and not one of them has a bad word to say. How could they? It's John Candy.
Through rare home videos, behind-the-scenes clips, and never-before-seen rehearsal footage, Hanks gives us access to Candy's world, both on and off the set. The Second City material sings. The SCTV highlights still kill.
The classic film clips (Spaceballs, Splash, Planes, Trains and Automobiles) remind you just how irreplaceable the man was. But the most revealing footage is the off-the-cuff stuff, like Candy riffing between takes, cracking up Catherine O'Hara on the Home Alone set with some deranged bit about rat musk in his jacket.
Those are the moments that remind you: this guy wasn't acting funny. He just was funny.
Let's get this out of the way: John Candy: I Like Me is a good documentary. A really good one, even. It's well-made, briskly paced, and filled with stories that make you smile until your cheeks hurt.
Colin Hanks clearly made this with love, not just because of his personal connection (his father, Tom Hanks, worked with Candy twice and adored him), but because he understands what made Candy special: his generosity. Hanks the younger directs with sincerity, never cynicism, and the film radiates admiration from every frame.
There are beautiful tributes here. Tom Hanks recalls how Candy always elevated the people around him, how he "shared" the screen rather than hogged it. Steve Martin's memories of filming Planes, Trains and Automobiles (and that famous "I like me" scene) are heartbreakingly sincere.
And there's Bill Murray, saying he wants to find something bad to say about Candy but can't. Nobody can. The outpouring of love feels bottomless.
There are emotional gut punches, too, particularly when the film deals with Candy's death. You can feel the loss ripple through everyone who knew him, even decades later. That section will break you a little. It broke me.
As lovely and entertaining as this film is, it plays a little too safe. It's nice. And maybe that's the point, but it also means we don't dig deep enough. For a guy as complex as John Candy, the movie barely scratches the surface.
Yes, we hear about his father's early death (at 35, from a heart attack) and how that shadow followed John his whole life. We get hints of his anxiety, his battles with food and smoking, the pressure he put on himself, and the exhaustion that came from trying to make everyone happy.
But we don't explore it. We touch it and move on. Hanks seems reluctant to peel back that second layer, to show the darker, more fragile parts of the man behind the laughter.
That's the frustrating part. Because Candy wasn't just a jolly teddy bear cracking jokes. He was a complicated, deeply feeling guy who carried a lot of pain. I've read interviews, stories from colleagues, and old profiles that paint a far richer, more conflicted picture than what's here.
This doc isn't interested in that. It wants to celebrate him, which is fine! But you can't help but wish it had a little more edge, a little more insight into why he was the way he was. The anxieties, the self-doubt, the demons... they're mentioned but never examined.
As a fan tribute, John Candy: I Like Me is wonderful. It's warm, funny, nostalgic, and at times genuinely moving. It's a comfort watch for anyone who grew up on Uncle Buck, Summer Rental, or Planes, Trains & Automobiles.
Seeing all that archival footage again, with Candy's grin and that mischievous twinkle in his eye, is enough to make you misty. If that's all you want, this will absolutely deliver.
But if you're looking for something deeper, like a psychological portrait, an exploration of what made John Candy tick, this isn't that film. It's a valentine, not an autopsy. And that's okay… but man, I wanted more.
Still, as someone who's loved John Candy since the SCTV days (I watched him grow from a sketch comedy powerhouse into one of the most endearing movie stars ever), I can't help but be grateful for this film.
It's a joy to spend time with him again, even for two hours. You'll laugh. You'll cry. You'll wish he were still around. - ⭐️⭐️⭐️
The latest incarnation of Kiss of the Spider Woman comes from Bill Condon, who has adapted and directed the 1993 Broadway musical by Terrence McNally, John Kander, and Fred Ebb, which was the show that swept the Tonys and served as a legendary showcase for Chita Rivera.
I actually saw that production over 30 years ago, and it worked mainly as a star vehicle for Chita. She was electrifying, larger than life, a magnetic stage presence who elevated the material.
And of course, the source itself stretches back even further: the 1976 novel by Manuel Puig (still the best and most compelling version of the story) and the 1985 film, where William Hurt won an Oscar and Raúl Julia quietly stole the whole thing. That movie, dated in spots now, still has real power. Julia's performance in particular remains iconic.
So here we are with the 2025 version, a big-screen musical led by Jennifer Lopez, produced by her own company (with Ben Affleck and Matt Damon lurking as exec producers).
Condon seemed like a reasonable choice: he knows musicals (Dreamgirls worked well, he wrote Chicago), and he's done prestige (Gods and Monsters), but he also has a history of uneven, sometimes flat work (The Fifth Estate, Beauty and the Beast, the Twilight finale). Unfortunately, this one lands squarely in the "misfire" column.
The movie is flat. Visually flat, emotionally flat, structurally flat. The cinematography is dull, too bright when it should be moody, too stagey when it should feel cinematic.
The whole film feels like a choppy collection of musical sequences strung together rather than a cohesive narrative. At times, it even drifts into full-on music video territory, which is ironic, since Lopez has spent her career dominating that form.
Condon tried to go the Cabaret route, cutting most of the prison-set songs and focusing on the fantasy numbers that Molina imagines as an escape from the horror of prison life under Argentina's Dirty War.
On paper, that could work with stark reality interrupted by Technicolor Hollywood fantasy. In execution? Sloppy. The transitions are abrupt, the fantasy sequences aren't lush or immersive enough, and instead of contrasting two worlds, the movie just feels disjointed.
Jennifer Lopez is front and center, clearly angling for the Oscar nomination that has eluded her. This is her first true musical (yes, Selena had performance sequences, but this is a Broadway-style musical adaptation), and while she looks great, dances well, and belts out the Kander & Ebb catalog with her usual star power, she's no Chita Rivera. Not even close.
And without a director reigning her in, Lopez defaults to her biggest weakness as an actress: everything feels like it revolves around her, even when the story demands vulnerability, restraint, or subtext.
Diego Luna as Valentin is fine, but the role is underwritten here. His chemistry with Molina doesn't register the way it should, and the emotional bond that's supposed to drive the story ends up muted.
The real revelation is Tonatiuh as Molina, who is funny, vulnerable, layered, and magnetic. Just like in the novel, just like in the 1985 movie, Molina is the most interesting character in the piece, and Tonatiuh gives the film its best and most resonant performance. He's the reason to see it.
The songs are, of course, strong because Kander and Ebb are legends, and even their lesser work towers over most contemporary Broadway scores. Numbers like "Her Name Is Aurora," "Kiss of the Spider Woman," and "Only in the Movies" still crackle.
But the staging here is inconsistent. Some numbers work in bursts of energy, others fall completely flat, feeling like hastily filmed stage choreography rather than cinematic set-pieces.
The changes to the score (cutting prison songs, adding three new ones) don't really improve anything. They sap the narrative of its soul. The juxtaposition between grim reality and glamorous fantasy is supposed to heighten the tragedy; here, it just feels like two separate movies that never mesh.
At 128 minutes, it feels long, and worse, it feels hollow. Whatever humanity or complexity exists in Puig's original novel or even in the flawed-but-interesting 1985 film is gone here.
This is primarily a glossy showcase for Lopez, built to position her for awards season. But without a strong script, without a director capable of reining her in, and with staging that lacks cinematic imagination, the result is just Oscar-bait that doesn't take flight.
Yes, Tonatiuh shines. Yes, the songs are classics. But the film itself is a technical and emotional misfire. Not awful, just uninspired.
If you're curious about Kiss of the Spider Woman, read the novel. Watch the 1985 film for Raul Julia's performance. If you saw Chita Rivera own the stage in 1993, cherish that memory.
Jennifer Lopez is no Chita Rivera, and Condon's adaptation is no Cabaret. - ⭐️⭐️
This is a movie that's been sitting on the shelf for a year and a half and is finally getting a well-deserved, proper release. Fairyland, directed by Andrew Durham and produced by Sofia Coppola, is one of those small, beautifully observed coming-of-age dramas that sneaks up on you.
Based on Alysia Abbott's memoir Fairyland: A Memoir of My Father, it's a deeply personal story that manages to capture both the intimate, messy dynamics of a father-daughter relationship and the seismic cultural shifts of the '70s, '80s, and beyond.
The premise is simple but powerful: After her mother's death in a car accident, young Alysia (played by Emilia Jones, with Nessa Dougherty as her younger self) goes to live with her father Steve Abbott (a fantastic Scoot McNairy) in San Francisco.
Steve is a gay man who embraces a bohemian lifestyle, surrounding himself and his daughter with writers, artists, and free spirits. That world is intoxicating and inspiring, but it also brings complications.
Their relationship is tested in ways both natural (the challenges of being a parent and a teenager) and devastating, including the looming shadow of the AIDS crisis, which eventually takes Steve's life.
Even though this is Andrew Durham's film, Fairyland feels drenched in Sofia Coppola's DNA, and for me, that's a gift. I adore Coppola's work. She's one of the most unique and personal voices in American film.
Every movie she makes has this dreamy, melancholy beauty that no one else quite captures. The Virgin Suicides is one of the best directorial debuts of the last 30 years. Priscilla is incredible. Lost in Translation, yeah, that's a masterpiece. Marie Antoinette is underrated as hell (and I will die on that hill). Even something like The Bling Ring or On the Rocks, maybe not perfect, but always fascinating, always hers.
So when you watch Fairyland, you feel her touch everywhere. The fascination with outsiders, the focus on female subjectivity, and the way she captures environments as emotional landscapes are all here.
And even though Durham ultimately directs it, you can feel Coppola's generosity in handing him the project while still shaping its sensibility. This is absolutely a "Coppola family" movie, and it benefits from that pedigree.
Scoot McNairy is the soul of the film. He plays Steve as flawed but loving, selfish at times but never cruel, a man trying to live authentically while raising a daughter in a world that doesn't always understand him. McNairy is one of those actors who's always solid, but here he's extraordinary.
Emilia Jones, who continues to prove she's one of the best young actresses working today (she was amazing in CODA), is terrific as Alysia. She carries the film's emotional arc, with the joy of her free-spirited upbringing, the frustration with her father's unconventional choices, and the devastation of losing him too soon.
The supporting cast is strong, too. Geena Davis pops up and adds gravitas in her scenes. Maria Bakalova (always terrific), Cody Fern, and yes, Adam Lambert (who gets some nice moments) round out a colorful ensemble.
It's a gorgeous film to look at. Greta Zozula's cinematography captures the haze of San Francisco, with the Golden Gate in fog, the apartments full of books and art, the nightlife, the protests, the parties, and the quiet moments of intimacy.
Michael Penn's score is lovely, grounding the film with a melancholy, personal touch. The production design, costumes, and period detail are all spot-on without being showy.
And thematically, the film hits hard. It's about being a child forced to grow up in a world full of contradictions. It's about being a gay man in the '70s and '80s, when living authentically was both liberating and dangerous. It's about parenting when you yourself are still figuring life out. And ultimately, it's about love, resilience, and loss.
It's not perfect. The middle section drags a bit, with some of the transitions between time periods feeling abrupt, and there are stretches where the story feels a little choppy, like it's skimming over details instead of digging in.
Some of the acting in smaller roles is inconsistent. But these are minor quibbles in what's otherwise a very strong piece of work.
Fairyland is a heartfelt, beautifully acted, deeply human film. It works as a coming-of-age drama, as a father-daughter story, and as a snapshot of a specific time and place in American history.
It's moving without being manipulative, political without being preachy, and personal without being self-indulgent.
I absolutely recommend this film. It's tender, smart, and important. It may not be flawless, but it's memorable, and it lingers. And McNairy and Jones? They're outstanding.
And hey, it also proves once again that Sofia Coppola's influence makes everything better. If her fingerprints are on it, I'm in. - ⭐️⭐️⭐️
Kathryn Bigelow is back, baby. Eight years after Detroit (2017), the Queen of Intensity has returned with A House of Dynamite, and holy hell, it lives up to the title.
This is one of the most unbearably tense, white-knuckle thrillers I've seen in years. It's the kind of movie that grabs you by the throat in the first five minutes and doesn't let go until the ambiguous but absolutely perfect final shot.
The premise is terrifying in its simplicity: the U.S. government scrambles to respond to a nuclear missile launched by an unidentified enemy, heading straight for Chicago.
The movie unfolds primarily in real time, about 20 minutes of potential annihilation, replayed across three different perspectives: the White House, military defense bases, and other critical command points.
It's Fail-Safe by way of Rashomon, with a bit of Dr. Strangelove cynicism and The West Wing pacing thrown in.
No warm-up, no hand-holding. We're dropped right into the Situation Room with generals, advisors, and the President himself, trying to figure out whether millions of people are about to die. It's procedural, but it's also deeply human.
This is an ensemble piece, and the unbelievable cast is outstanding across the board. Idris Elba plays the President, and he's terrific, thoughtful, charismatic, but not infallible.
Rebecca Ferguson is magnetic as Captain Olivia Walker, juggling life-and-death communication with the military while worrying about her sick kid at home.
Jared Harris is devastating as the Secretary of Defense, whose daughter happens to be in Chicago. Anthony Ramos, Gabriel Basso, Tracy Letts, Moses Ingram, Greta Lee, Jason Clarke. Everybody gets a moment, and everyone nails it.
What makes it work is that these aren't faceless government drones. They're human beings, they are people worried about proposing to their girlfriend that night, people calling their kids in what might be their final moments, people second-guessing their orders even as the countdown ticks down. That balance between procedure and humanity is classic Bigelow.
Nobody does intensity like Kathryn Bigelow. The Hurt Locker. Zero Dark Thirty. Near Dark. Point Break. Strange Days. She's a master at creating immersive, pulse-pounding experiences, and she's in peak form here.
Working again with cinematographer Barry Ackroyd (United 93, The Hurt Locker) and editor Kirk Baxter (Fincher's go-to guy for The Social Network and Gone Girl), Bigelow crafts a film that feels both documentary-real and unbearably cinematic.
Handheld cameras, tight close-ups, relentless pacing, it's immersive to the point of suffocation. Add Volker Bertelmann's (a.k.a. Hauschka) thundering, nerve-shredding score, and you've got a movie that makes your heart race even when characters are just talking quietly on phones.
And that structure, replaying the same ticking-clock scenario from multiple vantage points, is genius. It overlaps, reframes, and deepens our understanding of the chaos. It's Rashomon with nukes.
Here's the thing: this is one of the scariest movies of the year because it feels so goddamn plausible. The authenticity in Noah Oppenheim's script is chilling.
He clearly did his homework with military insiders, political operatives, and White House vets, because the procedures, the chain of command, the confusion, the desperation. It all feels terrifyingly real.
And as a Chicagoan, let me tell you: watching a movie about my city being the target of a nuclear missile amped the tension up to unbearable levels. Hearing "Chicago will be destroyed" and picturing 10 million lives wiped out... it hit hard.
I sat there in the theater, heart pounding, thinking about my home, my family, my friends. It made the movie personal in a way I'll never forget.
Now, about that ending. It's ambiguous. Some people are going to hate that. They'll want answers, closure, certainty. Me? It's perfect.
There's no other way this movie could have ended without cheapening the experience. Ambiguity is the only authentic choice here, and it left me shaken in the best possible way.
A House of Dynamite is a triumph. It's everything you want from a Kathryn Bigelow film: authentic, intense, terrifying, impeccably crafted, and packed with powerhouse performances. It's also one of the most suspenseful movies you'll see all year.
See it in a theater if you can. Netflix is dumping it on streaming later this fall, but trust me: this one demands the biggest screen and loudest sound system you can find. The immersion, the sound design, the collective audience gasps, that's part of the experience.
Bigelow has once again proven why she's one of the best directors alive. Eight years away, and she hasn't missed a beat.
A House of Dynamite is not just one of the best movies of 2025, it's one of the most intense cinematic experiences of the past decade. - ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
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