top of page
Search

CAPSULE MOVIE REVIEWS: 7-24-26

[Get the exclusive video version of these weekly reviews each Friday by becoming a paid subscriber!]


My Film Critic pants are quite fetching; they are on, pressed, and ironed. I'm ready to review three new movies in this week's capsule (short) movie reviews for Friday, July 24th, 2026.


Nicolas Winding Refn has become one of the most polarizing filmmakers working today, and I completely understand why. Early in his career, with the gritty, brutally realistic Pusher trilogy, he established himself as a gifted crime filmmaker with an eye for violence and atmosphere.


Then came Drive, the movie that launched him into the cinematic stratosphere and earned him the Best Director prize at Cannes. It was stylish, emotional, hypnotic, funny, heartbreaking, and incredibly violent. It also marked the point where Refn fully embraced the dreamlike aesthetic that has come to define his work.


Since then, with films like Only God Forgives and The Neon Demon (which I still think is his best film), he's become less interested in telling conventional stories than creating fever dreams built from color, music, symbolism, and raw emotion.


After a decade away from feature films, he returns with Her Private Hell, and it may be his most uncompromising work yet.


Set in a stylized, futuristic Tokyo that seems to exist somewhere between reality, nightmare, and fantasy, Her Private Hell follows a troubled young actress whose emotional unraveling mirrors a parallel odyssey through a city haunted by violence, damaged families, and mythic horrors.


Trying to explain the plot beyond that is honestly beside the point. This isn't a movie that unfolds through logic or traditional storytelling. It's an allegory. It's a dark fairy tale. It's an operatic nightmare where emotions matter far more than narrative mechanics.


That's something you have to accept before buying a ticket. If you walk into this expecting a straightforward science fiction thriller or even a conventional horror movie, you're probably going to leave frustrated.


Refn isn't interested in answering questions. He isn't interested in making everything connect neatly. He's asking you to surrender to the experience, to let the imagery, the music, and the emotional undercurrents wash over you. Either you'll go with it, or you'll reject it completely.


I went with it.


Does the movie make a lick of sense? Not really. Trying to untangle everyone's motivations or piece together a coherent, linear narrative is a fool's errand. Refn has fully entered that stage of his career where symbolism replaces exposition, mood replaces logic, and every scene feels like it came directly from someone's subconscious at three in the morning.


Somehow, though, it all held my attention because the filmmaking itself is so astonishingly confident.


Every frame looks incredible. The cinematography is breathtaking, drenched in the glowing reds, blues, and purples that have become Refn's visual signature. The editing creates an almost hypnotic rhythm, allowing scenes to breathe until they suddenly explode into bursts of shocking violence. The sound design is phenomenal, using silence and thunderous impact with equal effectiveness.


Even when I had absolutely no idea where the movie was going (and that happened frequently) I never stopped admiring how beautifully it was put together.


The action sequences are savage, meticulously choreographed, and filmed with extraordinary precision. Every knife fight, every bloody confrontation, every eruption of violence lands with real impact because Refn understands how to stage brutality as both horror and choreography.


It's beautiful and ugly at exactly the same time. On a purely technical level, these sequences are master classes in visual storytelling, even if the surrounding narrative often feels intentionally elusive.


Fortunately, the cast is more than capable of grounding all of this madness. Sophie Thatcher continues to prove that she's one of the most compelling young actresses working today, particularly in genre films. Between The Boogeyman, Heretic, Companion, Yellowjackets, and now this, she's quietly become one of the defining faces of modern horror. She's magnetic here.


The role demands enormous emotional range (fear, rage, vulnerability, grief, determination) and she never loses her grip on the audience. Even when the character functions more as an idea than a fully realized person, Thatcher finds enough humanity to make you care. She gives the movie an emotional center it desperately needs.


The truly gifted Havana Rose Liu is also terrific, bringing real complexity to a relationship that exists more in emotional shorthand than conventional dramatic scenes. Charles Melton throws himself into the film's physical demands with impressive commitment, while the rest of the ensemble embraces Refn's heightened, almost theatrical style without ever winking at the audience.


Nobody in this exceptional cast phones it in. Everyone commits completely to Refn's strange wavelength.


Beneath all of the neon, blood, and surreal imagery is a movie that's really about damaged families, particularly the complicated relationships between fathers and daughters. Trauma echoes throughout the film, manifesting itself in bizarre fantasies, acts of shocking violence, and fractured identities.


It's about abandonment, emotional abuse, longing for protection, and the desperate hope that broken relationships can somehow be repaired. Those ideas emerge more through visual metaphor than dialogue, but they're there, and they give the film a surprising emotional weight underneath all the insanity.


The score is another major reason the movie works as well as it does. Refn enlisted the legendary Pino Donaggio, whose collaborations with Brian De Palma remain some of the greatest film scores ever composed. Hearing Donaggio's unmistakable style alongside Refn's imagery feels completely right. His music elevates every sequence, adding melancholy, menace, and heartbreaking beauty all at once.


And speaking of De Palma, Refn wears his influences proudly. There are unmistakable echoes of Brian De Palma throughout the movie, from the voyeuristic compositions to the lush camera movements and operatic use of violence.


Just as obvious is the massive influence of Dario Argento, whose fingerprints seem to be all over the lighting, the dream logic, and the heightened emotional reality. Refn isn't hiding where these inspirations come from. He's practically putting them under a giant neon spotlight.


Yet somehow, despite borrowing so heavily from those masters, the finished product still feels unmistakably like a Nicolas Winding Refn film. Nobody else working today makes movies that look (or feel) quite like this.


I do have one completely ridiculous complaint, and it's entirely my own fault. Every time characters referred to the "Leatherman," I couldn't stop thinking about those absurd Saturday Night Live sketches with Jimmy Fallon and Horatio Sanz working in the leather shop.


Every single time the name came up, that was where my brain went. Obviously, that's not Refn's problem, but I found myself quietly laughing at moments that were supposed to be deadly serious.


Ultimately, Her Private Hell is exactly the kind of movie I expected Nicolas Winding Refn to make after a ten-year absence from feature filmmaking.


It's visually intoxicating, narratively impenetrable, emotionally raw, unapologetically pretentious, often beautiful, occasionally frustrating, and completely uncompromising. It's the work of an artist who has absolutely no interest in pleasing a mainstream audience.


If you had issues with Only God Forgives or The Neon Demon, stay far away from this one. You're probably going to hate it.


But if you're willing to immerse yourself in a gorgeous, blood-soaked fever dream that values mood over logic and emotion over explanation, Her Private Hell is a fascinating ride. It may not make much sense, but it never stops being mesmerizing.


Sometimes that's enough. - ⭐️⭐️⭐️


One of my favorite things about going to the movies is being genuinely surprised. It doesn't happen nearly as often as I'd like. Between trailers, social media, and endless marketing campaigns, it's almost impossible to walk into a movie without some preconceived notion of what you're about to see.


That's exactly why Motor City caught me completely off guard. I knew almost nothing going in. I knew it was an action movie. I knew it was a revenge story set in 1970s Detroit. I'd heard a little bit of positive buzz after its festival screenings, but that was it.


What I absolutely did not know was that the movie is essentially a feature-length rock opera masquerading as a revenge thriller. And that's kind of a wonderful surprise.


Directed by Potsy Ponciroli, Motor City follows Vietnam veteran John Miller, whose quiet life is shattered after he's framed for a crime he didn't commit and loses the woman he loves to the ruthless gangster responsible for destroying his future.


After years behind bars, he escapes with one thing on his mind: revenge. That's the basic setup, but the remarkable thing isn't the story itself. It's the way the story is told.


There is almost no dialogue.


Seriously. You can practically count the spoken lines on one hand. Instead, the narrative unfolds through music, visual storytelling, montage, facial expressions, and astonishingly choreographed action sequences.


About fifteen minutes into the movie I realized nobody was talking, and I honestly wondered if this was going to continue for the entire running time. It does. What initially feels like a gimmick slowly reveals itself as the movie's entire language. It's an audacious choice.


For long stretches, Motor City plays like an extended series of beautifully edited music videos connected into one continuous narrative. Characters fall in love, betray one another, plan escapes, mourn losses, and wage war almost entirely through imagery and carefully selected songs.


Director Ponciroli clearly understands rhythm, editing, and the emotional power of music, because the soundtrack isn't simply accompanying the action, it becomes the dialogue.


And what a soundtrack.


Set during the mid-1970s, the film wisely leans into music from that era (and some music from a more modern time as well), and as someone whose musical sweet spot has always been classic rock from the '70s, I was immediately hooked.


David Bowie's magnificent "Cat People (Putting Out Fire)" accompanies one of the year's most exhilarating opening sequences, throwing the audience directly into the middle of absolute chaos before the title even appears.


It's a bravura piece of filmmaking that announces, right from the start, that this isn't going to be your standard revenge thriller.


From there, the soundtrack continues to do much of the heavy lifting. Bill Withers, Fleetwood Mac, Sniff 'n' the Tears, Al Stewart, The Moody Blues. Even the nauseating and wonderfully cheesy Starbuck hit "Moonlight Feels Right" finds its way into one of the movie's most unexpectedly funny and brutally violent sequences.


The choices are inspired. These songs don't simply provide nostalgia; they help tell the story, establish mood, and give emotional shape to scenes that otherwise might have relied on conventional dialogue. It shouldn't work nearly as well as it does.


Alan Ritchson has the difficult task of carrying almost the entire film through physical performance alone. I haven't followed his work on Reacher, so this was really my introduction to him as a leading man. Because he barely speaks, it's difficult to judge him as a traditional actor.


What he does demonstrate is tremendous physical commitment. Every emotion has to register through movement, expression, and body language, and he throws himself into the role with complete conviction. He's less a conventional protagonist than a silent-film hero transported into a modern action movie.


Shailene Woodley also understands exactly what kind of movie she's in. Everything is heightened. Every emotion is enormous. Love isn't subtle. Fear isn't understated. Grief isn't quiet.


The performances are intentionally operatic because words have been removed from the equation. Everyone has to communicate through sheer physical expression, and Woodley embraces that heightened style completely.


Then there's Ben Foster.


Ben Foster has built an entire career out of playing unstable, unpredictable, larger-than-life characters, and somehow he manages to deliver one of the year's biggest over-the-top performances without actually saying much of anything. It's honestly kind of remarkable.


Every gesture, every sneer, every twitch, every dramatic flourish is turned up to maximum volume. At one point, during an emotionally charged funeral sequence staged almost entirely in slow motion, Foster launches into such an extravagantly theatrical breakdown that I couldn't stop laughing.


And I don't mean that as criticism. He absolutely understands the assignment. He realizes this movie is operating on pure melodrama, and he goes for broke.


The action is equally stylized.


The fight choreography is crisp, the editing is razor sharp, and the violence has a comic-book intensity that perfectly matches the heightened aesthetic.


There's an absolutely terrific elevator fight late in the movie that's brutal, claustrophobic, and expertly staged. It's one of those sequences where every punch, every knife strike, and every shotgun blast lands with tremendous impact because the filmmakers understand geography, rhythm, and visual storytelling. Even without dialogue, you always know exactly what's happening.


For roughly two-thirds of its running time, I was completely on board. Then the movie makes one unfortunate decision. It gradually abandons the very thing that made it so distinctive.


As the climax approaches, the incredible jukebox soundtrack largely disappears, replaced by a more conventional score. The storytelling remains mostly wordless, but the rock-opera concept begins giving way to a fairly standard action finale.


The movie suddenly starts feeling like dozens of other revenge thrillers we've seen before. The originality that defined the first two acts slowly fades, and the final stretch becomes much more familiar than it should.


That's disappointing because the central gimmick isn't really a gimmick at all, it's the movie's identity. When the songs disappear, so does a big part of what makes Motor City special.


Even so, I admired this film far more than I expected to.


It's messy. It's wildly uneven. At times it's unintentionally funny. At other times it's exhilarating. But it's also one of the boldest formal experiments I've seen in a mainstream action film in quite a while.


In an era when so many action movies feel assembled from the same template, here's one that actually takes a chance. It swings for the fences. Not every swing connects, but I'd much rather watch an ambitious movie that occasionally stumbles than another safe, interchangeable revenge thriller.


I walked into Motor City expecting a routine action picture.


Instead, I got a strange, ambitious, frequently exhilarating rock-and-roll revenge opera that isn't afraid to trust images, music, and movement over exposition. The final act loses some of its nerve, but the journey getting there is inventive enough that I was more than willing to forgive its shortcomings.


It's an imperfect movie.


It's also one of the year's most pleasant, and ridiculous surprises. - ⭐️⭐️⭐️


As a lifelong horror fan, I'm always fascinated by the trends that come and go within the genre. Some are exciting, some are embarrassing, and some are so completely ridiculous that they somehow become entertaining in spite of themselves.


One of the strangest recent developments has been the emergence of the so-called Twisted Childhood Universe, or, as horror fans have affectionately dubbed it, the "Poohniverse." It all began when Winnie-the-Pooh entered the public domain and someone had the bright, or perhaps deranged, idea of turning one of the sweetest characters in children's literature into a bloodthirsty slasher.


Against all odds, Winnie-the-Pooh: Blood and Honey found an audience. Then came a sequel, followed by twisted takes on Peter Pan and Bambi. Now we've arrived at Pinocchio: Unstrung, the fifth chapter in this increasingly bizarre shared universe.


And honestly, by this point, you know exactly what you're getting.


These movies aren't trying to be elevated horror. They're not interested in psychological depth or social commentary. They're essentially giant exploitation gimmicks built around one joke: take a beloved childhood character, cover them in blood, give them a body count, and let horror fans enjoy the spectacle.


They're the kind of movies that would've been perfect fodder for Mystery Science Theater 3000. You watch them with friends, maybe a few beers, and spend half the running time laughing at the absurdity while the other half is devoted to admiring an especially outrageous gore effect. That's pretty much where Pinocchio: Unstrung lands.


The familiar fairy tale is reimagined as a gruesome slasher in which the famous wooden puppet becomes a murderous creation driven by supernatural forces and an obsessive desire to become a "real boy."


Instead of innocence and moral lessons, the story becomes a parade of bloody set pieces, practical makeup effects, and increasingly outrageous kills. It's juvenile, excessive, and completely unapologetic about what it wants to be. Oddly enough, there are stretches where it actually works.


The biggest surprise is the title character himself. Thanks to Todd Masters and the effects team, Pinocchio is a genuinely creepy creation. The animatronics are impressive, and the puppet's jerky, unnatural movements give him a sinister presence that digital effects probably couldn't have achieved.


There are moments when the movie taps into the inherent eeriness of the original fairy tale (a story that has always had a surprisingly dark undercurrent) and turns that into effective horror.


The filmmakers also deserve credit for embracing practical effects whenever possible. The gore is plentiful, the makeup effects are enjoyably disgusting, and several of the murder sequences display a welcome level of creativity.


A couple of extended set pieces are staged with enough energy and over-the-top brutality to satisfy even seasoned splatter fans. If you're showing up strictly for outrageous kills and buckets of fake blood, you won't leave disappointed. The cast also helps elevate the material more than I expected.


Richard Brake has quietly become one of the great character actors working in horror. Whether he's showing up in Rob Zombie movies, independent genre pictures, or mainstream thrillers, he always brings an unmistakable presence. He's clearly having fun here, and his performance gives the film a little more credibility than it probably deserves.


Cameron Bell does solid work as the young boy caught in the middle of all the madness, grounding the story whenever the insanity threatens to overwhelm it.


Then there's Robert Englund.


Any horror fan is going to smile the moment they hear that unmistakable voice. As the sinister Cricket, Englund doesn't simply coast on nostalgia. He gives the character real personality, balancing wicked humor with genuine menace.


It's not a huge role, but his presence immediately raises the movie's profile. Having one of the true icons of horror attached to this series feels appropriate, especially now that the Twisted Childhood Universe seems determined to keep expanding.


Unfortunately, the movie eventually runs into the same problem that's been affecting this entire franchise. The novelty has started to wear off.


By the second Winnie-the-Pooh movie, I pretty much understood the formula. Take a famous public-domain character, add gallons of blood, throw in some practical gore effects, and let nature take its course.


Pinocchio: Unstrung may be one of the better-made entries in the series, but it's still operating within that same template. After a while, the kills begin to blur together, the shock value diminishes, and the gimmick starts feeling more repetitive than inventive.


That's not necessarily a fatal flaw because these movies know exactly what they are. They're inexpensive productions aimed squarely at hardcore horror fans, and they've found a surprisingly loyal audience.


The budgets remain modest, the expectations are realistic, and the public-domain library of classic children's stories isn't getting any smaller. I don't think this franchise is slowing down anytime soon. If anything, it's becoming its own strange little corner of modern horror culture.


As someone who loves the genre, I have to admit there are things I admire about Pinocchio: Unstrung. It's probably the strongest technical achievement in this oddball series so far. The practical effects are excellent, the creature design is memorable, the voice performances are fun, and the filmmakers clearly understand what their audience wants. No one is pretending this is prestige filmmaking.


It's also still pretty dumb.


Even with its relatively brief running time, the repetition eventually catches up with it, and the screenplay never offers much beyond the central gimmick. But sometimes a horror movie doesn't have to reinvent the wheel. Sometimes it just has to deliver a creepy monster, inventive kills, and enough tongue-in-cheek insanity to entertain its target audience for ninety minutes.


That's exactly what Pinocchio: Unstrung does.


I can't recommend it to anyone looking for sophisticated horror or a fresh take on the genre. But if you're already invested in this absurd Twisted Childhood Universe, or you're simply curious to see how far filmmakers can push public-domain fairy tales into blood-soaked exploitation, you might have a pretty good time. - ⭐️⭐️


Thanks for reading, and please SUBSCRIBE to my weekly NEWSLETTER!


bottom of page