X is exactly what you hope for in a well-crafted slasher—and these days, that’s already saying a lot. Ti West revives the 1970s essence of the genre, with its gritty texture, deliberate pacing, and that mix of sex, violence, and tension so many recent attempts have forgotten. There’s no fear of splattering the screen with blood, but also no hesitation in adding dark humor and building characters who, while rooted in archetypes, feel more engaging than usual. The atmosphere is spot-on: period music, grindhouse aesthetics, and a steadily rising tension that turns downright uncomfortable. West knows how to play with suspense, alternating moments of deceptively calm pauses with bursts of graphic violence that jolt the viewer. The gore is well-judged—enough to shock without feeling gratuitous—and the camerawork conveys both the sensuality and the danger surrounding the story. The cast shines, with a magnetic Mia Goth owning the film and an ensemble that fully grasps the project’s tone. Each performer adds something to the game of seduction and death set up by the script. And while it doesn’t reinvent the genre, X reminds us why slasher became a classic in the first place: when done right, it entertains, scares, and leaves an unsettling aftertaste long after the credits roll. In short, it’s a bloody, stylish feast—an homage that doesn’t just copy, but revives the energy of an era and channels it into horror that feels alive. A gift for anyone who thought slasher had nothing left to offer.

My Oxford Year tries to sell itself as an emotional romantic drama set in a postcard-perfect setting, but neither its scenery nor its attractive cast can hide the obvious: this is a flat, prefabricated, soulless film. The story leans on every young adult romance cliché—improbable love, culture clashes, personal discovery—but does so with such lack of energy that it becomes frustrating. The chemistry between the leads is almost nonexistent, turning every supposedly emotional moment into a weightless formality. Even the supporting cast, with seasoned actors who could add gravitas, seem trapped in a script that gives them nothing interesting to say or do. Visually, it delivers, with Oxford and other British locations looking like a tourist brochure, but the pretty packaging can’t make up for the narrative emptiness. The film tries hard to feel moving, but everything comes off as artificial and forced, as if it were trying to force tears without earning them. Ironically, one of its most memorable moments has nothing to do with the plot, but with the appearance of Coldplay’s Yellow, which at least stirs something amid the boredom. Beyond that, what remains is a forgettable exercise that doesn’t even qualify as a “guilty pleasure”—it’s simply dull.

Trap is Shyamalan in pure form: entertaining, tense, and with that mix of suspense and absurdity only he can pull off. The story starts strong, placing us in an apparently ordinary setting that soon turns into a cat-and-mouse game full of suspicion and double-crosses. The tension holds steady during the first hour, and while the twists often border on the implausible, they’re part of the unspoken pact the director makes with the audience from the start. Josh Hartnett carries much of the film’s weight with a restrained yet intense performance, conveying fear and uncertainty without losing his composure. His role, trapped in a dead-end situation, brings the right balance for the story to shift between tension and touches of dark humor without losing its pace. Shyamalan takes full advantage of the setting and atmospheric tension, tightening the rope bit by bit until breaking it with sudden moments that jolt the viewer and force them to reconsider what they’re watching. This alternation between calm and bursts of energy keeps the story engaging and prevents it from stalling. It’s not his most polished or ingenious work, but it’s a film that keeps its rhythm and manages to hold the intrigue until the very end. For those who enjoy his style, it’s a reminder that, with all his strengths and flaws, Shyamalan remains a filmmaker capable of surprising and turning suspense into something unmistakably his own.

Bring Her Back is one of those films that unsettles more by what it suggests than by what it shows—though here, what it shows doesn’t hold back either. The Philippou brothers return after Talk to Me with a story that preserves their talent for crafting dense, suffocating atmospheres, playing with themes of pain, loss, and the limits of the supernatural. From the first minute, there’s a sickly air hanging over everything, as if the story were soaked in a sticky sadness that never lets go. Sally Hawkins owns the screen as a foster mother as disturbing as she is fascinating, able to shift from quiet menace to utter madness in seconds. Alongside her, the young performers bring a vulnerability that makes every twist more uncomfortable to witness. The tension simmers slowly, with bursts of violence that hit hard for their rawness and for how little they dwell on the effect. Narratively, the film isn’t perfect: there are moments where the logic falters and the central metaphor doesn’t fully evolve. But it works thanks to a steady hand and direction that knows when to tighten and when to let the audience breathe. The result is horror that’s more emotional than flashy, where the threat lies as much in what lurks outside as in what rots within. Though not flawless, it’s memorable and holds you until the end, leaving an uneasy feeling that’s hard to shake. It may not match the surprise of its predecessor, but it confirms that the Philippous know how to unnerve—and they do it with surgical precision.

28 Years Later arrives with the difficult task of continuing a story that helped define modern zombie cinema. Danny Boyle returns behind the camera and, while the result is visually and atmospherically strong, the connection to the first two films feels diluted. It’s not that there’s a lack of tension or new ideas, but the shift in tone is so marked that it’s hard to feel it as a natural continuation. The film blends bursts of high energy, frantic action sequences, and a more ambitious focus on political and social themes, touching on isolationism and cultural conflicts. This gives it personality, though it also makes the plot feel more scattered and less centered on the pure horror that defined its predecessors. The cast delivers solid performances, with characters that—at least in part—manage to engage emotionally. However, the structure feels more like the opening of a new trilogy than a closure to the previous arc, leaving the sense that we’re only watching a first act. Visually, Boyle proves once again his skill in crafting striking images: impactful shots, clever use of light, and a relentless pace. But that same energy sometimes becomes a double-edged sword, reducing cohesion and breaking the atmosphere that worked so well in the first two films. Ultimately, it’s an ambitious return with memorable moments, but also an uneven one. It brings freshness and risk, though at the cost of some of the essence that made the saga great. The future of this new chapter will depend on whether the next installments can balance innovation with continuity.