Horror

Dark Magic Duo: Clayface and Wildwood, reviewed

Jeremy BeckReviews
Tom Rhys Harries in Clayface; Prue in Wildwood

I won’t pretend that Clayface and Wildwood are similar movies. One is a dark, despairing odyssey about a man plagued by demons, external and internal; the other is a vibrant animated children’s tale that venerates both individual pluck and collective camaraderie. Still, the release calendar provides its little serendipities, and despite their tonal polarity, both films traffic in a kind of sorcery, be it couched in the language of comic books or fairy tales. Also, I wanted to write about both.

Directed by James Watkins from a screenplay by Mike Flanagan and Hossein Amini, Clayface represents the third installment in James Gunn’s reconstituted DC Universe, though it’s fair to wonder what percentage of its audience knows this. Sure, much of the movie takes place in Batman’s hometown of Gotham City, but there are no references to Superman or Supergirl, nor any of the fretful fan service or mid-credits stingers that are the hallmarks of the Marvel Cinematic Universe (DC’s ostensible rival). And while the film centers on a famous actor, Clayface himself isn’t exactly an A-lister in comic-book circles. (My lone knowledge of him derives from HBO’s animated Harley Quinn series, where he’s voiced with operatic foolishness by Alan Tudyk.) For a piece of synergized corporate entertainment, it feels less like a spinoff than a footnote. Read More

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Resident Evil review: The Boy Who Cried Wolfenstein

Jeremy BeckReviews
Austin Abrams in Resident Evil

Video games are designed to be played. Movies are meant to be watched. This distinction has thwarted many filmmakers who have attempted to translate the button-mashing activity of the console to the seat-reclining passivity of the multiplex. So when I say that Resident Evil, Zach Cregger’s new adaptation of the 30-year-old Capcom franchise, is probably the best video game-inspired picture I’ve ever seen, I’m not bestowing an especially high compliment (nor am I working with a significant sample size). As with many members of its subgenre, it’s deficient on (har har) multiple levels: organizationally repetitive, emotionally thin, and thematically vacant. But it does thread a delicate needle, paying tribute to the aesthetics of its source medium while also operating like a bona fide movie.

This is a matter of both structure and style. The plot of Resident Evil, which Cregger wrote with Shay Hatten (John Wick: Chapter 4), functions as a straightforward mission narrative. On a dark and snowy night, Bryan—a slow-witted courier played with dim-bulb charm by Austin Abrams—is tasked with delivering a precious medical artifact to the fictional metropolis of Raccoon City. His seemingly simple quest quickly escalates into a series of fraught, life-or-death predicaments as he arms himself with various weapons and is menaced by supernatural foes. These challenges, which broadly present an increasing degree of difficulty and culminate in a final confrontation (though the identity of the big boss may surprise you), tend to be logistical: climb a ladder, unlock a door, scale a building. You can practically see the life meter in the top corner of the screen. Read More

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Teenage Sex and Death at Camp Miasma review: Everything Reminds Me of Slasher

Jeremy BeckReviews
Hannah Einbinder and Gillian Anderson in Teenage Sex and Death at Camp Miasma

You could spend an hour watching the first three minutes of Teenage Sex and Death at Camp Miasma, Jane Schoenbrun’s fascinating, frustrating new whatsit. After its brief and exaggeratedly bloody cold open—an actor receives facial touch-ups, then slaughters a few nitwits, producing geysers of red fluid—the movie revs into its title sequence, revealing the prior scene as in-universe footage from the titular low-budget horror flick. With speed and precision, Schoenbrun communicates a half-century of meta lore by way of a blizzard of media artifacts: piles of faded VHS tapes, dusty old newspaper appraisals, chintzy arcade games, screenshots of online verticals. It’s a blindingly fast montage that cleanly situates Camp Miasma as a fictional variant of durable franchises like Friday the 13th, Halloween, and other species of endlessly rebooted IP, one whose initial acclaim gradually gave way to hacky sequelized bloat. It’s an immersive introduction that also presents a thorny challenge: Can Schoenbrun say anything new about the slasher picture?

Kind of. Schoenbrun is an obvious student of the subgenre, and their excavation of its history is peppered with winking touches and loving references, even as it spikes that affection with suspicion. Yet while Teenage Sex—the real 2026 film, as distinct from Camp Miasma, the diegetic 1980s one—is decidedly brainy and innovative, it is also occasionally self-satisfied and ultimately incoherent. But it is watchable, and it’s plainly the product of a thoughtful and idiosyncratic creative voice. It may not be a great movie, but it’s one hell of a Criterion booklet. Read More

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The End of Oak Street review: Where Goes the Neighborhood

Jeremy BeckReviews
Anne Hathaway, Christian Convery, Maisy Stella, and Jordan Alexa Davis in The End of Oak Street

On the surface, everything looks perfect: sunny skies, verdant lawns, beaming kids. “You’ve got a great family,” a man says to Greg Platt (Ewan McGregor) as his wife and two children frolic at a local barbecue. But while outside observers might perceive Greg and Denise (Anne Hathaway) as the joint head of an idyllic nuclear household, a few strained glances and terse words reveal otherwise. His extra shifts as a pizza deliveryman aren’t paying the bills, she’s secretly channeling her resentments into a novel, and they’re rarely on the same page, whether socially or financially. They certainly can’t afford Cornell’s tuition for their daughter (Maisy Stella, from My Old Ass), who’s discovering that quoting Carl Sagan doesn’t impress pretty girls. Their son (The Monkey’s Christian Convery), is “acting out” and seems more comfortable playing with their rambunctious blue heeler than with his peers. They seemed destined for a rupture—an earth-shaking event that will permanently puncture their veneer of domestic bliss. And that’s before the monsters show up.

Like Companion, The Drama, and others of their ilk, The End of Oak Street is a film whose very premise arguably qualifies as a spoiler, given that it withholds its cards for around 20 minutes. So before wading into revealing waters—seas that its trailer and marketing campaign had no compunction swimming in—let me just say that this movie is a rollicking piece of mainstream entertainment. The first feature in seven years from writer-director David Robert Mitchell, it’s both imaginatively conceived and confidently executed. If it isn’t a work of great depth, that’s because its characters are too busy scampering to fully develop. Slow down in this town, and you’re liable to get eaten by a dinosaur. Read More

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Backrooms review: If These Walls Could Stalk

Jeremy BeckReviews
Chiwetel Ejiofor in Backrooms

It’s been a rough few decades for the retail furniture business. First came the internet. Then the housing market crashed. And now arrives Backrooms, a head-tripping horror picture that conceives of a big-box emporium whose basement contains a secret gateway to hell. It’s a work of fiction, but it still might give homeowners pause before they go browsing through the aisles looking for their next loveseat.

Backrooms is the brainchild of Kane Parsons, and the story behind the story—why is this thing such a hit? Just what exactly is a YouTuber? Wait, this guy is twenty?—threatens to overwhelm the movie proper. So it’s important to acknowledge that Backrooms, while far from perfect, is an accomplished and distinctive feature debut. It suggests the work of an artist with his own unique vision, even if that vision isn’t yet fully formed. Read More

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