How did October 2026 become one of the months for movies ever?

In March 1973, anyone visiting a record store would be greeted by a barrage of incredible tunes. As pointed out by user No_Lemon_3116 on Reddit, this month was overflowing with outstanding albums, including new releases from Led Zeppelin, The Doobie Brothers, ABBA, and The Byrds all debuted in this month. As if that wasn't enough, the first Tom Waits album and Pink Floyd's The Dark Side of the Moon were also hitting shelves that month. The greatest artists of all time dropped fresh melodies that month, reflecting both immense artistry and a wide range of artistic impulses. Whatever atmosphere you'd want in your eardrums, March 1973 could deliver it. What a remarkable month for new music that just doesn't come around every year.

Movie fans are currently experiencing and reveling in their own equivalent to that seminal month for new music. October 2026 is proving to be for movies what March 1973 was for music: a landmark month absolutely crammed with extraordinary new releases. I've been going to the movies multiple times a week for at least 15 years now. I can't remember another month this good for new motion pictures. However, what's led to this exceptional month for moviegoing? How did we get here to Nathan Fielder, Mahershala Ali, and Oregon-based stop-motion animators (among others) solidifying that theatrical cinema is NOT dead but surely alive?

October 2026: An incidental collision of grand cinema

Starting in 2012 and 2013, major American movie studios began penciling release dates for then-unknown movies five or six years in advance. This unprecedented advanced planning was because the biggest corporations wanted their features to debut on the juiciest possible release dates. You want Memorial Day 2018? That already belongs to Disney, sorry. This practice was supposed to remove the financial "uncertainty" of motion pictures for studio executives and shareholders. 20th Century Fox or Warner Bros. had a big movie in this particular June weekend in 2012/2013. Now they could theoretically count on another moneymaker bowing in the same corridor in 2018.

Despite all this planning, movies rarely operate entirely according to plan. Release date delays are inevitable. Motion pictures that don't cost $200+ million and don't hail from major studios, meanwhile, often play it fast and loose with release dates. In the 2020s, smaller studios, like Neon and A24, often keep release dates close to the chest even when a movie starts releasing trailers and other promotional materials. Marvel movies make their release dates obvious years in advance. Your Mother, Your Mother, Your Mother and NAZA, meanwhile, make their release dates known only shortly before their debuts. Thus, a month like October 2026, dominated by smaller titles breaking out, wasn't necessarily something people had been predicting for eons would be unusually heavy on outstanding movies.

As late as July 2026, while it was clear mainstream wide releases Verity and Street Fighter (among others) would drop in this month, other aspects of the October 2026 movie scene were shrouded in mystery. Your Mother, Your Mother, Your Mother's exact wide release expansion date in October 2026 was unknown. Even the nerdiest film geeks with ears perched to the ground had no clue the 4K restoration of Ken Russell's The Devils and You Can See Everything even existed. All of this is to say that there wasn't a grand plan to make October 2026 a special month in cinema history. Everything dropping in this month was a fantastic coincidence, a confluence of the right events lining up at the right time.

And what a glorious confluence it is! You Can See Everything alone existing would be enough to make October 2026 an extraordinary month for moviegoing. This Nathan Fielder and Lance Oppenheim directorial effort challenges audiences to reckon with how just how "authentic" or "real" documentary cinema is. Given that the very first documentary film, Nanook of the North, was a racist and deeply inaccurate depiction of Indigenous Canadians, You Can See Everything is basically reckoning with the DNA of Western documentary cinema (not to mention modern celebrity docs working as PR for rich people rather than exploring them as people). What images are on-screen and why? Can clarity or epiphanies be gleaned even in the most intimate visuals? All the while, this exploration of Elizabeth Holmes delivers so many phenomenal twists, turns, and masterful dry visual gags that keep one's attention glued to the screen for the entire three-hour runtime. 

Somehow, though, You Can See Everything, despite being one of 2026's greatest movies, isn't just eating up all the moviegoing oxygen in the room. There's plenty of other extraordinary features dropping in October 2026. NAZA, for instance, is one of the greatest documentaries ever made, a harrowing examination of how genocide is executed by everyday people. Meanwhile, La Bola Negra began its North American theatrical run this month. This feature from the directorial duo Los Javiers is rife with stunning imagery (all hail cinematographer Gris Jordana) used to lend an epic lens to queer lives oft-erased. 

Your Mother Your Mother Your Mother (after beginning a limited theatrical run in late September 2026) expanded into wide release in October 2026 and was an extraordinary second directorial effort from Bassim Tariq. Whether it's Mahershala Ali's incredible performance, the mesmerizing sound design, or endlessly creative images (like a climactic realization of two people with their heads tilted downward from the perspective of the floor), Your Mother Your Mother Your Mother rocked. After eight years away, Lee Chang-dong returned to filmmaking with Possible Love, a deeply quiet feature wringing such potent humanity out of subdued terms. Don't forget about Wildwood, which takes stop-motion animation as an artform to new, expanded horizons to serve a gloriously towering fantasy epic.

I admired Digger more than I liked it, but it clearly struck a chord with many viewers. Something this original and idiosyncratic reaching the big screen alone is an achievement. Speaking of Warner Bros. titles, Ken Russell's The Devils finally brought this long-suppressed title to the big screen and in a sumptuous 4K remaster to boot. Though released in 1971, The Devils remains a masterpiece and one of the greatest things you could see on the big screen in 2026. This long-awaited theatrical re-release dropping in October 2026 is such perfect timing. Outstanding classic cinema complementing new artistic achievements.  

Heck, there are so many acclaimed October 2026 titles out there that I haven't even caught up with everything that's generating buzz this month. Once Upon a Time in Harlem, for instance, hasn't come to a theater near me yet, and I won't be able to see Fjord until Wednesday. What a bounty for movie geeks, with the avalanche of great films excitingly exploring so many different creative avenues and tonal tableaus. Wildwood isn't the same movie as Possible Love. Your Mother Your Mother Your Mother exists on a different planet than You Can See Everything. Movies can look like anything, from La Bola Negra to Wildwood. October 2026's cinema scene beautifully reinforced this truth, an accomplishment nobody could've predicted or planned out. These films just happened to land in the same month.

There is one thing permeating all of these titles, though: confidence. That's a quality that's so extra welcome in October 2026 since it's often been missing from 2020s cinema.

October 2026's cinema had engrossing confidence to spare

The 2020s have delivered plenty of great movies. Trenque Lauquen, Hundreds of Beavers, Drive My Car, there's been no shortage of outstanding motion pictures from all around the world in a decade rocked by COVID-19 and corporate consolidation. However, mainstream American films in this decade have especially been plagued by tangibly sweaty insecurity. For every boldly original and assured vision like Sinners, Barbie, or One Battle After Another, there've been projects like Deadpool & Wolverine, Beetlejuice Beetlejuice, or even adult dramas like Saturday Night obsessed with looking backward. 

As countless Wall Street tycoons and prognosticators declared "theatrical movies are dead!!" in the face of 2020s-specific challenges, these films responded by trying to teleport theatrical cinema back in time. "Let's go back to before COVID and streaming!" these titles would implicitly declare with their fixations on regurgitating yesteryear media. Who needs to give modern moviegoers productions that belong and speak to them when you can just rehash the Karate Kid, Tron, and Smurfs brand names?

When theatrical moviegoing needs bold, decisive creative visions (not to mention strict commitment to the big screen and proper theatrical windows), major American studios often placed all their chips on Kraven the Hunter or Ghostbusters: Frozen Empire. These reheated brand names weren't just tired franchise slop, they also didn't do anything narratively or especially visually to challenge audiences. Compare that to the best pre-2026 2020s movies (like Beavers, Everything Everywhere All at Once, Portrait of a Lady on Fire, April, and No Other Choice, among many others) which embraced unique visual aesthetics that looked cool and accentuated their respective narrative means rather than leaning on cookie-cutter TikTok-ready framing. 

October 2026's barrage of modern classics has similarly eschewed the insecurity and visual stagnancy plaguing so much mainstream American 2020s cinema. Your Mother Your Mother Your Mother and You Can See Everything tell their stories in 1.66:1 and 1.33:1 aspect ratios, respectively. These unusual pieces of framing aren't common in major theatrical releases (The Grand Budapest Hotel is the only pre-2026 title to clear $20 million domestically while utilizing the 1.33:1 framing). It's easy to imagine streaming service executives or shareholders sweating over these choices, since these aspect ratios automatically make Mother and Everything look unlike typical movies.

Embracing visual idiosyncrasies, though, serves both films exquisitely. The 1.66:1 and 1.33:1 tableaus inform incredibly precise and evocative blocking in both titles (like the deeply cramped close-up shots littering You Can See Everything). Meanwhile, even the grimmest of these features isn't afraid of bright colors, an element 2020s American cinema often eschews (possibly in response to the growing presence and influence of American Christofascism, which, like all right-wing facist movements, is all about draining color from the world). Movies about Supergirl or Ariel ostensibly aimed at children are now drenched in dim lighting and grey backdrops. 

In contrast, Your Mother Your Mother Your Mother litters even the dingiest apartment hallways in sumptuous hues. A memorable strip club tête-à-tête between the film's hero and villain is littered with vibrant colors. Wildwood is a radiant exercise revelling in natural green and autumn-tinged colors reinforcing the gorgeousness of the natural world. In its 4K restoration, Ken Russell's The Devils practically pops off the screen even as it deals with immensely grisly and tragic material. Even the white and silver tiling of the nunnery Sister Jeanne (Vanessa Redgrave) lives in shimmers. These October 2026 titles (even the ones concerning restorations of 1971 Ken Russell directorial efforts) are mighty welcome refutations of the subdued color schemes often proving inescapable in 2020s American cinema. 

Too timid to infuse your 2020s feature with vibrancy? Titles like La Bola Negra and Wildwood will show you how it's done. 

"Political relevancy" isn't a dirty term.

To boot, October 2026's titles are actually about the wider modern world. The artists behind these projects don't look at inescapable news headlines about real-world atrocities and see that as something to evade. Rather, that material informs the art and reckons with feelings, thoughts, and brutal realities viewers might feel uncomfortable reckoning with in other spaces. It's unsurprising a grim, ripped-from-the-headlines documentary like NAZA would live up to this feat. However, Digger certainly did too. Not only was the feature cognizant of human-informed climate change adversely affecting the planet. It also reckoned with how "cathartic" or "rebellious" art can be an ultimately hollow way to "fight back" against the establishment.

Your Mother Your Mother Your Mother, meanwhile, had a villainous pastor played by John Cho whose congregation is full of American flags, dehumanizing attitudes towards Muslims, insistence that Jesus is the only way, and suspicious Nazi-like red armbands. In other words, he's a microcosm of fascist religious leaders influencing global 2020s society. Then there's You Can See Everything, which is firmly rooted in the 2020s in countless ways. For one thing, the way it challenges audiences to reckon with "what is real?" throughout its runtime mirrors how no solid truth binds America anymore (the great Marya E. Gates wrote an excellent essay about how Everything, Digger, and NAZA reflect this truth).

Meanwhile, in Billy Evans (the husband of Elizabeth Holmes), the kind of insufferable men dominating every corner of America is put on the screen. Right-wing dudes with no respect for the autonomy of women (when pressed with the idea that an AI Holmes will be used in pornography without her consent, he says, "it's gonna happen anyway, so we should be on the ground floor of it."), a burning desire to control everything, and a victim complex at odds with the enormous power (Evans can just call people at Twitter and get login information for accounts) and wealth they've procured. He's Elon Musk. He's Ben Shapiro. He's every member of the Orange Führer's cabinet. He's on-screen constantly in You Can See Everything.

Billy Evans is a specifically 2020s creation, a grown man who can't watch YouTube videos unless they're sped up or an AI version of his wife (that he can control) is hovering over him yet has a frightening amount of power. You Can See Everything lays bare this figure's patheticness (right down to showing his genitalia on-screen), much like Ken Russell's The Devils depicted its powerful French Catholic adversaries as weasely scumbags looking to settle personal scores and maintain hierarchical power structures. Nathan Fielder and Lance Oppenheim's documentary puts this distinctly modern personality on screen to enormously potent effect. 

Everything joins Your Mother Your Mother Your Mother and Possible Love in also being unabashedly set in the modern world. Rather than being like so many 2020s movies and transpiring in the past to avoid talking about COVID, Trump, or other modern horrors, these October 2026 titles embrace technologies, political movements, and verbiage specific to this moment in history. They're aware of Charlie Kirk, furry porn, rideshare apps, and other 2020s-specific elements. These qualities make the individual worlds of these features feel all the more alive and specific.

Even Wildwood, though a classical fantasy movie made in the mold of Labyrinth and The Chronicles of Narnia, evokes distinctly 2020s sensibilities in its bittersweetness. Adolescent protaganists Prue and Curtis travel to the titular fantasy realm and find themselves trapped in a large-scale conflict between the various Wildwood communities. "This is all my fault," Prue bemoans once, only for a wise adult character to remark that this is all so much bigger than Prue. Like Wildwood's young leads, those under 18 in the 2020s are growing up amidst larger woes they didn't ask for (namely climate change, the normalization of fascism, and a dearth of economic opportunities for their generation). They're being plunged into chaos and the ramifications of past generations' sins. 

The often aching experiences of Curtis and Prue in Wildwood provide a mirror to younger audiences navigating growing up on battlefields carved out by their ancestors. "It's rough, it's brutal," Wildwood tells them, "But you're not alone in it and you can't let those circumstances inform apathy towards other people." Whether it's in these stop-motion characters, Possible Love's story (which, ironically, was inspired by early 2010s labor protests in South Korea) confronting the erasure of everyday workers in modern society, or everything about You Can See Everything, October 2026's avalanche of great movies commit to speaking to the here and now.

Fellow film geeks, treasure months like these

While these shared qualities of confidence and exhibiting tangible cognizance of modern existence course through several iconic October 2026 releases, what makes these movies special is how different they are from each other. There's a level of variety in the artistry of this month's exceptional new releases that's helped solidify October 2026 as a stretch of time bound to go down in film history. From the meditative Possible Love to the grandiose Wildwood to the mind-melting You Can See Everything, there's so much range in the artistic accomplishments of October 2026's cinema. The conformity normalized and encouraged by streaming services and AI slop has no room in a month housing endlessly distinctive visions like Ken Russell's The Devils and Your Mother Your Mother Your Mother.

Ironically, the weaker motion pictures in October 2026 have only reinforced what an uncannily powerful month this has been for movies. The Social Reckoning, for instance, with its limp visuals and groan-worthy stab at a "triumphant" ending, sticks out like a sore thumb in a month full of audacious imagery and features confronting reality's complexities. Similarly, Street Fighter's hollowness and awkward comedic impulses make it even easier to appreciate Wicker's hand-crafted and humorous charms. October 2026 isn't a legendarily good month for movies because it's been devoid of cinematic misfires. The high points, though, have been so towering and pervasive that October 2026 has resonated as something special.

Fellow film devotees, savor the final days of this month. In years to come, I have no doubt people will talk about these 31 days of cinema in the hushed whispers and wistful tones used to discuss cinema years like 1999 or 1927 or March 1973's new albums. All that forthcoming chatter will inevitably hail how October 2026 epitomized 2026 as a year where theatrical cinema consistently got its mojo back. After years of conceding to streaming (like simultaneously releasing movies in theaters and on Disney+/HBO Max/Paramount+), and obsessing over the past, October 2026's cinema scene made movies embracing the big-screen canvas while living in the here and now.

What happens to the box office when Halloween falls on a Saturday?

Nathan Fielder and The Martian's Mark Watney going off trick-or-treating

Saturday is typically the biggest moviegoing day of the week. It's the day most people have off work and school. Unlike Sunday, though, it's also the day when you don't have imminent Monday morning work breathing down your work. Instead, another half of the weekend awaits, so stay out as late as you want. Party! Enjoy existence! No wonder Saturday is the most lucrative 24 hours of a given week for movie theaters. People have so many options for when they can see motion pictures! 

However, when Halloween falls on a Saturday, as it does in 2026, things get thrown out of wack. While people like to spend Christmas Day at the movies, Halloween is more like Thanksgiving or Christmas Eve; holidays people spend focusing on timely festivities instead of what's hopping at their local multiplex. 2026 is one of those rare years where Halloween falls on a Saturday and studios are clearly girding themselves for this frame to be a weak one. The new theatrical wide releases for the imminent October 30-November 1, 2026 frame amount to Briarcliff's Christmas with the Kringles, some new Sight & Sound Christian movie slop, The Mongoose A.K.A. Liam Neeson drives a car really fast, and The Only Living Pickpocket in New York expanding into 600+ theaters.

However, is there a chance a big new movie, with some proper marketing muscle, could've made some cash over this impending 2026 weekend? To answer that, let's channel Ebenezer Scrooge and look at Halloween's past. Specifically, let's examine what happens to the box office whenever Halloween falls on a Saturday.

So, this isn't an exact science, but these are the last years since 1990 when Halloween fell on a Saturday. The domestic box office frames for each year (as well as their top ten grosses) are linked below:

2020 (COVID-19 shut down most domestic theaters, so this frame doesn't really count despite new wide release Come Play topping the box office) ($8.7 million)

2015 ($58.4 million)

2009 ($77.4 million)

1998 ($43.1 million)

1992 ($28.1 million)

Comprehensive daily box office data isn't available before the 21st century, so it's difficult to see specific and expansive pre-2009 information on how the entire theatrical ecosystem performed on October 31st in 1992 and 1998. However, the weekend frames themselves still indicate how Halloween affects the North American movie scene. Specifically, studios have spent decades scrambling away from scheduling major movies over weekends when Halloween ends up on a Saturday. Michael Jackson's This Is It in 2009 is the big exception. That title opened to $23.2 million over its three-day bow. This Is It dipped 9.7% from Friday, October 30 on Halloween before jumping up 17.7% on Sunday, November 1. Unless you have a musician as popular as Michael Jackson at your back, studios see Halloween on Saturday as a non-starter for launching a lucrative new movie domestically.

This frame can also be rough for holdovers, though, surprisingly, history suggests that Halloween on a Saturday isn't necessarily a killer for older movies in the marketplace. In 2009, for instance, four of the nine holdovers in the top ten had weekend-to-weekend drops beneath 45%. The harder drops in the marketplace belonged to titles like Saw VI and Where the Wild Things Are that were either part of super frontloaded franchises or already suffering heavy drops before this frame. Similarly, in 2015, five out of the eight holdovers in the top ten had weekend-to-weekend drops beneath 46%. The Martian and Bridge of Spies even had dips of 25.5% and 26.2%, respectively! Remember how Bridge of Spies made $165 million worldwide 11 years ago on a $40 million budget? We truly used to be a country.

This Halloween Saturday weekend in 1998 also had seven of the nine holdovers in the marketplace experiencing weekend-to-weekend drops under 45%. Granted, there are still few super strong sub-20% holds over these frames. 2009, for instance, only had one non-Paranormal Activity film (Amelia, which added 250 theaters and was aimed at older audiences who're unlikely to spend Saturday nights partying) in the top 12 dipping under 37%. Halloween Saturday nights clearly have some impact on the marketplace, but they don't suck all the oxygen out of the marketplace. 1998, similarly, had only one holdover in the top ten (the awesome Pleasantville, remember how great Jeff Daniels was in that?!?) dipping under 35% this frame.

By and large, audiences who'd see certain must-see movies on Saturday instead just end up seeing them on Friday or Sunday. Plus, studios refusing to place new movies more high-profile than Our Brand is Crisis or John Carpenter's Vampires in these Saturday Halloween frames means older movies don't have towering competition to contend with. No wonder The Martian only dipped 25.5% when one of the few new features it had to compete with was The Scout's Guide to the Zombie Apocalypse. 

Here's a question I had going into this exercise: do horror films get stronger holds over Halloween Saturday weekends? It seems to vary from movie to movie. In 1998, Practical Magic and Bride of Chucky had 39.1% and 43% drops, respectively. In 2009, Paranormal Activity, Saw VI, and The Stepfather had 22.3%, 62.7%, and 48.5% drops, respectively. Finally, in 2015, Goosebumps, Paranormal Activity: The Ghost Dimension, and Crimson Peak had 36.4%, 57.4%, and 45.8% drops, respectively. All of this mostly suggests that horror movies don't necessarily plummet or thrive because of Halloween falling on a Saturday. 

If something like the original Paranormal Activity is already taking off with audiences, Saturday night Halloween shenanigans might give it an extra boost (what better way to spend the creepiest night of the year than watching a horror movie phenomenon?). Otherwise, moviegoers will probably just shrug and find better ways to spend Halloween weekend than watching The Ghost Dimension or the 2009 Stepfather remake.

In the greater context of larger domestic box office years, Halloween Saturday frames are often among the worst performing weekends in a given year, if not the absolute worst. The latter outcome was apparent in the mid-2010s. Halloween Saturday weekend in 2015 was the lowest domestic weekend of that year and the only time the top ten movies in 2015 amassed less than $60 million. Halloween Saturday weekend was the third-lowest-grossing weekend of 2009, with the first two weekends of September 2009 scoring lower hauls. Halloween Saturday weekend 1998 was also the third-lowest-grossing weekend of that year. This is the most glaring evidence that Halloween falling on a Saturday adversely impacts the greater theatrical ecosystem. These weekends just fall so far behind almost (or entirely) behind every other box office frames in a given year.

Will 2026 follow suit? Currently, the lowest domestic box office weekend of the year is the $42.1 million January 23-25 frame, when snowstorms rocked the country and closed theaters (the dismal Mercy was atop the theatrical ecosystem). The forthcoming October 30-November 1, 2026 weekend has a good shot at narrowly surpassing that $42.1 million gross, but it wouldn't be shocking if it fell behind every other 2026 domestic frame.

These statistics are the starkest examples of how much Saturday Halloweens distract from multiplexes. However, taking a cue from Gandalf's wise words about how nothing is ever hopeless, there are glimmers of potential here. The very existence of a title like This Is It opening to $23.2 million over this particular frame does suggest that, despite Halloween coming first over these rare weekends, audiences will still show up to the movies over Halloween Saturday frames. It'd be fantastic if a studio had a proshoot of a famous Broadway musical or a concert movie raring to go for this frame. Those titles are perfect for this kind of weekend since they're (even under the best of circumstances) front-loaded affairs. People will largely come out just for Thursday night previews and Friday screenings anyway, let alone when Saturday belongs to Halloween. Put 'em out over these weekends and give theaters something extra to play!

Alas, the dearth of anything remotely major opening over this impending Halloween Saturday weekend (if any of the new releases crack $2+ million, I'll be astonished) means this will be a quiet weekend before Godzilla and The Cat in the Hat kick off November 2026. How will the holdovers, then, fare over Halloween Saturday weekend 2026? Judging by past examples of this weekend, it's likely most returning titles will fare fine. Clayface is the wild card of the bunch, though. Halloween weekend will almost certainly give it some kind of a boost. Still, of its $24 million domestic bow, $3.5 million of that (or 14%) came from Thursday night showings. 

The word-of-mouth seems better than usual for an R-rated horror film, but so far its day-to-day legs aren't Obsession or Sinners good. Thus, it's hard to tell where it'll go during Halloween Saturday weekend 2026. If you told me it dropped either 25% or 55% this coming weekend, I'd believe you. That's the kind of chaos that proves inevitable when you're dealing with a rare year where Halloween falls on a Saturday. 2026 is another one of those years, so pull up a chair. Get comfortable. Let's see what happens during the first non-COVID-affected Halloween Saturday weekend in 11 years. This frame is usually so wild that, who knows, maybe Christmas with the Kringles ends up opening to $94 million and topping the domestic box office.

Wildwood is a glorious, must-see fantasy epic

It’s moronic. General Western perceptions that animation is only “for children” and can “only” tell certain stories are preposterous. Anyone witnessing titles like Flee, It's Such a Beautiful Day, Whisper of the Heart, Penguin's Memory: A Tale of Happiness, or Perfect Blue (among countless other titles) knows all too well that animation is a medium housing all kinds of stories. Yet that perception festers. This sometimes creates a tragic feedback loop, where American animated features dilute their most audacious or heavier impulses to fit mainstream visions of what animated features “should” look like.

I’m so glad director Travis Knight and the Laika crew threw such creative insecurity to the wind. Their latest stop-motion animated production, Wildwood, follows its own creative drum. It has no time for what focus groups or studio executives consider “proper” American animated cinema. It’s much more enamored with sweeping, classical fantasy storytelling.

Based on the 2011 Wildwood novel penned and illustrated by Colin Meloy and Carson Ellis, respectively, Chris Butler's script begins in Portland, Oregon. Teenager Prue McKeel (Peyton Elizabeth Lee) is growing up. She's convinced that it's time to let go of believing in the fantastical. That's easier said than done since her parents, Mr. and Mrs. McKeel (Jake Johnson and Maya Erskine), insist magic exists in the nearby forests. Prue instead focuses on taking care of her baby brother Mac, whom she takes out to see Portland one normal day whilst her parents visit a craft fair.

A montage of Prue and Mac riding around their home and seeing trains, used bookstores, and various Portland denizens immediately establishes entrancing specificity into Wildwood. Stop-motion’s innately lived-in qualities make this city so cozy and endearing. No actual Portland tourism ad could make this place look more inviting. Plus, this sequence establishes an “anything’s possible” aura to Prue and Mac’s surroundings (you never know who you might run into on Portland’s streets, after all) even before they encounter witches and chattering woodland critters.

Things swerve into the fantastical when crows carry away Mac into that forbidden forest. She and her skittish acquaintance Curtis (Jacob Tremblay) press onward to rescue the endangered baby. The duo hasn’t just stepped into a world of bipedal, talking animals and bandits. They’ve also unwittingly stumbled into dowager governess Alexandra’s (Carey Mulligan) plans to take over the forest. Meanwhile, Wildwood’s various populations (birds, hoity-toity folks, bandits, farmers, etc.) can’t stand each other. In the middle of everything is a girl wanting her brother back.

Every ounce of praise you’ve heard for Wildwood’s visuals is true and then some. Knight, cinematographer Caleb Deschanel, and an army of stop-motion animators imbue Wildwood with towering imagery. Even quiet wide shots depicting Prue and Iphigenia (Tantoo Cardinal) standing on a balcony are gorgeously composed and littered with luscious orange autumn leaves. More theatrically composed images, meanwhile, embrace draping villains in evocative shadows, characters navigating fields of corpses, or heroic figures standing on a hilltop with warm light breaking over their shoulders. These lavish frames evoke eye-catching covers for mid-20^th century fantasy texts more than the cramped iPhone-ready imagery dominating so many post-2010 fantasy films.

All these luscious visuals materialize via the magic of stop-motion animation. There’s no end to the awe-inspiring feats and images conjured up through this immediately tactile medium. However, especially impressive is Wildwood’s physical acting. There’s a moment when Alexandra clutches her breath recounting to Curtis about her lost son. This dialogue-free expression of her immense interior pain is so deftly realized. These affecting displays of nonverbal communication come from a medium where artists take several photos of a clay puppet in various poses (all to create a single second of footage) and repeat the process ad nauseum.

On paper, that sounds like it could create jagged physicality. Anyone who’s seen Mary & Max or Fantastic Mr. Fox (among countless other stop-motion gems) knows, though, that this medium is like a magic trick. So many disparate pieces and artistic contributions coalesce into glorious wonders. Wildwood is a large-scale testament to that magic. Here, uber-smooth character movements ensure complex emotions underneath these figures are even easier to absorb.

Plus, Laika’s animation team (here led by Florian Perinelle and Rachelle Lambden) have gotten astonishingly skilled at minute body language. Alexandra and Prue’s parents especially have such aching and weary physicality reflecting their decades of experience.

Wildwood’s backgrounds are also magnificently tactile and engrossing. Happily, a cinematic ode to the natural world makes these leafy tableaus look so radiant. Butler’s script also gives the animators lots of wiggle room to give each Wildwood domain a distinct aesthetic. One farm-oriented area has a warmer, autumn vibe, for instance, while a bureaucratic realm has a more restrained color palette. Whatever ambiance Wildwood channels, it all looks wondrous through exemplary stop-motion artistry.

As a visual feast and an extraordinary expansion of what stop-motion cinema can be, Wildwood is sensational. However, this enterprise also excels as a bittersweet coming-of-age story. Prue yearns to grow up, to secure a sense of security and maturity currently eluding her. Yet her journey through Wildwood isn’t about a fantasy realm providing wish-fulfillment escapism. It’s instead a vessel for her discovering adults who’re insecure, unsure of what to do, and decidedly imperfect. In this regard, Wildwood echoes Minari and The Florida Project in depicting a child forcibly discovering that the adults around her are messy human beings.

No matter how outlandish the proceedings get, Butler’s writing and especially Peyton Elizabeth Lee’s voice-over acting always reinforce Prue’s down-to-Earth qualities. That crucial normalcy makes Wildwood’s melancholy impulses really hit home. We all learn the world’s an inescapably and often overwhelmingly complex place in our teenager years. Prue just happened to do it in a place housing bank teller pigs.

Reinforcing Prue and Curtis as everyday teens also yields the benefit of enhancing the tension of various suspense-driven sequences. Their youth-informed vulnerability is clear (plus they inhabit a movie where people get stabbed and shot to death on-screen), so it’s genuinely uncertain what fate will befall them when tension ratchets up. Speaking of memorable Wildwood set pieces, Travis Knight and company deliver a phenomenal third-act battle sequence that makes the classic Lord of the Rings and Star Wars movies proud (not just because it deftly darts between simultaneous perspectives and storylines).

The way new obstacles, allies, and enemies keep appearing throughout this sequence had me utterly locked in. Rather than coming off as needlessly busy, the persistent escalation of scope and hurdles instead feels deeply organic. It helps that the artists bringing this material to life (including Christopher Murrie's crisp editing and Dario Marianelli's pulse-pounding score) are in such bombastic rare form. If only more live-action tentpoles demonstrated this showmanship in their respective finales.

Even when Wildwood’s in a quieter mode, that artistry persists. A low-key conversation between Prue and wise owl (voiced by Richard E. Grant), for instance, is still chock full of lovely voice acting and richly detailed animation. This pervasive craftsmanship informs a richly audacious film. Every artist assembled here swung for the fences. In the process, they delivered an exercise so transportive that not even the umpteenth Awkwafina voice-over role could capsize. Animation is a medium that can tell any story for any audience. Wildwood reinforces that truth in visually spectacular terms.

Possible Love's quietly moving aesthetic proves immensely and achingly captivating

Imposter Syndrome. Depression. Anxiety. Existential dread. These are some of the psychological afflictions shared by countless souls, yet rendering individuals convinced they’re the only ones in existence suffering these maladies. What a bizarre paradox. Our brains tell us we’re alone even while we’re decidedly not.

Often, it’s easier to push others away or confront our inner battles alone rather than opening ourselves to other people. What if they say I’m a “freak” or “broken” for feeling the way I do? Better just bottle up everything inside. In other cases, it’s impossible to imagine other people could feel the same way you do. Why, then, bring up your mental health struggles if it’ll inevitably sound like Latin to even your closest friends? These are the scenarios one’s mind (or at least mine) can come up with to keep arduous psychological turmoil close to the chest. Experiences and hardships potentially binding individuals together instead create further barriers.

Unsurprisingly, profoundly observational and insightful filmmaker Lee Chang-dong proves especially masterful painting a bittersweet portrait of this phenomenon in Possible Love. married couple Mi-ok (Jean Do-yeon) and Ho-seok (Sul Kyung-gu). They (along with their son Cheol) are grappling with a new, frustrating status quo involving Ho-seok's extended depression. His despondency stems from being laid off from his job after participating in a sit-in strike. Two years after losing this gig, Ho-seok’s anguish festers.

However, Mi-ok gets a renewed lease on life after striking up a conversation with documentary filmmaker Ye-ji (Cho Yeo-jeong). This lady and her seemingly perfect husband Sang-woo (Zo In-sung) are making a feature about laid-off workers, so Mi-ok and her family are perfect interview subjects. Thus, Ye-ji becomes a regular fixture of this family's life. Mi-ok adores having someone to talk to, but Ho-seok remains silent and fixated on the past. Even when Ye-ji inquires about interviewing this man for her film, he refuses.

Possible Love’s central married couple are both licking their wounds from the past. Both, however, are taking radically different approaches to confronting those scars.

A pivotal Possible Love conversation sees Ye-ji recall a Singapore vacation that inspired her current fixation on proletariat-focused documentaries. Specifically, she was impacted by Sang-woo observing how the workers making their destination possible were rendered “invisible.” “Everyone’s comfort comes at the expense of someone else’s labor,” he pontificated. After that, Ye-ji dedicated herself to making documentaries centering oft-ignored lives. Lee Chang-dong’s filmmaking and script (the latter of which he co-penned with Oh Jung-mi) for Possible Love echoes this fascination with several memorable one-scene characters.

A meeting for laid-off workers to express their feelings, for instance, features a monologue from one male ex-employee recalling how his friends talked dirty about him behind his back because of his union activities. Told largely in one unbroken take, this riveting sequence is rich with memorable dialogue and naturalistic acting. Then there’s the groundskeeper tending to Ye-ji and Sang-woo’s beachside house. Without saying a word, he leaves an impression, especially with how he quietly makes Cheol feel at home during a trip largely centered around his parents' needs. A woman giving a speech at the strike and the daughter of Mi-ok’s boss similarly leave an enormous impression with minimal screentime.

Rich capitalists try with all their might to make working-class people see each other as enemies. The bourgeoisie especially demonizes efforts like unions that reinforce the rights and humanity of ordinary souls. Possible Love is a cinematic balm to these standards. Chang-dong offering room for single-scene characters to leave indelible impacts alone epitomizes this reality. Every character in this feature (from Ye-ji’s filmmaking crew to a currently employed worker Ho-seok briefly follows) is potently experiencing their own saga. Possible Love’s world doesn’t begin and end with Mi-ok and Ho-seok.

Chang-dong’s commitment to that subdued yet deeply human aesthetic makes Possible Love a 164-minute exercise you don’t want to end. Said commitment includes utilizing Jung Jae-il's original score sparingly (which accentuates the immersive naturalism) and refusing to barrel through even the most mundane conversations. Chang-dong and cinematographer Kim Ji-yong's craftsmanship extends to delivering memorable blocking without capsizing Possible Love’s verisimilitude. The sensation that we’re watching life organically unfold endures even with incredibly meticulous staging.

Possible Love’s palpable realism ensures that the most mundane sequences become intoxicating. As long as I live, I’ll never forget about inebriated Mi-ok joyfully singing a tune in an alleyway after her first dinner with Ye-ji and Sang-woo. When a new friendship starts blossoming, it inspires such radiance and excitement. You’re suddenly relishing not only the laughs and chatter shared moments ago, but also the social-based possibilities for the future. Jean Do-yeon’s portrayal of Mi-ok in this moment perfectly translates that internal experience to the silver screen in such endearing terms. How can you not adore someone who is so happy and free?

Similarly low-key yet endlessly compelling is a mid-movie scene concerning Mi-ok confronting her boss on starting a union. This segment reflects an unexpected but deeply welcome Possible Love focal point. Like an amazing Megan Thee Stallion song suddenly making room for an iconic Olivia Rodrigo guest verse, the already outstanding Possible Love offers viewers an extra gift in emphasizing worker rights. This material doesn’t just offer further opportunities for Chang-dong to examine this movies characters. It also informs one of Possible Love’s most achingly harrowing sequences concerning Ho-seok’s last day protesting.

Even before that glimpse into Ho-seok’s past, Sul Kyung-gu keeps this subdued character captivating. It’s always remarkable when actors take a repressed character and still render them consistently engaging. Kyang-gu does just that with his haunted Ho-seok portrayal. This actor’s portrayal of a man caked in layers of agony simultaneously echoes a more buttoned-up take on Cillian Murphy’s Dunkirk performance and the saddest basset hound ever. Kyang-gu’s deeply human manifestation of that persona, though, makes it clear there’s something more vulnerable underneath that repressed exterior.

In any other movie, Sul Kyung-gu’s work would unquestionably reign supreme over any other performances. However, the acting champion here is Jean Do-yeon. Reuniting with Chang-dong after their exceptional Possible Love collaboration, she thrives in these restrained confines. Conceptually simple moments like Mi-ok remarking the word “freedom” on the beach or observing a rainbow created by Cheol playing with a hose are so immensely affecting in her hands. You can practically reach out and touch wider interior worlds Do-yeon hints at in these tiny details. Plus, Do-yeon is so moving portraying Mi-ok coming more and more out of her shell as her friendship with Ye-ji and Sang-woo deepens.

Staggeringly impressive and unique specificities litter Sul Kyung-gu and Jean Do-yeon’s lead Possible Love performances. Yet each actor achingly reinforces one truth: Ho-seok and Mi-ok both suffer from loneliness. The latter character craves connections with others to break up her monotonous existence. Ho-seok, meanwhile, wistfully stares at his unused, handmade concrete social area (once planned for hangouts and BBQs with his co-workers) even while insisting on keeping his distance from others.

Their responses to past trauma and pervasive loneliness wildly vary. Yet similar psychological turmoil plagues these individuals who believe they’re growing apart. Possible Love’s intimate and subdued world potently realizes this melancholy reality. Once more, Lee Chang-dong has crafted sublime understated cinema speaking volumes about existence's most arduous experiences.

Possible Love begins playing in select theaters on October 23rd and hits Netflix worldwide on November 6th.

You Can See Everything challenges you to consider what's real in every reel

Nathan Fielder has spent years melting brains, inspiring GIFs, encountering wacky real-life people, and showing off those really good grades he got from one of Canada’s top business schools. Beyond inspiring unforgettable giggles, Fielder’s artistic M.O. has impressed through (among other accomplishments) pervasive rug-pulls revealing reality's immense malleability. A daycare location for a nighttime meeting between taxi drivers on Nathan For You, for instance, can suddenly be revealed as a set.

The outstanding Nathan For You series finale Finding Frances explored how much Fielder knew about and could trust elderly Bill Gates impersonator Bill Heath. This guy kept making Fielder question how much he really knew about a man who was constantly on his TV show.

Then there was The Rehearsal, which had Fielder diving through and intersecting so many layers of simulated realities. Throughout all these projects, jokes persist, but so does the sense that what you’re watching can upend itself at any moment. Who knows when Fielder will ratchet things up to the next level of insanity (like bringing a live alligator into an electronics store) or suddenly reveal that everything you’ve seen is a falsehood? Whether it’s a viral video of a pig saving a goat or recreations of Sully Sullenberger listening to Evanescence, Nathan Fielder’s comedy dares us to question what is real and what’s behind those modulations to reality.

That makes Fielder a perfect person to capture the world of Elizabeth Holmes, the former Theranos mastermind and Silicon Valley figurehead who has been convicted of fraud. This woman exists in her own labyrinthine approach to reality, one in which she maintains her innocence. You Can See Everything (which is helmed by Fielder and Primetime director Lance Oppenheimer) starts with Fielder capturing Holmes, her husband Billy Evans, and their two kids in a lavish beachside San Diego home. He arrives as this woman prepares for her imminent prison sentence starting in a month.

With every image captured in the Academy ratio (1.33:1) and the camera often resorting to close-ups echoing similarly cramped frames in Oppenheim’s Primetime, You Can See Everything starts with Fielder and his documentary subjects confined close together. Despite this intimate proximity, concrete answers elude him. Attempts to interview certain people (like Holmes’ father) only inspire ire from Evans. Holmes, meanwhile, speaks in odd statements that both seemingly only make sense to her and are weirdly devoid of malice. When she insists “I’ve never told a lie,” she says it with such assurance…even though it’s clearly false.

Even staring straight into her eyes and maintaining a conversation can’t quite part the curtains and deliver a clear-cut truth. It’s utterly fascinating watching Fielder scrounging for any kind of clarity from Holmes and Evans. He’s got to get creative trying to create a bridge between himself and these idiosyncratic souls, like using an Abbot & Costello routine to illustrate to Holmes how her communication style may create understanding gaps between herself and other people. Meanwhile, dry comedy ensues when Fielder tries cracking jokes (“I used to do a comedy show about business scams...but you actually did a business scam.”) around people who aren’t exactly joke-oriented.

Another later illuminating You Can See Everything conversation involves people talking about celebrity-based documentaries. When someone brings up a Meghan Markle doc made for Netflix, another person responds, “that’s…not really a documentary.” This comment speaks to a larger rot plaguing modern documentary movies. Streamers have saturated the market with celebrity-focused documentaries only existing to marvel at how big Eddie Murphy’s house is or provide cozy PR management for historical monsters.

Interesting visuals? Chronicling everyday people? Actually challenging viewers? These Hoop Dreams, The Gleaners and I, and All the Beauty and the Bloodshed fixtures have no room in the new streaming-approved definition of documentary cinema. Features previously chastising the powerful are now another tool normalizing the bourgeoisie. Amazon’s Melania earlier this year was the blonde-haired, dead-eyed epitome of this disgusting trend.

You Can See Everything, like fellow excellent 2020s docs Time or Crip Camp, reclaims the documentary format back to actual filmmakers. Instead of just rehashing the familiar, Fielder and Oppenheim use documentary cinema to keep audiences on their toes. The camerawork isn’t what you might expect. Various twists and turns navigated through the 170-minute runtime are similarly shocking. Even Ari Balouzian's score (which apparently leans heavily on Bernard Hermann's compositions from Vertigo) doesn’t quite sound like typical orchestral music accompanying a movie about infamous Silicon Valley residents.

Then there’s You Can See Everything’s willingness to challenge its central subjects. Previously, Fielder had no problem pushing back on Boston-originating detectives or someone dropping anti-Semitic remarks in a recreation of a Raising Cane’s. Naturally then, he’s got no issue pushing the buttons of Elizabeth Holmes or Billy Holmes. The celebrity documentary has teeth and subversiveness again. Nathan Fielder rescued the format just in the nick of time.

As for further specifics of what You Can See Everything has to offer…far be it from me to spoil the mind-melting surprises waiting in store. Even Nathan Fielder veterans like myself will be left agog over what he pulls off here. One spoiler-free element I can praise here, though, is the way Fielder poses himself on camera here. Audiences first see Fielder staring at Holmes from behind a yellow-tinted door. Like so many shots of him looming over sets or conversations in The Rehearsal, he’s framed almost like a horror movie villain.

There’s something persistently amusing about just cutting to a shot of Fielder with that blank stare on his face just watching something from afar. Yet it’s also a neat visual detail laced with many potential meanings. Are we seeing Fielder from the perspective of the Holmes family, as an intrusive “monster”? Is this supposed to reinforce Fielder as being an “other” in a space full of Silicon Valley weirdos? This surface-level amusing image’s ambiguity once more forces audiences to question what we’re looking at.

He’s a pilot. He’s saved so many American businesses. He even appeared briefly in Marcel the Shell with Shoes On. Now Nathan Fielder adds another achievement to his repertoire: theatrical film director. With this documentary, he and Oppenheim balloon typical Fielder creative impulses to 170 minutes without straining in the slightest. It isn’t just that You Can See Everything avoids feeling like a bloated Nathan For You episode. Instead, a larger canvas brings out new highs in artistic proficiency from this master comedian. Trust me, You Can See Everything’s extraordinary; it may be the best movie of 2026. Why would I deceive you about that?

Ken Russell's The Devils is more of a holy triumph than ever

Matt Damon’s Odysseus spent years getting back home in The Odyssey. However, even he didn’t face as many obstacles as the original cut of Ken Russell’s The Devils endured. Warner Bros. executives, terrified of its religious commentary and extreme displays of sexuality, infamously butchered and censored The Devils. Since then, even a truncated cut of The Devils has been hard to procure. Save for one United Kingdom release in 2012, the title’s been nonexistent on 21st-century home video formats. Appearances on streaming platforms have been sporadic at best.

Then, in 2002, film critic Mark Kermode announced he’d uncovered the deleted Devils footage. It took 24 years, but that material's finally restored in The Devils proper. To boot, the entire motion picture has received a 4K restoration, a grand theatrical release, and no cuts (this one earns its NC-17 rating). Finally, this original creative vision, here titled Ken Russell’s The Devils, is available. Praise be!

The centerpiece of Ken Russell's The Devils (based on both Aldous Huxley's 1952 novel The Devils of Loudon and the John Whiting play adaptation The Devils) hinges on Father Urbain Grandier (Oliver Reed). This real-life 1630s France figure is pivotal in the town of Loudun. Sturdy walls separate this domicile from the world. This yummy mustached religious figure is always secretly bedding women and quietly the object of lust for Sister Jeanne des Anges (Vanessa Redgrave). She yearns for his body like a parched human craves water. She wants a piece of that Lord with her always, if you catch my drift.

Anywho, Agnes isn't the only figure enamored with Grandier. Cardinal Richelieu (Christopher Logue) is seeking to assimilate all French territory under the Catholic Church's power (and ensure anyone of different religious persuasions won't have any sway). His loyal follower, Baron de Laubardemont (Dudley Sutton), begins plotting with jilted Loudun residents harboring grudges against Grandier to destroy this priest. Agnes claiming Satan has possessed her and other nuns at the behest of Grandier proves perfect for disposing this man of the cloth.

Ken Russell’s The Devils hasn’t aged a day since its 1971 release. Russell’s creative vision still radiates danger, gusto, and distinctive creativity. Suppressing it for so long has only ensured it hits theaters when it’s tragically so relevant. An opening scene where Richelieu sternly tells King Louis XIII of France (Graham Armitage) that he hopes they can finally abolish "the separation between church and state" might as well be verbiage plucked from any modern right-wing Christofacist leader dominating the global political scene. The decades have changed, but Russell’s cinematic Molotov cocktail is as needed as ever.

And oh, what a fiery burst of rebellious cinema this is. Ken Russell’s creative vision is a maximalist achievement, constantly tossing middle fingers at authority and “sacrosanct” religious institutions. Actual historical individuals (like Richelieu) are deployed and turned into villainous individuals without hesitation. Religious authority figures use their power and scripture just for selfish means, and there’s nary a trace of “it’s just a few bad apples!”-style dialogue.

Such rebukes of power stand out as excitingly taboo even today. Allegedly, in the late 2010s, Apple once asked the Servant creative team not to feature crucifixes lest theologically inclined viewers get mad. In contrast, Ken Russell’s The Devils features a riotous moment where a naked nun uses a gigantic cross to bonk "witch hunter" Father Pierre Barre (Michael Gothard) on the back. All the lust, sexual pleasure, and other “deviancies” demonized by Christian-based institutions appear here fully on the screen.

Anyone who gasps at the mere sight of bare asses on-screen or bemoans “pointless sex scenes”, avert your eyes at a mesmerizing fantasy sequence where Agnes traces her tongue across the crucifixion-originating wounds of Jesus/Grandier. The rest of us will watch engrossed at the phenomenal imagery and intoxicating atmosphere.

Throughout watching Ken Russell’s The Devils, the thought “is this one of my favorite movies of all time?” raced through my brain. Even beyond its rebelliousness, everything here is just so perfectly crafted. Russell’s dialogue, for one thing, commits wholeheartedly to making these characters speak and sound like they’re from the 17th century. This produces consistently distinctive dialogue. Especially juicy are Agnes’s earliest scenes where she uses dense verbiage to mask her more primal desires.  “Communities which ought to be furnaces where souls are forever on fire with the love of god are merely dead with the grey ashes of convenience,” she notes to a prospective nun in one especially unforgettable line.

Ironically, despite being such a criticism of Catholicism, Ken Russell’s The Devils is as ornately composed as great religious artworks like the Sistine Chapel. Take any frame from this feature, and it looks like a Renaissance painting. Derek Jarman’s sets, for instance, are breathtaking. The nunnery alone is a marvel. White colors, cramped ceilings, and persistent lines lend rich specificity to every room in this terrain. The coldness of the tiling is tangible. Meanwhile, the black nun habits and chilling rails of red blood stand out against the white. Then there's the beautifully constructed sets representing Loudon’s streets and buildings, the latter of which carry striking semi-Brutalist qualities in their appearances.

It's staggering to witness all these hand-crafted wonders on the big screen. Combining Jarman's set design with the deeply precise blocking makes for a transcendent visual experience. To boot, Ken Russell’s The Devils is awash in succulent colors. Establishing shots, like one showing King Louis on a bridge shooting “bird”, practically pop off the screen with their radiant reds and yellows. Ken Russell and company have so much to say about fascism, organized religion, and the demonization of sexuality. Yet headiness doesn’t come at the expense of vibrant hues. Instead, the two elements beautifully complement and enhance each other.

Just Ken Russell’s The Devils’ inherent maximalism opens the door for a barrage of tremendous images, so too does this aesthetic give the assorted actors a chance to deliver unforgettable outsized performances. What’s especially impressive about each of these turns is how they feel organic to the characters they’re inhabiting. Of course someone like Perre Barre would always be so over-the-top. He’s a conman mistakenly convinced of his own grandiose importance. He’s constantly reaffirming his own “God-anointed” stature through his pronounced behavior. Vanessa Redgrave, meanwhile, subverts societal expectations for how nuns “should” behave with her astonishing go-for-broke work.

This legendary performer has appeared in several momentous features (including Blow-Up and Howards End), yet this is her greatest work. How absorbing she is whenever she appears on-screen, fully committing to writhing sexually, screaming in tortured pain, or monologuing to herself without ever batting an eye. She does it all with flair and, in the middle of all the madness, rich humanity. Then there’s Oliver Reed, lending an appropriate level of believable gravitas to Grandier. His immediately arresting on-screen presence makes it clear why Loudon’s inhabitants treasure him. Reed’s similarly engrossing vocals also make scenes ranging from intimate conversations with his character’s wife, Madeleine (Gemma Jones), to big climactic speeches all equally captivating.

Everyone in Ken Russell’s The Devils giving 110% creatively includes composer Peter Maxwell Davies, who litters the sonic landscape with instruments and sounds you wouldn’t expect to hear in a 17th-century period piece (like atonal trumpets). His orchestral creations especially come alive and become hypnotic in the feature’s second half. Once the possession of Agnes and the other nuns becomes “fact,” sexual havoc, debauchery, and deceit dominate Loudon's church. Davies sets these images to tracks wailing with chaos and pain. Meanwhile, Russell and cinematographer David Watkin often capture this mayhem with intentionally disorienting camerawork. This includes sudden zooms littering the infamous “rape of Christ” set piece.

Technically, this was my second The Devils viewing (I watched the truncated Criterion Channel cut a few years back). However, witnessing everything spiraling out of control left me awestruck and my mouth agape, like it was my first time. That haunting sequence where Grandier is set ablaze and the camera cuts between his screams, Loudun citizens laughing at his pain, and images placing audiences in Grandier’s point of view? Good Lord, it’s all so blisteringly realized. In this agonizing segment, Ken Russell’s The Devils perfectly conveys madness and cruelty consuming the world like quicksand ensnaring a person. This is the hideous endpoint of succumbing to fascism.  

The folks behind this 4K restoration have commendably ensured all these grim atmospheric feats and the other glorious visual achievements in Ken Russell’s The Devils remain intact. Several 4K restorations of 20th-century movies (namely James Cameron directorial efforts) have been nightmares, excessively smoothing out the images and obliterating all the idiosyncrasies tied to older eras of filmmaking (the excellent Chris Person essay “They Want You to Forget What A Film Looks Like” delves into this). This Ken Russell’s The Devils restoration, though, achieves a perfect balance between the old and new.

Images and colors on-screen are crisp, but still maintain potent tactility. Everything still looks like a 1971 feature (rather than a 48 frames per second nightmare), just with extra spiff and shine. Such glorious care ensures it’s easier than ever to savor the endless artistic accomplishments in Ken Russell’s The Devils. We still need works like this taking powerful institutions to the woodchipper, speaking out on the dangers of nationalist movements, and demonstrating the wonders of hand-crafted filmmaking. See it on the big screen and bellow "HALLELJUAH!" over what Ken Russell's The Devils offers its disciples.

Ken Russell's The Devils is now playing in theaters for a limited time through October 22nd.

The documentary NAZA will shake you to your core

Directors Yuval Abraham and Rachel Szor capture everything in NAZA at night. This doesn’t just pertain to this documentary’s interviews with assorted Israeli citizens (working in jobs like drone strike operator, intelligence officer, or coding, among others) who’ve carried out the Palestinian genocide. It also extends to footage captured of various Tel Aviv citizens nonchalantly existing in apartments.

The faces of these inhabitants are often obscured, much like the interview subjects have their visages covered. However, viewers clearly witness these individuals doing yoga, folding laundry, cleaning tables. So many mundane tasks. Often their televisions blare propaganda justifying and normalizing the slaughter of Palestinians.

These cutaways from the assorted interviews depict a level of comfort Palestinian civilians can’t obtain. Sure, rockets can race overhead in Tel Aviv. Generally, though, this population goes about its business like any other major city. NAZA features wide shots of people eating and laughing at nice restaurants. Folks dance to trap music. People are catching a jog before dawn breaks. The dissonance between these banal images of normalcy and a genocide happening in Gaza just under 70 kilometers away is chilling.

Abraham and Szor don’t need intrusive music or narration to hammer home this eerie reality. Juxtaposing unspeakably horrifying anecdotes with these subdued images is enough. This is what normalized colonization looks like.

Those anecdotes, though, are NAZA’s primary focus. These accounts come from various Israeli’s recounting their work in killing Palestinians. The country’s government further ramped up this task after October 7, 2023. In matter-of-fact tones, they recall matters like using phones to track down the location of Palestinian citizens and nonchalant attitudes towards the death of children. These are the architects of mass slaughter. These are their stories. NAZA bears witness to how unthinkable war crimes become another nine-to-five job.

Or, as one interview subject puts it, "I know now how people can bomb a house and then return home to their clinical engineering degrees."

Abraham and Szor’s cameras and interviews reveal wildly varying forms of wiping out Palestinians. One person recalls various techniques used to set fire to homes. Another elaborates on how snipers were told to promptly kill starving Palestinians who scrambled towards aid. Then there’s the folks NAZA focuses on towards the end of its runtime. These were the souls responsible for curbing Palestinians from going to the International Criminal Court or other bodies that could hold Israeli forces accountable for their crimes.

One individual that they’d dig up dirt on whoever was planning to speak up (an extramarital affair, perhaps, or concealed homosexuality) and use that to ensure they’d never come forward. These particular people aren’t using drones or guns per se, but they’re still robbing Palestinians of their humanity and autonomy. That’s the binding force behind NAZA’s interview subjects. Dehumanizing the “other” and justifying unthinkable atrocities. Even when children are murdered, there’s always a rationale.

To say NAZA is a harrowing watch is an understatement. Abraham and Szor’s intentionally subdued visual aesthetic proves crucial in this regard. This includes the soundtrack, which largely consists of genocide-enabler testimonies accompanied by distant sounds of airplanes landing, car horns, or faint conversations. This auditory landscape keeps the focus squarely on horrific anecdotes often erased and suppressed (anti-Israel graffiti is a “hate crime” in certain parts of Texas). However, like those shots of apartment-dwelling Tel Aviv denizens, those faraway noises make it clear these interview subjects aren’t anomalous individuals or “a few bad apples.”

They inhabit a larger world, one in which the normalization of colonialism and genocide of Indigenous souls goes far beyond Israel’s borders. I’m typing this on unceded land from tribes like the Caddo, Wichita, Tawakoni, and Kiikaapoi people. Indigenous peoples in Brazil are constantly under threat from violence and exploitation. Justifying crimes against humanity and the elimination of Indigenous lives is everywhere. Abraham and Szor’s auditory and visual NAZA impulses reinforce this grander scope without distracting from the gut-wrenching testimonies at hand.

Such statements include stories about how drone strike operators took to processing these missions “like a video game.” Others recall how their co-workers cheered on these slayings. One interview subject, while expressing remorse for the past, openly admits feeling a unique and thrilling adrenaline surge carrying out killings. It’s staggering that the NAZA crew got these words on camera (even with the appearances and voices of the various military personnel changed). Then again, briefly seen news footage shows various Israeli politicians boasting about eliminating Palestinians from the face of the Earth. Perhaps it shouldn’t be surprising what genocide architects and enablers say once they’re shrouded in shadows.

NAZA only shifts away from its default visual scheme once for its final scene. This segment consists of footage captured on a phone by a Palestinian citizen. An IDF airstrike has just decimated civilian Gaza territory. Thus, this phone chronicles neighbors navigating the wreckage of their homes for their loved ones. One father calls to his children, now buried underneath rubble. As the realization of what’s happened to them sets in, the man moans, sobs, and recalls how he told his son to watch out for his sister. His agonizing cries are one of many wails and heart-shattering noises filling the screen.

Up to this point, NAZA has emphasized stories of people who make war crimes possible. Now audiences see the human cost of treating people “like a video game” from the point-of-view of a Palestinian citizen living through this genocide.

Once the lights went up at my NAZA screening, as the credits silently rolled on, an unusual thing happened. Nobody got up. We all sat silently, processing everything we’d just witnessed. So impactful was this filmmaking and overall movie that suddenly bolting from the premises felt insulting. Gradually, we all stood up and slowly ventured towards the exits. Outside the theater, it was only 12:30 PM. The sun was shining down. Yet NAZA’s harrowing nighttime interviews consumed my mind and, undoubtedly, everyone else in that auditorium that day.

Death comes for us all in the darkly hilarious Wild Horse Nine

 

Bittersweet dark comedies. Those three words neatly sum up playwright and feature film writer/director Martin McDonagh's cinematic exploits. Melancholy ambiances linger over his motion pictures like a storm cloud hovering above a picnic or U.S. government forces preparing to attack a democratically elected leftist leader. Titles like The Banshees of Inisherin and In Bruges make that aesthetic apparent. McDonagh films feature bleak yuks (often derived from witty vulgar verbiage) within mournful, deeply vulnerable atmospheres.

Even his wacky Hollywood yukfest, Seven Psychopaths, ends with a mournful exchange in a phone booth where Colin Farrell’s protagonist quietly accepts that death will eventually come for him (“That's good,” his character remarks upon hearing when he’ll die, “I'm not doing anything Tuesday.”).

Now McDonagh’s aesthetic is back with his latest big screen venture, Wild Horse Nine. Here, he zeroes in on CIA officers and best friend Chris Carlisle (John Malkovich) and Lee Chesterfield (Sam Rockwell). After laying the groundwork for the 1973 Chilean coup d'etat, Carlisle and Chesterfield head to an Easter Island vacation. The former member of this pair has killed 68 people in his life, destabilized countless governments, and left a legacy of America-sanctioned bloodshed. He’s also now succumbing to his older age. His memory isn’t working. Cancer ravages his body. The Grim Reaper’s preparing to visit someone used to dishing out death.

McDonagh shrewdly heightens the tension and places audiences closer to Carlisle’s perspective by slowly unfurling key Wild Horse Nine details as the story progresses rather than unveiling everything upfront. That includes key promises between Carlisle and Chesterfield that this older spy has forgotten all about, how long this cancer-ridden character has to live, as well as their boss, MJ (Steve Buscemi), demanding Chesterfield kill his best friend. Easter Island is one of the world’s most beautiful places. Glorious sights abound in this domicile. Yet even here spies can’t escape conspiracies and potentially fatal secrets.

Midway through Wild Horse Nine, Carlisle and Chesterfield are sitting on a hill and conversing. As they chat, one shot of Carlisle suddenly got darker. I was temporarily worried my theater's projector system wasn’t working. However, the subsequent image of Chesterfield wielded not only the same lighting, but suddenly returned to the initial brightness. McDonagh and cinematographer Ben Davis kept in images where clouds briefly obscured the sun. They couldn’t control that reality-based wrinkle, yet they rolled with it during their practical location shooting.

That might sound like a weird, superfluous detail to obsess over. Maybe it is. But after watching The Social Reckoning’s artificial rendering of exterior rainy spaces, I absolutely cherished these remnants of reality. Tiny elements like that make Wild Horse Nine’s world extra believable. These aren’t characters discernibly existing only on blue-screen simulacra of the outdoors. They’re outside, breathing the air and beholden to when clouds briefly overtake the sun. Embracing such visual elements accentuates the believability of Wild Horse Nine’s characters.

Nobody can dispute that McDonagh is a master of insults. Whether it's "you're an inanimate object!" or declaring someone "fecking mental," his films are littered with characters creatively lambasting one another. Wild Horse Nine happily continues that trend. Chesterfield’s intensely uttering "you dumb Iowa cunt" is especially sublime. McDonagh’s writing isn’t just rife with jeers. It’s also heavy on immensely engaging conversations between Carlise and Chesterfield that intriguingly evolve tonally as Wild Horse Nine progresses. At first, they’re mostly just amusing as Carlisle rambles on about his supposed “wisdom.” Monologues regarding the correlation between gayness and democracy, as well as how having a heroin addict for a wife is superior to being married to an alcoholic, are particularly memorable in this regard.

However, as the story marches on, more dramatic impulses begin seeping into their conversations. Carlisle isn’t sure he can trust his longtime friend while Chesterfield finds himself pulled between dueling alliances. Inevitably, their rapport gets more strained. This still produces amusing material, like in one scene where Carlisle comes clean about how much he really wanted to see Venice, Italy rather than Easter Island. However, McDonagh wrings impactful power out of contorting an initially comedic dynamic into something outright tragic. Wild Horse Nine is often a two-hander between Rockwell and Malkovich. Whatever mode that two-hander inhabits, it proves engrossing.

The only real problem in the script is that the women characters needed more dimensions. Cinema legend Parker Posey (Party Girl forever!) is just around for two scenes playing Chesterfield’s wife back in the States. Chilean college student Monica (Mariana di Girolamo), meanwhile, has an understandable bittersweet function in the plot with her friendship with Carlisle ("She's life and I'm departing it," Carlisle bemoans). However, her interior world remains surface-level. At least her screentime, though, lets Girolamo demonstrate her serious mastery of an instantly shattering crying face. Tears welling up in her eyes resonate as achingly soul and believable rather than manipulative.

Besides that screenwriting foible, though, Wild Horse Nine is another divine film script from the In Bruges writer. While a dialogue-driven affair, McDonagh gladly maintains sharp visual instincts beyond maintaining takes where clouds obscured the sun. That includes littering the screen with bright colors. Hotel room phone cords are bright blue. Chesterfield never goes anywhere without a vibrant shirt on his body. Key automobiles are decked out in sumptuous colors like red. Folks like production designer Denis Schnegg and costume designer Eimer Ní Mhaoldomhnaigh prove essential in draping the on-screen world in enough vivid hues to evoke a postcard for an island getaway.

Committing to those colors (not to mention Easter Island’s natural beauty) ensures that Wild Horse Nine’s melancholy elements hit extra hard. It’s like how a storm makes it easier to appreciate sunlight. An evocatively staged shot depicting Chesterfield drinking alone at the hotel bar, empty space surrounding him, is one of several memorable images conveying this bittersweet tone. Inhabiting these visuals are a bevy of immensely memorable performances, including John Malkovich as Wild Horse Nine’s deeply vulnerable protagonist.

It's been a long while since Malkovich appeared in a top-shelf movie. After a few years of attempting to liven up titles like Fool's Paradise and Opus, Malkovich finally excels in a sublime motion picture once more. Especially memorable is any instant where he portrays Carlisle silently sitting, ruminating on his impending demise. Malkovich’s eyes suggest caked-in resignation with just a hint of fear. His character’s motormouth comedic digressions may suggest otherwise, but this actor's quietest details poignantly convey how much mortality weighs on Carlisle.

Sam Rockwell, reuniting with McDonagh for the third time, meanwhile, is also tonally dexterous in his performance. He’s an absolute riot bouncing off his elderly companion. Plus, Rockwell’s the master of hysterical facial expressions, a talent informing Wild Horse Nine’s greatest scenes. However, when it’s time for Rockwell to sell Chesterfield’s emotionally conflicted sequences, he absolutely crushes it. He and Malkovich uncover discernible and engrossing humanity within two monsters. On paper, that sounds like a paradox. Given that Wild Horse Nine is yet another bittersweet dark comedy triumph from Martin McDonagh, though, conceptually contradictory endeavors are the name of the game here.

So Is David Ellison's 30+ Warner Bros./Paramount Movies a Year Plan Remotely Feasible?

This isn't a very upbeat piece, I'll admit, so how about an image from one of those Jim Henson Wilkin's Coffee commercials that always brings me joy?

First of all, here are some fun facts about Skydance head David Ellison, who now owns Paramount Pictures and Warner Bros. Pictures:

David Ellison was paid $63.5 million in 2025. Every dollar had to go to him, as 1,000+  Paramount jobs for the proletariat were eliminated.

The royal families of Saudi Arabia will have a significant financial stake in the new Skydance that owns Warner Bros. The Saudi Arabia Public Investment Fund that's pouring $10 billion into Skydance has been linked to allegations of human rights abuses. Appalling anti-Semitism has run rampant in government-approved school materials, while LGBTQIA+ human rights abuses are also normalized.

Hey, speaking of countries with human right violations, David Ellison made a big show (just under two months after Skydance bought Paramount) out of Paramount+ acquiring the October 7 miniseries Red Alert. David's father, Larry Ellison, is one of the most prolific supporters of Israel Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu. The UN Independent International Commission of Inquiry on the Occupied Palestinian Territory, including East Jerusalem, and Israel, along with countless other organizations, have concluded that Netanyahu and his IDF forces are committing a genocide against the Palestinian people.

As if that weren't enough corrupt world leaders to pal around with, David Ellison has also been incredibly chummy with US President Donald Trump. ICE custody deaths have ballooned under Trump's presidency. His implementation of Elon Musk to lead DOGE and gut USAID led to hundreds of thousands of deaths. Millions of Americans have lost their healthcare under the Trump administration. Trump was also found liable for sexual abuse in court and has been accused countless times of sexual misconduct by women.

The qualifications for being in David Ellison's friend group are apparently (1) being powerful, (2) being rich, (3) having blood on your hands.

It's estimated that 4,500 Los Angeles jobs could be eliminated because of him buying Warner Bros.

Keep that in mind as Ellison blabbers on cable news shows about Skydance now being the king of "content" or various rich people like Tom Cruise and James Cameron bootlicking this corporate king.