“When you least expect it, nature has cunninng ways of finding our weakest spot.””
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“When you least expect it, nature has cunninng ways of finding our weakest spot.””
There’s a particular kind of exhaustion that comes from watching movies that want to be important but never quite earn it. Prestige without pulse. Ambition without blood. For the better part of the last few years, cinema has been stuck in that loop—well-made, well-acted, utterly forgettable. Marty Supreme breaks that cycle like a fist through glass. Josh Safdie’s film doesn’t politely ask for your attention; it hijacks it. This is a movie that hums, rattles, and eventually roars. It’s the first film in a long time that feels genuinely great—not because it aims for greatness, but because it refuses to settle for anything less than obsession.
Benny Safdie’s solo directing debut is a choice, not a gimmick. The Smashing Machine leans fully into a 90s camcorder, vérité vibe—blown-out whites, rolling shutter, clipped dialogue, the occasional warble in the tape. It’s not nostalgia; it’s a design principle. The film looks and sounds like the decade it’s interrogating, and that technical conviction is its sharpest edge.
Grief is the marrow of Dead of Winter, and it’s where the film is at its most convincing. This isn’t just another snowbound survival tale—it’s a study of how loss reshapes instinct, how silence can weigh more than dialogue, and how holding on to memory can be both an anchor and a burden. That emotional core is where the film thrives.
There are movies that catch you off guard—not because of a shocking twist or groundbreaking visuals, but because they deliver an experience you didn’t know you needed. K-Pop Demon Hunters is exactly that kind of film. Going in, I wasn’t a K-pop fan. In fact, I’ve never listened to a full K-pop track (save for BTS’ Dynamite) in my life. But within minutes, I was caught in the dazzling neon vortex of this movie, and by the end, I realized it had done something remarkable: it made me care deeply about three global pop stars who moonlight as defenders of humanity.
In the end, The Pickup feels like a decent weeknight watch rather than a must-see event. It’s carried more by the actors than the script or direction, with KeKe Palmer once again proving that even in a role written without much nuance, she can bring authenticity and heart. While not a disaster by any stretch, it’s a film that leaves you wishing its creative risks matched the talent of its cast.
From the opening scene—where Neeson inexplicably dons a schoolgirl disguise to thwart a bank robbery—the film sets its frenetic, absurd tone. The jokes land with gleeful abandon: pratfalls, visual gags, meta-references that wink at fans, and a shameless dose of slapstick. The action sequences blur into comedic chaos—electric cars gone haywire, nightclub brawls, and a climactic emergency at a mixed martial arts match coincide with the unveiling of the film’s high-stakes tech villainy. It’s silly, absurd, full of momentum—and it works.