CAPSULE MOVIE REVIEWS: 6-20-25

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I enjoy wearing nice pants, but it's staying warm out there, so how about some shorts? Some Film Critic Shorts? They fit. They are on, and I am ready to review three new movies in this week's capsule (short) movie reviews for Friday, June 20th, 2025.

1) 28 YEARS LATER

Nearly a quarter century after 28 Days Later redefined the "zombie"—actually, "infected"—genre (we will get to that in a minute), Danny Boyle and Alex Garland return to the scorched UK wasteland for 28 Years Later, the long-awaited third entry in the Rage virus saga.

But let me say this right up top, so there's no confusion: this movie is not an ending. It is a beginning…to an ending. This is a two-hour prologue, a stylish, blood-splattered setup to next year's 28 Years Later: The Bone Temple.

So, if you're heading into this thinking you're getting the Return of the King of viral horror movies, dial that back. This is The Two Towers—and not even all of it.

But that's not necessarily a bad thing.

Let's get one thing straight—and I'm going to tattoo it on the foreheads of anyone who's ever called these creatures zombies—they're NOT zombies. They are infected. Period.

This franchise has always insisted on that distinction, and I am absolutely here for it. As a self-professed zombie nerd, horror connoisseur, and George A. Romero disciple (praise be to the godfather of the modern zombie), I respect the rules.

Romero set the definition in 1968: zombies are reanimated corpses. You die, then you come back. If you're running around with rage-induced psychosis, but your heart's still beating? You're not a zombie. You're a monster, sure. But you're not undead.

So yes, it ticked me off when one character in this film used the term "zombie baby." Thankfully, the movie acknowledges that he's a moron. Still, respect the lore, people.

Twenty-eight years after the outbreak, the UK is still a quarantined hellscape. A small group of survivors clings to life on a tiny, isolated island connected to the mainland by a causeway straight out of a medieval siege playbook.

The central story revolves around Jamie (Aaron Taylor-Johnson), his wife Isla (Jodie Comer), and their 12-year-old son Spike (Alfie Williams). Jamie decides—very unwisely if you ask Isla—to take Spike to the mainland for his first kill. It's part of a survivalist rite of passage but also a narrative excuse to plunge us back into the horror show that is post-Rage Britain.

What follows is a harrowing journey filled with grotesque infected mutations called Alphas (hulking, furious, and often very naked), heartbreaking revelations, and a gradually escalating sense of dread.

Isla, meanwhile, begins experiencing erratic visions and emotional swings, triggering a desperate need to reach a mysterious doctor rumored to be living deep on the mainland.

The film's second half consists of another trip to the mainland, this time a mother/son journey. We encounter even more of the evolved infected, the terrifying Alpha pack hunters, and an infected birthing on an abandoned train that inevitably will have fans comparing it to a similarly notorious scene from Zack Snyder's remake of Dawn of the Dead.

A rogue Swedish naval officer (Edvin Ryding) joins the trek, briefly serving as comic relief before being unceremoniously removed from the equation. More complications occur until the mysterious doctor shows up.

That doctor? Played by a fully iodine-coated, skull-collecting Ralph Fiennes. And let me tell you, once he enters the story, this movie levels the hell up.

Boyle shoots much of this thing on an iPhone 15 Pro Max—yes, you read that right—and it works. That grainy, jittery, grimy aesthetic that made 28 Days Later feel like a DIY apocalypse video diary? It's back, with Anthony Dod Mantle's handheld chaos capturing everything from slow-motion arterial sprays to chaotic crowd attacks.

The score pulses and screeches in all the right places. The editing is jagged, disorienting, and appropriately frantic. And the practical effects are gnarly in the best possible way—heads, spines, and limbs are ripped apart like wet tissue paper. Gorehounds, you will not be disappointed.

If you're a fan of the first two films, there's a lot here that feels comfortably familiar. Maybe too familiar. The father-son survival trek, the escalating threats, and the band of misfits they encounter all echo earlier entries in the series, sometimes almost beat for beat. Sure, the infected attacks are brutal and rapid-fire, but there's a sense of narrative déjà vu.

Also, I'm not sure Aaron Taylor-Johnson's Jamie ever really develops beyond "angsty dad with secrets." And the subplot about him cheating on Isla? Predictable. Screenwriting 101. The Scottish survivors on the island are mostly caricatures—beer, drunken sing-a-longs to Tom Jones tunes, and brawls.

But then…Ralph Fiennes shows up.

The final third of 28 Years Later truly becomes something special. Ralph Fiennes' Dr. Kelson lives in a literal temple of bones—a structure built from the remains of the infected and the victims of the Rage virus. His skin is stained red from iodine. His demeanor is equal parts haunted and hilarious.

He brings twisted humanity and unexpected tenderness to the film's final act, and suddenly, we're no longer in just another survival horror flick—we're in a meditation on loss, trauma, and the rituals we create to remember the dead.

This is where Jodie Comer's performance also hits full force. Her Isla becomes the emotional anchor, her illness taking on deeper, tragic implications. Spike's character arc—shaky and occasionally frustrating earlier—lands beautifully in these closing scenes.

The family dynamic pays off, and for a while, this movie stops being an infected monster flick and becomes a deeply human story about grief and survival.

And then...new characters show up. And the credits roll. And you realize: that beautiful final third? Just a setup. The real story starts in The Bone Temple.

28 Years Later is an entertaining, often thrilling, sometimes moving return to the world of the Rage virus. But make no mistake—it's not a whole story. It's a stylish, gory two-hour "Previously On…" that tees up next year's The Bone Temple, which I am now dying to see.

Garland's script doesn't really shine until the final act. Boyle's direction is consistent and strong, but the emotional payoff is reserved for a movie that hasn't come out yet. That's frustrating, but it also means the franchise is setting up for something big—possibly even something great.

So yes, it's worth seeing. No, it's not the best horror film of the year. But it is a crucial chapter in what's shaping up to be a fascinating trilogy conclusion. Just adjust your expectations. Know you're in for a setup, not a payoff.

And for the love of Romero… they're not zombies. - ⭐️⭐️⭐️

2) ELIO

Elio is a reasonably charming, occasionally funny, visually colorful, and often entertaining Pixar movie. It's also wildly familiar.

So much of what happens in Elio—from the misunderstood kid and his fascination with aliens to the orphaned upbringing, the world-ending stakes, and the intergalactic misunderstandings—feels like it's been done a dozen (maybe a hundred) times before. And better. But that doesn't mean this movie isn't worth your time. It just means you've probably already seen most of it. Maybe even in the same studio's catalog.

Elio follows its titular character (voiced with a great blend of vulnerability and nerdy energy by Yonas Kibreab). This 11-year-old kid lives with his aunt (voiced by Zoe Saldaña). He's an outsider, obsessed with space, and spending way too much time daydreaming about aliens—until the day those aliens beam him up and mistake him for the ambassador of Earth.

Suddenly, this awkward, insecure kid is thrust into the Communiverse, a kaleidoscopic parliament of galactic weirdos, and must represent all of humanity in a series of cosmic mishaps, diplomatic weirdness, and identity crises.

So yes, it's a big intergalactic coming-of-age adventure about finding your place in the universe. Literally.

From a purely technical standpoint, Elio is classic Pixar. It's beautifully animated—bursting with color, sleek designs, and a ton of movement that would absolutely pop off the screen in 3D (which, for the record, I didn't see it in, but it's obviously designed for it).

The alien worlds are vibrantly rendered, and the design of the Communiverse—complete with blobby computers, worm-like warlords, and jellyfish-like ambassadors—is full of inventive flair.

The voice cast is solid across the board. And here's what's refreshing: the performances actually sound like they were cast for their vocal quality, not just to fill a poster with A-list names.

There's Zoe Saldaña, Brad Garrett, Jameela Jamil, Shirley Henderson—and they all do great work. But even more satisfying is hearing real voice actors bring characters to life without the baggage of "Hey, isn't that The Rock?" Voice acting is a craft, and Elio respects that. For once.

But as strong as the visuals and voice work are, the story is where Elio sputters. The script is a patchwork of plot points you've seen before: a kid with a missing parent, the misunderstood outsider who finds his strength in an alien world, and the comic misunderstandings that make him an accidental hero.

We've seen this exact arc in movies like Lilo & Stitch, Jimmy Neutron, and Treasure Planet, and it is most clearly seen in John Carpenter's Starman, which this film heavily borrows from.

And I mean heavily. Remember how in Starman, an alien responds to the golden record sent out on a satellite and comes to Earth looking for us? Yeah, Elio uses that exact concept as its setup. Except instead of Jeff Bridges, we get a planet of slimy, slug-like aliens and an 11-year-old with anxiety with a cape made of couch fabric.

There's also the age-old trope of the "dead or missing parent" as emotional fuel. In this case, Elio is being raised by his aunt, which is Pixar shorthand for "We didn't want to write two parent characters." Again, this is not new.

And the story beats—learning to believe in yourself, becoming a leader, discovering your inner worth, yada yada—have been Pixar boilerplate for a while now. It works, sure. But it's hard not to notice how much Elio leans on the same old emotional scaffolding.

That's not to say it doesn't have its highlights. The opening sequence, scored to Talking Heads' "Once in a Lifetime," is fantastic—funny, clever, and instantly tells you who this kid is. Elio's friendship with Glordon (a slimy, awkward alien voiced by Remy Edgerly) is genuinely sweet. Their scenes together are some of the film's best.

There are also recurring jokes about clones and ham radio nerds trying to contact alien life that work surprisingly well. Brad Garrett's alien warlord dad character brings some nice tension and humor. There are a few surprisingly emotional moments tucked in there, too, but they're mostly carried by the strong voice work rather than the writing itself.

But the movie's tonal inconsistency is a problem. A subplot involving a traumatic misunderstanding is either played too lightly or not clearly enough for it to land properly. And the messages about self-worth and individualism, while well-meaning, are layered under such a thick blanket of Pixar-style whimsy that they lose their punch.

So where do I land on Elio? It's fine. Kids will enjoy it. It moves fast, is colorful, is loud in the right places, and quiet in the emotional ones. It has just enough heart to make you feel something and just enough charm to hold your attention.

But for adults? You'll probably spend most of the movie thinking, "Didn't I already see this in WALL-E? Or Meet the Robinsons? Or Lightyear? Or Treasure Planet?"

Elio is not top-tier Pixar. It's not Inside Out, it's not Up, and it's certainly not WALL-E. But it's also not The Good Dinosaur. Let's be thankful for that.

It's a charming, beautifully animated space tale that doesn't break new ground but still manages to orbit just enough warmth and humor to earn a mild recommendation—especially if you're watching it with kids or if you're a sucker for intergalactic misfits, worm monsters, and gold records drifting through the cosmos. - ⭐️⭐️⭐️

3) BRIDE HARD

Every once in a while, a movie comes along that's so bad, so misjudged in every way that it makes you question whether the people involved had ever seen a good film before. Or even a movie, period. Bride Hard is one of those films.

In fact, it might just be the worst movie I've seen all year—and folks, I've seen some real stinkers in 2025.

This one takes the cake. And then stomps on the cake. And then serves you the stomped-on cake and expects you to laugh while eating it.

The premise sounds like someone pitched it while high at a bachelorette party: What if Bridesmaids...but also Die Hard? Rebel Wilson (who, coincidentally, co-starred in Bridesmaids) plays Sam, a secret agent serving as a maid of honor at her childhood best friend Betsy's destination wedding.

Of course, things go kaboom when the private island venue is hijacked by mercenaries led by Stephen Dorff (collecting a paycheck and trying to escape as fast as he can). Sam sneaks around the estate picking off bad guys, Die Hard-style.

Sounds mildly fun, right? A little female-fronted action comedy romp? Nope. Instead, you get a derivative, cardboard-cut-out mess with no laughs, tension, characters, or reason to exist.

There are real actors in this movie. Anna Camp tries. Da'Vine Joy Randolph—fresh off an Oscar, no less—is here and deserves so much better. Anna Chlumsky plays the villainous bridesmaid like she's trying to one-up Rose Byrne in Bridesmaids but forgets to bring wit, nuance, or anything remotely grounded.

Justin Hartley, Sam Huntington, and Gigi Zumbado are all present, but none are given anything to work with except generic lines and tired gags.

Even Colleen Camp—who I adore and produced this thing for some reason—shows up. Yes, that Colleen Camp: Apocalypse Now, Valley Girl, and, of course, Yvette the Maid in Clue. She should know better. She does know better. And yet here she is.

There's not a single laugh in this movie. I mean that, literally. Okay, maybe there's one smile near the very end involving a Spanx-related gag. That's it. One half-smile in 105 minutes.

The rest is a sad, painful parade of failed sight gags, flat punchlines, and recycled setups from a dozen other, better films.

They even have the gall to name-drop those other films. "Betsy's Wedding" is mentioned. "My Best Friend's Wedding" gets quoted. If you're going to rip off other wedding comedies, don't remind us how much better those movies are. Especially when those other movies aren't very good to begin with.

Simon West, the director, is best known for Con Air—a so-bad-it's-good movie saved only by a wildly overqualified cast. He also gave us The General's Daughter, Lara Croft: Tomb Raider, and When a Stranger Calls—none of which scream "comedy genius." Here, he attempts to direct an action comedy and proves he can do neither.

The action scenes are abysmal. Sloppy editing. Awkward staging. You can't tell who's shooting whom, or why, or even where they are. Rebel Wilson, bless her, is not even remotely convincing as a secret agent. She looks like someone who's never held a gun before, let alone fought off trained killers in close-quarters combat.

And that's the other problem: the physicality just isn't there. She doesn't sell the role. There's no tension. No stakes. It feels like a bad sketch stretched to feature length without punchlines or purpose.

You don't believe for one second that these people are friends. The relationships are nonexistent. The character development is replaced by freeze frames and title cards telling us who everyone is—because God forbid the script actually shows us anything.

Anna Chlumsky's bridesmaid-from-hell is a retread of Rose Byrne's Helen in Bridesmaids, but it's played at such a cartoonish pitch that it's borderline embarrassing. Da'Vine Joy Randolph plays everything for drunken, sexually charged laughs—which never land.

Justin Hartley's there, presumably because Glen Powell wasn't available. Sam Huntington? Doing a low-rent Thomas Lennon impression. Gigi Zumbado? Diet Ariana DeBose. It's all bargain-bin imitations of better performances in better films.

I saw this movie at a promotional screening designed for women who were brides or bridesmaids. They were handed "Bride Hard" sashes and took selfies—a whole event. Even they weren't laughing. That's how bad this movie is. The exact demo it was made for? Silent. Checked out. Not one audible laugh the entire runtime.

You know you're in trouble when even the blooper reel at the end isn't funny. I'm serious. They run a full-on gag reel during the credits, and still no one laughed. No goof-ups. No laughs. Just dead air. That tells me everything I need to know about this shoot: no one was having fun. You can't even fake joy in the outtakes.

Bride Hard is a catastrophic misfire. It's a comedy with no laughs, an action movie with no thrills, and a female-led ensemble that forgets to give its women anything interesting, likable, or remotely human to do. It's a wedding movie that forgets the joy of weddings and a parody that forgets to be funny.

It's not even so bad that it's good. It's just bad—painfully bad. 105 minutes I'll never get back.

And Simon West? Please stop directing comedies. You are, without question, the opposite of funny. - Zero Stars

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