CAPSULE MOVIE REVIEWS: 9-5-25
- Sep 6
- 13 min read
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My Film Critic pants are quite fetching; they are on, pressed, and ironed. I'm ready to review four new movies in this week's capsule (short) movie reviews for Friday, September 5th, 2025.
So here we are, allegedly at the end. The Conjuring: Last Rites is being sold as the final entry in the mainline series, the fourth "Conjuring" film, the ninth overall in the so-called Conjuring Universe. A universe I could live without.
I'll be honest: I liked the first Conjuring. James Wan directed the hell out of it. It was slick, scary, beautifully constructed, with some genuine dread, a real sense of character, and two terrific lead performances from Vera Farmiga and Patrick Wilson.
Plus, Lily Taylor was outstanding, and she brought so much weight and humanity that the movie actually mattered. That first one worked. Everything after? A slow, painful decline into the same stale jump-scare factory.
James Wan went on to produce all of these things while making billions with Aquaman, Fast and Furious, and whatever. But his best film, to this day, is still Death Sentence, the criminally underrated Kevin Bacon revenge thriller that's essentially Death Wish filtered through Wan's grindhouse sensibility. That's his masterpiece.
But anyway, back to The Conjuring. Every sequel, every spinoff, every Nun movie, every Annabelle cash grab, it's all the same bag of cheap tricks. And Last Rites? This one is worse than most.
Maybe the worst of the core "Conjuring" films, though it doesn't sink as low as The Nun II, which is pure bottom-of-the-barrel trash from the same terrible director, Michael Chaves. Still, this is an incoherent, generic, laughably bad ghost story.
The big problem here is simple: there are no rules. None. You can't track what's real, what's imagined, what's a vision, or what has consequences.
One minute, Vera Farmiga's Lorraine is washing dishes. Suddenly, blood explodes out of the sink. Smash cut, nope, just soap and water. Fake-out. The movie does this constantly. It's dishonest filmmaking. You never know if what you're watching matters, so nothing matters.
When you don't have rules, you don't have stakes. The mirror that supposedly ties the whole movie together? Sometimes it possesses people. Sometimes it makes them vomit up blood and shards of glass.
Sometimes it makes them float in the air. Sometimes it makes them hang themselves. Sometimes it just…shows up so you can get another pale ghoul face rushing the camera.
It's arbitrary. It's lazy. And it kills any sense of suspense.
The scares are all the same: cheap, tired, fake-out jump scares. A pale old lady's face in close-up. A ghoul screaming. A doll sitting in the corner. Loud noises. Over and over again.
It's the cinematic equivalent of someone sneaking up behind you and yelling "Boo!" a hundred times. Eventually, you don't even flinch; you just roll your eyes.
On top of the bad horror, we get saddled with sitcom-level family drama. The movie wastes a good 20 minutes on Judy Warren (their now-adult daughter, played by Mia Tomlinson, who resembles Zooey Deschanel so much that that is the scariest thing in the movie) and her boyfriend Tony (Ben Hardy), who wants Ed's blessing before he proposes.
Cue the ping-pong game, cue the sitcom banter, cue David Bowie's "Let's Dance" on the soundtrack. It's like a bad ABC Family pilot in the middle of a horror movie.
Patrick Wilson's Ed has had a heart attack, so that subplot hangs over the film until it doesn't. Judy has inherited her mom's psychic abilities, so that gets thrown in until it doesn't.
Tony gets a dramatic monologue about leaving the police force after staring down the barrel of a shotgun, and that's supposed to convince Ed he's a good guy. It's absurd. None of this matters when the rest of the movie is just random demons popping out of closets.
And the Smurl family, the so-called "heart" of the story? Forget it. They're a giant blur of unconvincing acting, overlapping dialogue, and chaos with no warmth. You don't know who's who. They just run around the Pittsburgh house while light fixtures crash, storms rage, and people float around. It's noise.
Let me catalog a few of the ridiculous "scares" this thing throws at you:
A videotape scene where a girl rewinds footage to see if a ghost blew out a candle. Tension-free, ends in another dumb jump scare.
An ax murderer who literally shows up in the house for no reason, like he wandered in from another script.
Blood and glass vomit, which might be real, might be imaginary, and ultimately doesn't matter.
A cursed mirror that does…whatever the writers need it to do at any given moment.
Cameos from Annabelle and other spinoff monsters, popping up like they're saying hi from another movie, which is exactly what they're doing.
None of it is scary. Not one moment made me jump. Not one moment made my skin crawl. Not one moment felt suspenseful.
There are a couple of bright spots, but they have nothing to do with the filmmaking. The soundtrack is packed with great '80s songs: The Cult's "She Sells Sanctuary," Bowie's "Let's Dance," Romeo Void's "A Girl in Trouble," and a few other needle drops that are genuinely fun to hear.
There's a cool El Camino in a few scenes. Lily Taylor shows up briefly at the end, which just reminded me how much better the first movie was. That's it. Those are the positives.
The jokes? Early on, they toss in some Ghostbusters references since the movie takes place in 1986. They bomb. Not funny. Not clever. Just eye-rolling.
The Conjuring: Last Rites is a mess. It's a lazy, incoherent, rule-less ghost movie that substitutes loud noises for scares and sitcom plotting for emotional depth.
It's cheap even though it's expensive. It's random, even though it pretends to have a story. It's boring, even though it keeps throwing monsters in your face.
I didn't care about the Warrens. I didn't care about their daughter. I didn't care about the Smurls. I didn't care about the mirror.
The whole movie is built on a foundation of dishonesty: anything can happen at any time, with no logic and no consequences. That's not suspense: that's just noise.
Not scary. Not interesting. Not worth your time. If this really is the final Conjuring movie, thank God. Because Last Rites is one of the worst movies of 2025. - ⭐️
The Threesome is a romantic comedy–drama directed by Chad Hartigan (Morris from America) and written by Ethan Ogilby. Not to be confused with Andrew Fleming's brilliant, criminally underappreciated 1994 comedy Threesome, which is so much better than this thing.
It stars Zoey Deutch, Jonah Hauer-King, and Ruby Cruz in a wacky, high-concept setup: Connor (Hauer-King), a sound engineer hopelessly smitten with Olivia (Deutch), finally gets his chance with her. On a night out, they meet Jenny (Cruz), a grad student, and after too much booze and a lot of jealousy games, the three end up having a threesome.
Connor is only interested in Olivia, but things spiral: Olivia discovers she's pregnant just as Jenny shows up, announcing that she's also carrying Connor's child.
The movie then proceeds to mash together rom-com tropes, pregnancy-comedy clichés, and sitcom-level misunderstandings as Connor tries to juggle two baby mamas, one infatuation, and his own annoying cluelessness.
Cue the inevitable "impossible situation": Olivia considers an abortion but can't go through with it, Jenny insists on keeping her baby, Connor bounces between the two women, and every complication that could possibly arise does, up to and including a paternity-test twist and simultaneous hospital deliveries.
And yes, it ends with Connor and Olivia giving love another chance.
Boy, this is a bad week for rom-coms. Between Love, Brooklyn, and this, we've got two instantly forgettable movies opening on the same day. And The Threesome is the worst of the two.
This movie is a mess. It is a bad sitcom stretched to feature length, with every cliché pregnancy joke you can imagine thrown in for good measure.
It's derivative, predictable, and flat-out not funny. The whole thing feels like a cross between a mid-level NBC sitcom pilot and a bargain-bin knockoff of Knocked Up.
The premise might have worked as a sharp satire of romantic comedies or even as a farce about modern relationships. Instead, it leans on tired pregnancy gags, contrived misunderstandings, and sitcom logic that has no grounding in reality. The tone is pure sitcom, and not in a good way.
The real tragedy is that the cast deserves so much better.
Zoey Deutch is one of the most charming, magnetic, and dynamic actresses working today. She lights up the screen every time she appears, and she does everything she can to make Olivia believable and layered. She's smart, sly, funny, and effortlessly engaging, but the material is beneath her.
Ruby Cruz, a truly remarkable actress, also does strong work, as does Jenny. Together, she and Deutch do all the heavy lifting this movie requires.
Jonah Hauer-King, unfortunately, is saddled with one of the most annoying male leads in recent rom-com memory. Connor is underwritten, one-dimensional, and instantly unlikable.
It's not Hauer-King's fault; he's done good work elsewhere, but here, the character is a walking collection of clichés. And since so much of the movie revolves around him, it sinks everything around it.
There are a few supporting characters who add momentary charm (Jaboukie Young-White gets a couple of good beats, Julia Sweeney pops in), but it's never enough to salvage the writing.
This isn't as jaw-droppingly bad as some infamous pregnancy comedies (My Baby's Daddy from 2004 still holds the crown for atrocious), but it's in that ballpark.
It reminded me most of 2012's What to Expect When You're Expecting, another movie that thought a handful of pregnancy jokes and contrived situations equaled comedy.
At least those movies knew they were lowbrow. The Threesome seems to think it's edgier and more insightful than it is, when in reality it's sitcom-level banality dressed up with sex and baby drama.
A bad week for rom-coms, and The Threesome only adds to the pile. It's painfully derivative, poorly written, and saddles its actors with material they don't deserve.
The only thing that keeps it watchable at all is Zoey Deutch, a radiant, endlessly talented actress who once again proves she can elevate garbage material. She deserves better, much better. - ⭐️1/2
Love, Brooklyn is the debut feature from director Rachael Abigail Holder, with a screenplay by Paul Zimmerman and executive production from Steven Soderbergh. On paper, it's an ambitious slice-of-life Brooklyn drama about love, loss, friendship, and moving forward in a changing city.
André Holland stars as Roger, a writer struggling with an assignment about Brooklyn in the aftermath of COVID lockdowns.
He finds himself caught between his ex, Casey (Nicole Beharie), who's an art gallery owner trying to decide whether to sell her inherited space, and Nicole (DeWanda Wise), a single mother still grieving her late husband while raising her daughter Ally (Cadence Reese).
Roger waffles between the two women: dinners, trysts, art museums, bike rides, and long conversations about life, art, and race in Brooklyn. Along the way, Roy Wood Jr. shows up as Roger's married friend Alan, who fantasizes about cheating on his wife but never does, and provides comic relief.
The film paints itself as a portrait of contemporary Brooklyn, gentrification, Black identity, and complicated relationships, but whether it succeeds is another story.
Love Brooklyn is a slight, instantly forgettable little film. It's anchored by a solid cast who try to breathe life into underwritten characters, but the script is predictable, thin, and riddled with holes. As a debut, it's not a disaster, but it's not a strong calling card either.
The biggest problem is Roger himself. André Holland is a terrific actor, but the character is a frustrating blank. He's supposedly a writer, but the movie never makes that believable. Who does he write for? A magazine? A website? Freelance? An influencer?
We meet his "editor" in one bizarrely staged scene involving expensive wine tasting, which feels nothing like how editing or journalism actually works. The movie treats writing as an abstract metaphor rather than a profession, and it rings completely false.
Then there's the Brooklyn of Love, Brooklyn. Holder clearly wants to make this a love letter to the borough, but it feels hollow and inaccurate. Empty bars, uncrowded streets, and endless bike rides through neighborhoods stripped of real texture.
Instead of feeling authentic, it feels like Brooklyn as imagined by someone who watched a bunch of other movies.
Nicole Beharie fares the best as Casey, the gallery owner wrestling with whether to sell her inherited space. She has the most dimensions and the most interesting arc.
DeWanda Wise is magnetic as Nicole, but the script fails her; we never really learn about her late husband, her grief, or why she lets Roger get so close to her daughter without hesitation. Cadence Reese as Ally shows promise, but her relationship with Roger is never fully explored.
Roy Wood Jr. pops up as comic relief, tossing off lines about sex and cheating, cracking inappropriate jokes about breasts and infidelity. He's funny because he's Roy Wood Jr., but the character is paper-thin. It's the most blatant, by-the-numbers use of "comic relief" you can imagine.
The movie aims to inhabit the same world as Woody Allen's 1980s New York films, where characters discuss art and love in dimly lit restaurants, stroll through museums, and bike through neighborhoods. But those films (for all their massive flaws) at least had a bit of wit and rhythm.
Here, the dialogue is derivative and hollow. To graft that style onto a film that's explicitly about Blackness, gentrification, and the loss of cultural identity in Brooklyn feels like a miscalculation.
Holder's real influence is Gina Prince-Bythewood (Love & Basketball), but without her sharp writing or emotional authenticity. Love, Brooklyn wants to be romantic, warm, and bittersweet, but it settles for meandering and flat.
There are a few nice moments. Some monologues about art and race have flashes of intelligence. Nicole Beharie has scenes that resonate.
Roy Wood Jr. injects life whenever he shows up. But none of it hangs together. The love triangle feels unearned, the portrayal of Brooklyn is inauthentic, the journalism angle is laughably inaccurate, and the emotions don't land.
By the time the credits rolled, I didn't care about Roger, didn't care about his writing, and didn't care about his indecision between two women who deserve better.
Love, Brooklyn, is a disappointment. It's hollow, derivative, and instantly forgettable. - ⭐️⭐️
Every once in a while, a movie sneaks up on you and reminds you why we sit in the dark, stare at a screen, and let ourselves be swallowed whole by a story. James Sweeney's Twinless is that movie. It's small, it's unassuming, it's low budget, but it's one of the most original, most daring, and flat-out best films of 2025.
Dylan O'Brien plays Roman, a guy whose twin brother Rocky (also O'Brien, in a second, completely distinct role) has just been killed. He's angry, lost, a little dim, and completely undone by the loss.
His relationship with his mother, Lisa (played by Lauren Graham, given something meaty to do outside the wonderful Gilmore Girls universe, and she nails it), is both combative and heartbreaking. She's grieving her son, he's grieving his twin, and neither knows how to talk about it.
Already, before the credits even roll (and it takes a bold, brilliant 20 minutes before those credits come), Sweeney has established a world of pain and disorientation so raw you can feel it in your chest.
Enter Dennis (played by Sweeney himself), a guy who sidles into Roman's life through a support group for "twinless twins." Only here's the catch: Dennis isn't really twinless. He's lying, manipulating, and infiltrating Roman's grief for reasons that only slowly become clear.
He knew Rocky. He had a relationship with Rocky. He's obsessed, guilty, desperate. And as Dennis weaves his way into Roman's daily life, hockey games, grocery store trips, and late-night confessions, he becomes both a lifeline and a ticking time bomb.
This is the genius of Twinless: the shifting points of view. That prologue we see through Roman's eyes? Once the credits roll, we flash back to Dennis's perspective, and suddenly, everything we thought we knew is upended.
That pattern continues throughout, Roman's view, Dennis's view, sometimes both at once. There's even a split-screen sequence at a Halloween party that's flat-out dazzling, Roman on one side, Dennis on the other, the same moments refracted through two completely different lenses.
And it's not just a gimmick. It's a commentary on perspective, on obsession, on how grief warps memory and love into something unrecognizable.
And Dylan O'Brien, let's talk about him. This is a guy many people still pigeonhole as "that kid from the Maze Runner movies" or "the guy from Teen Wolf." Here, he delivers two entirely separate, fully realized performances.
Rocky is loud, gay, sexually confident, and alive in every sense of the word. Roman is sullen, dim-witted, temperamental, and struggling to articulate his loss. Watching O'Brien flip between them is thrilling. These are career-best performances, no question.
Sweeney, too, is terrific. Dennis is one of those characters you shouldn't root for but can't look away from. He is funny, acerbic, manipulative, lonely, and obsessive.
He slides between charming and unsettling like it's second nature. And Sweeney's writing gives him razor-sharp dialogue, lines that are laugh-out-loud funny one moment and heartbreakingly sad the next.
The supporting cast is just as strong. The great Aisling Franciosi as Marcie, Dennis's co-worker who gets involved with Roman, could've been a stock "quirky receptionist." Instead, she's sharp, funny, deceptively intelligent, and crucial to the unraveling of Dennis's secrets.
Lauren Graham, as mentioned, brings real weight to her small but vital role as Lisa. Chris Perfetti, Susan Park, and Tasha Smith, every supporting player feels fleshed out, lived in.
And then there's the humor. For a movie about grief and obsession, Twinless is very, very funny. There's a sequence where Roman takes on a group of homophobic thugs outside a hockey game that's both brutal and hilarious, perfectly illustrating his hair-trigger temper and his fierce loyalty to Dennis.
There are sly references to The Sims video game, which become both running gag and potent metaphor... about control, about playing God, about taking care of fragile little avatars because real life is too messy.
There's cringe comedy that makes you squirm in your seat, banter that sparkles, and sex scenes that are refreshingly frank and unflinching.
But what makes Twinless extraordinary is how it juggles all of this: grief, humor, obsession, friendship, family dynamics, gay-straight male relationships, identity, manipulation, and never once drops the ball.
The tonal shifts shouldn't work. They should be a mess. Instead, they're seamless. One moment you're laughing, the next you're tense, the next you're devastated. And it all feels organic, all of a piece.
By the time the climax hits, when secrets are revealed, when violence erupts, when Dennis's obsession and Roman's volatility collide, the film has earned every gasp, every tear. It's not shock for shock's sake. It's the natural, heartbreaking endpoint of a story that's been meticulously, brilliantly built.
Here's the thing: Twinless could've been simple. On the surface, it is simple. Guy loses twin, guy meets another "twinless twin," complications ensue.
But Sweeney layers it with so much complexity (shifting POVs, symbolic motifs, structural gambits) that it becomes something else entirely. It's deceptively brilliant. It's small in budget but massive in ambition. And it works.
In a year clogged with reboots, sequels, remakes, and endless IP recycling, here's a film that feels wholly original. Not just in subject matter, but in execution, in style, in storytelling.
It's intimate, it's specific, it's fearless. And it's better, smarter, deeper, funnier, and more moving than 90% of the bloated big-budget junk in theaters right now.
I laughed. I cringed. I gasped. I squirmed. I was floored by the craft, by the performances, by the audacity. Twinless is the real deal.
It's a buried treasure that deserves to be unearthed, shouted about, and shown to everyone who complains that "movies aren't original anymore."
Seek it out. Trust me. This is one of the very best films of 2025. - ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
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