CAPSULE MOVIE REVIEWS: 6-26-26

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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, June 26th, 2026.

1) SUPERGIRL

Anybody who has listened to my podcast, heard me on the radio over the years, or regularly reads my reviews knows one thing: I am not a comic book guy.

I’m not invested in the endless mythology. I don’t keep track of timelines or multiverses or alternate dimensions or whatever convenient narrative loophole the studios need to resurrect characters they killed off three movies ago.

Most of these giant Marvel and DC tentpoles strike me as calculated corporate products first and movies second, designed primarily to keep intellectual property alive and the cash registers ringing. They often feel shallow, cynical, and engineered by committee.

So naturally, the one comic book movie in recent memory that actually engaged my brain and stirred my emotions is the one getting hammered by comic book fans.

That somehow feels perfectly appropriate.

Now, don’t misunderstand me. Supergirl is a flawed movie. It has significant problems, some derivative action sequences, and one spectacularly irritating supporting character who nearly derails the whole enterprise every time he shows up.

But there are enough genuinely interesting ideas here, enough emotional heft, and one terrific central performance that I’m recommending it. Not enthusiastically. Not without reservations. But I am recommending it.

And a huge reason why is director Craig Gillespie.

I’ve been beating the drum for Gillespie for years because I think he’s one of the most criminally underrated filmmakers working today. Go all the way back to Lars and the Real Girl, and you’ll see the thematic through line that has carried through nearly everything he’s done.

Whether it’s Million Dollar Arm, I, Tonya, Cruella, or the vastly underappreciated Dumb Money, Gillespie consistently champions outsiders, underdogs, social misfits, the economically disadvantaged, and people the world has written off. His heroes aren’t polished icons, they’re damaged souls trying to survive.

That perspective turns out to be an inspired fit for Supergirl.

This isn’t the bright-eyed, smiling superhero we’ve seen in cartoons or comic books. Kara Zor-El, played magnificently by Milly Alcock, is traumatized, isolated, alcoholic, angry, and profoundly disillusioned. She survived the destruction of Krypton only to spend years watching everyone around her die before eventually arriving in a universe where she no longer knows what purpose she serves.

Her cousin Superman has embraced heroism. Kara would rather spend her birthdays getting drunk on planets with red suns, living in what amounts to a galactic trash heap with her dog Krypto.

Frankly, I found that version of the character infinitely more interesting.

The story kicks into gear when Kara encounters young Ruthye Marye Knoll, whose father has been murdered by the vicious space pirate Krem of the Yellow Hills. Initially reluctant to get involved, Kara changes course after Krem poisons Krypto, forcing her onto an interstellar revenge mission that gradually becomes something much deeper.

What starts as a selfish effort to save her dog slowly evolves into an examination of trauma, grief, vengeance, and redemption.

One of the smartest decisions the screenplay makes is the way it reveals Kara’s past. Rather than dumping exposition in the opening reels, Ana Nogueira’s script parcels out Supergirl’s origin story through carefully placed flashbacks. The interruptions to the action don’t feel intrusive; they deepen our understanding of who this woman is and why she’s emotionally shattered.

By the time we fully understand what she endured on Krypton, her alcoholism, detachment, and reluctance to be anyone’s hero make perfect sense. For perhaps the first time in ages watching one of these movies, I actually cared about the superhero.

Milly Alcock deserves enormous credit for that. She’s terrific. She nails the comedy without undermining the sadness, projects genuine vulnerability, and gives Kara an emotional complexity rarely afforded these characters.

The strongest sections of the film are easily its first two-thirds, when she’s stumbling around the galaxy in a rumpled trench coat and a Blondie T-shirt, trying desperately not to be a hero. There’s something wonderfully rebellious about seeing Supergirl looking like she wandered out of a dive bar instead of a Hallmark card.

Ironically, once she finally puts on the cape and the famous “S” shield, the movie becomes less interesting. That’s where Supergirl starts giving in to convention.

The final act gradually abandons its emotional richness in favor of oversized spectacle, and while Craig Gillespie stages action as well as anybody working today, the influence of other movies becomes impossible to ignore.

Whole stretches feel borrowed directly from Mad Max: Fury Road, complete with visual motifs and narrative elements involving oppressed brides that go beyond homage into outright imitation. Elsewhere, the deserts, machinery, costumes, and compositions owe an unmistakable debt to Denis Villeneuve’s Dune films.

Now, if you’re going to steal, stealing from masterpieces isn’t the worst strategy in the world. But it’s still derivative.

The action itself is technically excellent. The visual effects are first-rate, the battles are cleanly staged, and Gillespie understands geography and momentum better than most directors handed a blockbuster budget.

There are also flashes of genuine humor throughout, including a delightfully goofy sequence aboard a futuristic bus driven by an alien while a tiny Seth Rogen-voiced creature steals every scene it’s in.

The villains work, too. Matthias Schoenaerts gives Krem enough menace to make him memorable, and an early sequence involving Ruthye’s family (interrupted by his bizarre request for pie before committing horrifying violence) is genuinely tense and heartbreaking.

The stakes feel personal rather than abstract, which is refreshing in a genre usually obsessed with blowing up planets.

And speaking of refreshing, I have to admit something else: I was thrilled that this story largely avoids giving Kara a romantic subplot. This is fundamentally a female-driven narrative about two women processing grief, loss, and moral responsibility together. It’s also unmistakably feminist in its perspective, centering female agency without apology.

Which brings me to the movie’s biggest liability.

Lobo.

I’m told comic book readers adore this character. Good for them.

Jason Momoa plays him as an endlessly quipping, cigar-chomping chaos machine who barges into scenes, blows things up, cracks jokes that rarely land, and contributes almost nothing of value to the narrative. Every appearance stops the movie dead.

Worse yet, there’s even a point where this loudmouthed male character swoops in to rescue Supergirl, completely undermining the independence the rest of the film works so hard to establish.

He’s unnecessary. He’s distracting. He’s obnoxious. And for me, he’s the single worst thing in the movie.

Oddly enough, another improvement over last year’s awful Superman comes courtesy of Krypto. I found the overused CGI dog almost unbearable in that film, where every other scene seemed determined to remind us how adorable he was. Here, because Krypto spends most of the running time incapacitated after being poisoned, the movie wisely avoids drowning in digital-canine slapstick.

So where does all this leave Supergirl?

With a surprisingly thoughtful comic book movie that wrestles with alcoholism, survivor’s guilt, trauma, revenge, and the possibility of forgiveness before reluctantly transforming into a more conventional effects extravaganza.

It’s uneven. It borrows too heavily from better science-fiction films. It contains one profoundly annoying supporting character. And its final act can’t quite sustain the intelligence of what came before.

But Craig Gillespie once again demonstrates his remarkable empathy for outsiders and the disenfranchised, finding genuine humanity beneath all the capes and cosmic mayhem.

Milly Alcock delivers a star-making performance that anchors everything emotionally, and the film’s willingness to let its heroine be broken, bitter, selfish, and vulnerable before allowing her to become heroic gives it a dimension missing from most of its contemporaries.

The irony isn’t lost on me that I’m recommending the comic book movie many comic book fans seem to dislike.

Then again, if you know me at all, that probably makes perfect sense. - ⭐️⭐️⭐️

2) JACKASS: BEST AND LAST

I should probably begin with a confession that isn't really a confession at all: I love Jackass.

Unapologetically. Always have. Always will.

I've been a fan since the very beginning, back when it exploded onto MTV in 2000, but the story actually starts before that with Big Brother magazine, the wonderfully anarchic anti-corporate skateboarding publication where Johnny Knoxville, Jeff Tremaine, and company first started filming Knoxville testing pepper spray, Tasers, and bulletproof vests on himself.

At the same time, Bam Margera and his CKY crew in Pennsylvania were making homemade videos filled with skateboarding, backyard stunts, shopping cart crashes, and elaborate pranks on Bam's long-suffering family. It didn't take long before those two worlds collided, Chris Pontius, Steve-O, Wee Man, Dave England, Preston Lacy, Danger Ehren and the rest climbed aboard, and Jackass was born.

I've been there ever since.

I watched every episode of the original television series religiously. I think Jackass: The Movie remains one of the funniest films ever made. Jackass Number Two somehow managed to top the insanity. Jackass 3D brilliantly used the gimmick of 3D to make flying bodily fluids and airborne pain somehow even funnier.

Then came Jackass Forever, where age inevitably became part of the equation. Johnny Knoxville, after years of broken bones, concussions, surgeries, and even a brain hemorrhage following that infamous bull stunt, simply couldn't do everything he once could.

So younger cast members were brought in, and the franchise evolved without losing its spirit.

Now comes Jackass: Best and Last, which, as the title suggests, serves as both a farewell and a celebration. It's part greatest-hits compilation, part documentary, part brand-new Jackass movie.

Roughly half of its 92-minute running time consists of classic footage and previously unseen material from throughout the franchise's 25-plus-year history. The other half features entirely new stunts, interviews, reflections, and one last opportunity for these lovable idiots to hurt themselves for our entertainment.

And I had an absolute blast.

What has always separated Jackass from the thousands of imitators it inspired is something that many people overlook. Yes, it's loaded with outrageous stunts, full-frontal male nudity, bodily fluids, explosions, broken bones, dangerous animals, and more shots to the groin than any medical professional would recommend. But underneath all of that juvenile insanity is something genuinely sweet.

These guys love each other.

That friendship has always been the secret ingredient. You see it in every episode, every movie, every behind-the-scenes featurette. They're genuinely delighted to make each other laugh, even if it means putting themselves through unbelievable physical pain. Their chemistry has never been manufactured. It's authentic. That warmth makes all of the stupidity surprisingly touching.

As ridiculous as it may sound, I've always found the Jackass movies oddly life-affirming. They're about friendship, trust, fearlessness, and the willingness to look completely ridiculous in front of millions of people if it means making someone laugh. That's a surprisingly beautiful thing.

This final chapter leans heavily into that emotion.

Watching the current cast, now mostly in their fifties, sitting around reminiscing while looking at footage of themselves from 25 years ago gives the movie an unexpectedly poignant undercurrent. They laugh at how young they looked. They marvel that they survived half of these stunts. They shake their heads at their own stupidity. More than once I found myself getting a little misty.

Yes... I got emotional during a Jackass movie.

One of the reasons is that these guys genuinely feel like old friends now. After watching them for more than two decades, you've seen them expose every imaginable part of themselves: physically, emotionally, psychologically, and, unfortunately, anatomically. Their personalities have become as familiar as their bruises.

The retrospective footage is fantastic. The movie opens with the long-rumored, never-before-seen footage of Johnny Knoxville shooting himself in the chest with a .38 caliber handgun while wearing a bulletproof vest, which is a stunt MTV understandably refused to air back in the late '90s.

There are other previously unseen bits, including Knoxville sealed inside a cardboard box and thrown down a flight of cement stairs, and another where he simply stands in front of an oncoming car and gets run over. These were legendary pieces of lost Jackass history, and it's fascinating to finally see them.

Then come the classics.

Brad Pitt's fake kidnapping outside Pink's Hot Dogs remains one of the funniest celebrity cameos ever filmed. The giant spring-loaded "High Five" still makes me howl. Steve-O's unforgettable "Poo Cocktail Supreme" remains one of the most spectacularly disgusting things ever committed to film.

The return of "Silence of the Lambs," now featuring previously unseen Bam Margera footage, is every bit as hysterical as it was the first time.

Speaking of Bam, I was genuinely happy to see him represented here. After everything that happened surrounding Jackass Forever, it's nice to see those wounds healing. Likewise, the tribute to Ryan Dunn is heartfelt without becoming overly sentimental. Dunn was always one of my favorites, and seeing him again (including the infamous Matchbox car X-ray stunt) hit me harder than I expected.

The new material is just as strong.

The "Escape Room from Hell" is an inspired piece of escalating chaos. Poopies attempting to cross a balance beam while wearing a shock collar attached to his penis delivers exactly the kind of ridiculous payoff you'd expect.

The marionette routine involving Tasers is beautifully insane. Zach Holmes slowly descending naked toward Danger Ehren's face while quiz questions determine the distance is so juvenile that I couldn't stop laughing.

And then there's my favorite new stunt. "Laxative Twister."

I'll spare you the finer details, but let's just say the cast consumes industrial-strength colonoscopy prep before playing Twister. If that premise alone doesn't make you laugh, this movie probably isn't for you.

Another terrific addition is Larry, a hilarious steel robot voiced by comedian Adam Ray. Larry's first assignment involves giving Steve-O a prostate exam, with a giant metallic finger generously lubricated in chunky peanut butter. If that sentence doesn't perfectly summarize the Jackass aesthetic, nothing ever will.

Director Jeff Tremaine smartly understands what this movie needs to be. Rather than simply stringing together random stunts, he turns the film into a genuine farewell. It's a love letter to the franchise, to the friendships that built it, and to an era of comedy that probably couldn't exist in quite the same way today.

Spike Jonze's opening and closing sequences beautifully bookend the entire saga. The giant shopping cart (which memorably opened the very first film) returns for one final ride, bringing everything full circle in a way that's both hilarious and unexpectedly moving.

Some viewers may complain that nearly half the movie consists of footage they've already seen. I honestly couldn't care less. I've watched these movies repeatedly over the years. I've watched the TV series countless times. I own the DVDs. Revisiting these classic stunts wasn't a negative for me, it was the whole point. This is a greatest-hits package, and it proudly embraces that identity.

More importantly, it's about aging.

It's about looking back at your youth and wondering how you survived. It's about laughing at the incredibly stupid things you once thought were brilliant ideas. It's about friendships that somehow endure despite decades of injuries, fame, changing lives, and growing older.

That's what makes Jackass: Best and Last surprisingly touching.

Yes, it's disgusting. Yes, it's juvenile. Yes, there are bodily fluids, nudity, explosions, pain, and moments that made me laugh while simultaneously forcing me to cover my eyes. But that's always been part of the charm.

Underneath all the insanity lies a genuine affection. A genuine affection for these guys, for their friendship, and for the joy they've brought audiences over the last quarter-century.

I laughed constantly. I winced constantly. And by the end, I found myself feeling grateful that this bizarre little phenomenon ever existed.

As farewell tours go, this one's a riot.

And, fittingly, it ends exactly the way Jackass always should: with one last giant, glorious, completely idiotic crash. - ⭐️⭐️⭐️1/2

3) COUTURE

There are filmmakers whose work I will follow anywhere, regardless of subject matter. French writer-director Alice Winocour is one of them. She has quietly built one of the most fascinating filmographies in contemporary European cinema.

From the tense, expertly crafted home-invasion thriller Disorder to the emotionally rich astronaut drama Proxima with Eva Green, and the gripping true-story terrorism thriller Revoir Paris, Winocour has repeatedly proven that she can take familiar genres and inject them with intelligence, humanity, and remarkable visual precision.

So when I heard her latest film was called Couture and was set during Paris Fashion Week, my first reaction wasn't exactly excitement. I am not a fashion guy. Never have been. The world of haute couture, runway shows, and designer labels has never done much for me. On paper, this sounded like the kind of movie I might admire from a distance but never truly connect with.

I was wrong. In fact, Couture ended up being one of the year's biggest surprises.

The premise is deceptively simple. Angelina Jolie plays Maxine Walker, an American independent horror filmmaker who arrives in Paris during Fashion Week to direct an elaborate promotional film for one of the world's biggest fashion houses.

While juggling a difficult divorce, a strained relationship with her teenage daughter, and an affair with cinematographer Anton (Louis Garrel), Maxine's entire world is shattered when she learns she has breast cancer and needs immediate treatment.

Around her orbit three other women whose stories gradually intertwine. Ada (Anyier Anei), a young model newly arrived from Nairobi, struggles to survive the brutal, intimidating realities of the modeling industry.

Angèle (Ella Rumpf), a backstage makeup artist, quietly dreams of becoming a novelist while sacrificing her own life to keep the fashion machine moving. Christine (Garance Marillier), a meticulous seamstress, pours herself into creating garments while worrying far more about the women wearing them than the industry that profits from them.

Winocour juggles these four narratives with remarkable confidence. The film introduces each woman separately before slowly weaving them together, creating an emotional tapestry that is less interested in glamour than in resilience, sisterhood, and survival.

One of the film's greatest assets is its astonishing authenticity. Thanks to unprecedented access inside Chanel's ateliers and backstage operations, Couture drops us directly into the controlled chaos of Paris Fashion Week.

We see the makeup artists running on fumes, the exhausted seamstresses sacrificing their personal lives, and the young models packed into cramped sleeping quarters and treated like interchangeable commodities. It's fascinating to watch.

What's even more refreshing is that the movie doesn't romanticize any of it.

Despite being granted extraordinary behind-the-scenes access, Winocour pulls absolutely no punches in her critique of the fashion industry. She presents it as superficial, cutthroat, impersonal, and often casually cruel. The spectacle may be beautiful, but the machinery underneath can be ugly. That's a gutsy approach, especially considering how much cooperation was required to make the movie.

At its core, though, Couture isn't really about fashion at all.

It's about four women navigating profoundly personal struggles while surrounded by an industry obsessed with appearances. Maxine is confronting mortality. Ada is trying to find her footing in a world that seems determined to exploit her. Angèle dreams of an artistic life beyond applying makeup to other people's faces. Christine worries about bodies and humanity while everyone else seems obsessed with dresses.

The film repeatedly argues that these private battles matter infinitely more than whatever happens on the runway.

Angelina Jolie gives one of her finest performances in years. It's understated, vulnerable, and remarkably restrained. She never overplays Maxine's fear or grief, allowing the uncertainty to simmer beneath the surface.

One extraordinary sequence finds her sitting in a hospital waiting room alongside the legendary French actress Aurore Clément. The two women quietly discuss illness, survival, courage, and the terrifying uncertainty of what comes next. There's nothing flashy about the scene, but it's devastating in its honesty. Simply watching these two accomplished actresses share the screen is mesmerizing, and the emotional weight they generate is among the best material in the film.

The supporting performances are equally impressive. Anyier Anei, making a striking impression as Ada, brings enormous authenticity and quiet strength to the role. Ella Rumpf, who was unforgettable in one of my favorite modern French horror films, Raw, once again demonstrates why she's such a compelling performer, making Angèle's frustration and unrealized ambitions deeply affecting. Garance Marillier contributes beautifully understated work as Christine, grounding the film with empathy and grace.

There are also some terrific observations about the collaborative nature of art itself. Whether you're making movies, designing clothes, applying makeup, or stitching together a garment bead by bead, creativity often requires sacrifice, exhaustion, compromise, and perseverance in the face of deeply personal turmoil. That's one of the film's strongest undercurrents.

Now, not everything works.

The romantic subplot involving Maxine and her cinematographer feels underdeveloped and never quite earns its emotional significance. And Winocour occasionally reaches for symbolism with a little too much enthusiasm.

The climactic storm that tears through the runway show, bringing all four women's journeys together in one giant metaphorical flourish, isn't exactly subtle. Neither are some of the closing visual images that practically scream their thematic intentions. There are moments when the symbolism is so obvious it risks distracting from the emotional truth.

But even then, the performances and sincerity carry the movie through.

What ultimately lingers is its compassion. This is a deeply female-driven story about connection, survival, and finding strength in unexpected places. One of the movie's loveliest scenes comes when Maxine confides her cancer diagnosis to Angèle before telling almost anyone else in her life.

It's an intimate moment between two women who barely know each other, yet instantly understand each other's vulnerability. That quiet act of trust says more than pages of dialogue ever could.

By the time the credits rolled, I found myself unexpectedly moved. Couture captures the spectacle of Fashion Week with documentary-like realism while simultaneously exposing its emptiness.

More importantly, it tells four compelling human stories about artists, workers, mothers, daughters, and survivors trying to hold onto themselves while the world around them obsesses over surfaces.

It's moody, occasionally heavy-handed, and not every subplot lands. But Alice Winocour continues to prove she's one of the most interesting voices working in French cinema today, and she has crafted an emotionally rich ensemble piece led by a terrific Angelina Jolie performance and anchored by an outstanding supporting cast.

I walked into Couture expecting very little.

I walked out recommending it enthusiastically. - ⭐️⭐️⭐️1/2

4) LUCKY STRIKE

The last couple of weeks have delivered an unexpected little mini-wave of World War II movies, and oddly enough they’ve both been fascinated with technology almost as much as they’ve been interested in combat.

The previous film, Pressure, approached D-Day through the lens of meteorological forecasting and the primitive but groundbreaking equipment that helped shape one of history’s most important military operations.

Now comes Lucky Strike, directed by Rod Lurie, which shifts the focus to the Battle of the Bulge and builds much of its story around another piece of wartime innovation: the Motorola SCR-300 radio, an early walkie-talkie that becomes the lifeline for a stranded American officer trapped behind enemy lines.

Unfortunately, just like Pressure, the technology is more interesting than the movie built around it.

Lucky Strike stars Scott Eastwood as Captain John Castle, an American soldier who finds himself isolated in Belgium during the freezing winter of 1944 after his unit is scattered in the chaos of battle. Wounded and cut off from Allied forces, Castle must survive by relying on his instincts, his knowledge of enemy tactics, and that experimental radio to monitor German movements and coordinate a possible escape.

Rod Lurie and his screenwriters frame the wartime story through scenes set decades later, where an elderly Castle is helping a factory worker fight to receive a pension she has been unfairly denied, with flashbacks intended to explain the moral code forged by his wartime experiences.

It’s a nice idea. It just doesn’t work.

The framing device feels awkward from the outset and never develops into anything emotionally satisfying. Instead of enriching Castle’s character, it interrupts the momentum and constantly reminds you that you’re watching a screenplay trying very hard to manufacture significance.

The transitions back and forth between past and present are clumsy, and the mixture of black-and-white imagery with color photography only calls attention to itself without adding much thematic weight.

Scott Eastwood doesn’t help matters. He’s clearly aiming for stoicism, but there’s a fine line between understated and underpowered, and too often his performance falls on the wrong side of that line.

I hate making comparisons to his father because they’re inevitable and ultimately unfair, but Clint Eastwood could stand silently in front of a camera and command your attention through sheer presence. Scott hasn’t quite developed that ability, and here his quiet demeanor often reads as stiffness rather than quiet intensity. There simply isn’t enough spark behind the eyes to carry a film built around one man’s isolated struggle.

Colin Hanks fares better in a supporting role and does what he can with the material, but this is a script that rarely gives its actors room to surprise us. Instead, it moves dutifully from one familiar World War II trope to another.

There’s an undercover confrontation involving possible spies that feels lifted from dozens of better war movies. There are generic survival scenarios, standard moral dilemmas, and predictable encounters that never generate much suspense because you’ve seen variations of them all before.

Ironically, when the movie stops trying to be clever and simply stages action, it occasionally comes alive. A flamethrower ambush during a snowstorm is genuinely harrowing, a sequence with real tension and brutality that captures the terror of combat in a way much of the rest of the film cannot.

There are moments where Lurie reminds you he knows how to construct an effective scene. But they’re surrounded by long stretches of radio espionage and tactical maneuvering that should be gripping and instead play as surprisingly flat. The Motorola SCR-300 becomes more of a narrative gimmick than a source of sustained suspense.

Visually, the film is uneven as well. Some battlefield imagery captures the bleak, frozen landscape effectively, while other moments rely on digital effects and CGI-enhanced photography that look distractingly artificial. Rather than immersing you in wartime Belgium, they occasionally pull you right out of it.

Rod Lurie remains one of the more curious figures working in American filmmaking. Before stepping behind the camera, he was a respected film critic and journalist, and his early directing career showed real promise.

Deterrence was an intriguing debut, The Contender remains a smart and compelling political drama with terrific performances from Joan Allen, Jeff Bridges, and Gary Oldman, and The Last Castle had genuine strengths despite its troubled release.

But somewhere along the way, his work lost much of that sharpness. The unnecessary and awful remake of Straw Dogs was a misguided mess, The Outpost never quite found its footing, The Senior was forgettable, and now Lucky Strike continues that downward trajectory by delivering another respectable-looking but uninspired exercise in familiar genre conventions.

To be fair, the movie’s heart is in the right place. There’s an earnest respect for the sacrifices of the soldiers who fought during the Battle of the Bulge, and its themes of resilience, duty, and protecting the vulnerable are admirable. You can sense the filmmakers wanting to honor that generation and tell a story about courage under impossible circumstances.

But good intentions only get you so far.

What ultimately sinks Lucky Strike is its overwhelming predictability. The script checks off clichés like it’s working from a mandatory list, the framing device never earns its existence, and the performances range from merely serviceable to disappointingly flat.

There are isolated sequences that remind you of the better movie this could have been, but they’re overwhelmed by formula and familiarity.

Coming so soon after Pressure, another World War II film preoccupied with the technological advances of the era, the comparison is unavoidable. Neither picture is particularly successful, but Pressure at least benefits from stronger craftsmanship and more compelling execution. Lucky Strike never quite finds that footing.

In the end, it’s a generic, by-the-numbers war thriller that offers little we haven’t already seen done better many times before. Respectful? Yes. Occasionally effective? Certainly.

Memorable? Not even close. I can’t recommend it. - ⭐️⭐️

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