It’s hard to look at Everest without thinking of epic triumph. But this film isn’t aiming for tribute or glory—it throws itself into the storm to reveal the brutal cost of obsession. From the very beginning, the director makes it clear: there are no heroes here, just people determined to challenge the unchallengeable, paying a steep price. What remains is more like mourning than adventure. And it works. It really does. The pacing might feel cold, like the mountain itself. But that’s exactly the point. Kormákur doesn’t try to sweeten the pain or dress up the despair. Some scenes feel almost documentary-like, and certain shots overwhelm with their stillness. Beyond the visual spectacle—and it is spectacular—what hits the hardest is the steady accumulation of small decisions that lead these people to the edge. At times it’s hard to follow so many characters, and a few could’ve had more emotional weight. But maybe that speaks to the real confusion of extreme situations. At 8,000 meters, your world shrinks to the breath you don’t have, the step you can’t take. The film captures that suffocating tension with admirable clarity. What’s most disturbing is the absence of a villain. There’s no monster, no external threat—just people who had it all and risked everything to stand at the summit for a single minute. And that minute became their last. When the snow settles and silence takes over, it’s hard not to question that drive to prove something no one asked you to prove. Everest doesn’t move you with speeches, but with emptiness. It doesn’t stir with music, but with the weight of missing air. It’s one of those films you remember not for one specific scene, but for the feeling it leaves in your gut. A strange blend of awe and grief—like realizing not everything great is beautiful.

It doesn’t try to fool anyone—and it doesn’t have to. The new Final Destination knows exactly what it is: a parade of imaginative deaths, buckets of blood, some dark humor, and characters who exist solely to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. But within that formula, Bloodlines works surprisingly well. Right from the start, with an opening sequence that’s already among the best in the franchise, the film makes it clear it’s going all in. There’s tension, spectacle, and a pace that rarely drops. Directors Adam Stein and Zach Lipovsky take their job seriously, even knowing they’re staging a twisted joke. And it shows in the precision of many set pieces. One of this installment’s strengths is not taking itself too seriously, while avoiding full-on parody. There are nods for longtime fans, visual cues referencing earlier films, and a sense that—for once—the characters aren’t entirely clueless about what it means to be trapped in this curse. The family tree concept adds an intriguing layer, though it could’ve been explored more deeply. Visually, the movie is solid. Shot with large screens in mind, it offers wide shots, more polished cinematography than usual, and staging that aims for impact without losing clarity. The kills are brutal, yes, but also creative, with that playful sadism that has always defined the franchise. Does it have flaws? Of course. Some dialogues are flat, the characters stick to cliché roles, and the film occasionally flirts with unintentional parody. But overall, the balance between dark comedy, suspense, tension, and gore makes it a surprisingly enjoyable chapter—even for those who thought the saga had nothing left to say. It reinvents nothing, but it does prove that with a bit of genre love, you can still make entertaining entries in a franchise that seemed spent. If you liked the previous ones, this is a safe bet. And if you never bought into the game, at least it’ll make you look twice before crossing the street.

Some films manage to unsettle you without ever raising their voice. Heretic does just that from the very first frame. It’s a tense, slow-burning thriller where every pause feels deliberate, every line carefully chosen. Almost everything takes place in a single location, but the atmosphere it builds is dense and claustrophobic. And at the center of it all: Hugh Grant. His performance is mesmerizing. He doesn’t force the fear—he suggests it. The way he looks, smiles, speaks just a bit too slowly—it’s all deeply disturbing. I haven’t seen him this sharp in years, and here he’s far from the charming romantic type people usually associate with him. This time, he’s something else: charisma turned into menace. The script plays with religious themes without preaching. There are clever lines, uncomfortable questions, and moments where you don’t know whether to laugh or tense up. It often feels like a chamber play, where everything rests on the actors and their subtle choices—and all three leads are outstanding. Visually, it’s not flashy, but it uses darkness and confined spaces to trap you with the characters. It’s small-scale filmmaking that dares to tackle big themes: faith, guilt, manipulation, power. Not everything lands—perhaps the ending lacks the punch of the opening—but the ride is worth it. Heretic doesn’t reinvent horror, but it twists it in clever ways. It’s elegant, uncomfortable, and full of shadows. And above all, it reminds us that true horror doesn’t always scream—it whispers.

It’s frustrating to watch a franchise with so much potential, rich mythology, and a charismatic main character like Hellboy turn into such a soulless mess. This 2019 version tries to step away from Del Toro’s legacy, but instead of finding its own voice, it gets lost in a whirlwind of blood, noise, and poor decisions. From the start, it feels like no one really knew what kind of movie they were making. The script is a disaster: characters show up with zero introduction, subplots come and go without weight, and everything stumbles forward as if several drafts were thrown in a blender and set to max speed. Some scenes could have worked, but the lack of clear direction and chaotic editing ruin any momentum. David Harbour does what he can and occasionally captures that world-weary Hellboy vibe, but the script gives him no room to breathe. The tone shifts constantly—from gratuitous gore to teenage jokes to forced family drama—without anything clicking into place. It feels like watching an extended trailer for something that never really starts. Visually, it has its moments. Some creature designs are cool, and it certainly doesn’t hold back on effects. But that’s meaningless if you don’t know why they’re there or what role they play. Everything feels shallow, like they focused more on making things “happen” than telling a coherent story. In the end, it’s a failed reboot that neither understands the character nor his world. It’s not bad because it’s different—it’s bad because it’s poorly built from the ground up. And the saddest part? Even in the middle of this wreck, you still try to find something redeemable… just because it’s Hellboy.

It seemed like the idea of one lawless night a year had already run its course. But this installment takes things further and presents an even more unsettling scenario: what if the purge didn’t stop when the siren blares? With that premise, the film opens the door to unchecked chaos and delivers a much more brutal portrait of American society, especially its structural racism, fear of outsiders, and hate-driven discourse. There’s no room for subtlety here. From the first scene, the message is clear: this is about rising xenophobia, fanatical nationalism, and a broken system. The script may not be brilliant, and many characters feel more like symbols than real people, but some sequences hit hard and make you uncomfortable. The tension is constant, even if uneven. Visually, it leaves the usual urban setting and leans into a dusty, almost western-like landscape. At times it feels like Mad Max, other times like a rural dystopia full of raw violence. Everardo Gout’s direction keeps the pace high. While some scenes are predictable, others surprise with their political edge and brutality. This might not be the best in the franchise, but it’s one of the most direct in its messaging. There’s no more satirical veil: everything is blunt, explicit, and intentionally provocative. That can feel heavy-handed, but it’s also what gives this film something to say beyond blood and bullets. "The Forever Purge" doesn’t break new ground formally, but it leaves a lasting impression. When it ends, what stays with you isn’t the noise—it’s the question: what if this isn’t fiction? In the end, the scariest thing isn’t the violence… it’s the applause it gets.