Film Review - Ghostbusters: Afterlife (12A)

 Maybe it's the Apocalypse. 

Ghostbusters: Afterlife is the fourth film in the Ghostbusters franchise, and the most satisfying episode to build on the 1984 original. That's not to say it's perfect, and let's be candid here, none of them are - not even the first one. But it does achieve a lot that a sequel should, particularly the kind that show up decades down the line with an audience of fans pining for nostalgia.

The Spengler family, mother and grandchildren of late Ghostbuster Egon Spengler, relocate to the rural town of Summerville, having inherited his farmhouse, a gaunt and decrepit pile in the mode of the Bates home from Psycho. While teenage Trevor (Stranger Things' Finn Wolfhard) staves off boredom at the local fast-food restaurant, his introverted kid sister Phoebe feeds her science nerdiness by exploring her grandfather's later life paranormal obsessions, while making a psychic connection of her own in her new home. Meanwhile earth tremors and other portents of apocalyptic doom are a-brewing in Summerville, and, frankly there's no one to call. That's unless Phoebe, Trevor, and some new friends learn how to use the proton packs in Egon's secret basement, and get his cranky old Cadillac running.

Here's the truth about me and Ghostbusters - in terms of 1984, I was always more a Gremlins guy. I enjoyed the original film, with the ensemble dynamic and all Bill Murray's wisecracks, Slimer and the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man, the hearse-mobile and the Ray Parker Jnr. theme song, but as Netflix's recent The Movies That Made Us documentary reminded us, the underlying mythology is slapdash and pretty thin. Ghostbusters II reworked all the first film's plot beats without adding much that was new, while 2016's all-girl reboot was more of the same, only with weaker jokes. (It also triggered a load of culture war bullshit, but set that aside - the movie simply wasn't original or funny enough to stand up.) Afterlife, however, gets a few basic things right, that help it stand out as properly worthwhile.

Directed and co-written by Jason Reitman, son of Ghostbusters '84 director Ivan, it gets out of NYC, transferring all the supernatural malarky to a magnificently shot Oklahoma landscape. At its centre it puts a likeable young cast, with Carrie Coon and Paul Rudd as Mom and a ghostbuster fanboy science teacher respectively, giving it a family drama vibe in place of the been-there done-that urban workplace comedy. The tropes established in the first film are drawn out gradually, emerging from under the surface of what appears to be a whole other film, while a new batch of relationships are established. In addition that familial connection between lead protagonist Phoebe (Mckenna Grace) and Egon (Harold Ramis being the one original buster no longer with us), carries real emotional weight. It's more than just business as usual, and that in itself is refreshing.

Where the film suffers drags in momentum, and dialogue between the leads that often fails to spark. Grace is a likeable lead, and newcomer Logan Kim is a real audience-pleaser as her new friend Podcast, but there's nothing in the screenplay to compensate for the interplay of the original gang. Rudd is an amiable presence as ever, and the source of some neat '80s callback jokes, but neither he nor anyone else is given the level of acerbic wit granted to Bill Murray back in the day. The movie's mid-section is pretty lifeless (pun not intended) as a result. Thankfully the proceedings gain speed along with the Caddy, as the plot gears up for its climax - aided by developments that should delight all true Ghostbusters aficionados, while stirring the emotions of relative GB agnostics like me. New spins are found on old visual gags, and teases regarding the classic film are delivered upon in satisfying fashion. Best of all comedy legend Ramis gets his due in an unexpected but 100% appropriate fashion.

Ghostbusters is for the fans - the real ones - and its liberal scattering of Easter eggs, along with its final-act celebratory twists (still allowing its young new heroes to shine), provides it with purpose and heart. It's not brilliant, but it is its own beast, and it's sufficiently fun to remind us why the '84 ghostbusting squad are remembered with such fondness. (For all that it's not as good as Gremlins. Just saying.)

Gut Reaction: First act - intrigued. Second act - bit sleepy. Final act - invested again, and more heart-warmed than I'd expected. So that's okay.

Memorable Moment: Marshmallow mayhem (where they were definitely referencing Gremlins!).

Ed's Verdict: 6/10. Ghostbusters: Afterlife really misses the punchy script-writing of Dan Ackroyd and Harold Ramis, but it plays its nostalgia cards well, and is worth the experience. Now it's time to lay the franchise to rest. 

Film Review - Spencer (12)

 It seems that they're circling just me. Not you, just me.

Spencer is the new film from Pablo Larrain, the Chilean director who's made an international name for himself by telling stories of iconic 20th century female figures. In his 2016 film Jackie, Natalie Portman portrayed tragic Jackie Kennedy in the hours and days directly following the assassination of her husband President John F. Kennedy. This time it's Kirstin Stewart, aka her from all the Twilight films, in the role of Diana, Princess of Wales, the one-time Diana Spencer. If you think The Crown has a monopoly on what can interestingly be said about Diana's time as a member of the British Royal Family, think again...

The story - described at the film's beginning as 'A Fable Based on a True Tragedy' - takes place in December 1991, as the Royals congregate at the Sandringham Estate to celebrate the festive season. There's a military-style operation in progress by staff to run the place, and Prince Charles is chiefly preoccupied with preparing elder son William for the Boxing Day grouse shoot. But for Diana, sweeping up the drive alone in her convertible, it promises to be a three-day endurance test. Ten years into her marriage with Charles, she's the object of perpetual media scrutiny, painfully aware that there's a third party in the marriage, and stifled to the point of suffocation. Christmas with the relatives has never seemed such a grim prospect.

It's useful to know going in that Larrain's film is a kind of dark-edged fantasy, rather than one purporting to show what might really have happened to its protagonist. Like Jackie, this is a psychological portrait of a women in extremis, but it's significantly more abstract than the 2016 film; the other royals have a cold and mostly background presence like they're a permanent tableau, the precision with which food is prepared and served is nothing short of oppressive, and Timothy Spall's senior attendant is more a portent of doom than a three-dimensional character. Add to that a series of visions that link Diana with another oppressed royal of old, and the story becomes a Christmas nightmare as unsettling as any Ebenezer Scrooge ever had.

With a grand European hotel doubling at Sandringham, the locations look truly sumptuous, and Larrain shoots them on your actual old-school film rather than digitally, often in soft-focus, like a twee period romance. Thing is, it's not a romance. It's an oppressive drama concerning the fraying of a trapped woman's psyche, and the festive trappings only make the atmosphere more cloyingly oppressive. With Diana so much on her own, hand-held cameras frequently in her face, it's a study in loneliness and paranoia. The film finds numerous ways of getting us inside the protagonist's head, none more effective than the soundscape - headed up by a superb but frequently grating original score by Jonny Greenwood of Radiohead. Whether the melancholy of classical strings or the discord of abstract jazz, it puts you in the headspace of someone who just wants to scream and rip curtains and run the length of the Christmas dinner table. String quartets and church organs swell so loud that you want to take them out with an axe.

At the heart of it all is Stewart's performance, already lauded with talk of Oscar nominations. Such talk is earned. Like her Twilight co-star Robert Pattinson, Steward has come a long way since the sexy-vampire days, and she's nothing short of astonishing here. It's one thing to capture the voice and mannerisms of a media icon with technical precision (which she does). It's quite another to convey inner turmoil and fragility convincingly, when the close-up scrutiny of the camera allows for no fakery whatsoever. As Diana the Princess, and as an ordinary human in extraordinary circumstances and at a low ebb, she's never short of 100% convincing. Other performances impress - Poldark's Jack Farthing gets to show some humanity as Charles, while Sally Hawkins and the normally edgy Sean Harris are both good as empathetic members of the royal staff - but this is Stewart's show like Jackie belonged to Portman, and she nails it to the Sandringham floorboards.

For all its virtues - which include all the superior production and costume design you'd imagine - Spencer is not a Friday evening popcorn watch. Go in expecting the conventional drama of The Crown, and you'll end up like the elderly lady at my screening who turned to her friend during closing credits and said, 'Well that was a bit strange.' It is strange, and frustrating, and deliberately slow-paced. It's also genuinely troubling, and not just because of how it deals with the more self-destructive elements of the troubled Princess. But it's also beautiful, terrifically crafted, and deeply empathetic towards its damaged subject - a woman who just wants to be herself again. 

Gut Reaction: The Friday factor meant this took its time to reel me in - but it ultimately made me care about Diana Spencer, almost grind my teeth, and at one point actively flinch.

Memorable Moment: An eccentric but touching party game with Wills and Harry.

Ed's Verdict: 9/10. Spencer is art - not the dull, fusty kind, but something much more imaginative and subversive. It's terrific, personal filmmaking, and Kirsten Stewart delivers one of the performances of the year.

Film Review - Last Night in Soho (18)

 Do you believe in ghosts?

Last Night in Soho is Edgar Wright's new film - a jagged thriller and surreal trip into horror-tinged darkness (with a psychic time-travel twist), that's a big departure for the man who brought us Shaun of the Dead and the other hilarious entries in his Cornetto Trilogy. It may not be the perfect film I wanted it to be, but it's still one of the most stylish and inventive movies to be held in the lockdown release queue.

Thomasin McKenzie (Leave No Trace/Jojo Rabbit) plays Eloise, a sweet-natured girl from Cornwall, who travels to the big smoke of London to study at a prestigious fashion school. She brings with a love of 1960s culture gifted by her beloved grandmother, and a psychic gift passed on from her mother. Thus when she finds modern-day London less than friendly to blow-ins like herself, she starts connecting in her dreams with the Swinging Sixties version of the city - think young Cilla Black, Carnaby Street fashion and all the allure of Soho's nightlife. Her visions centre on Sandie (Anya Taylor Joy of Peaky Blinders and The Queen's Gambit popularity), as aspiring singer who seems to embody all the era's appeal. But the glamour of '60s Soho is a shallow veneer, and Eloise's preternatural explorations beneath its surface become steadily more disturbing. 

There's a reason why films like this one and Hot Fuzz and Baby Driver need to be prefaced with 'The new film by Edgar Wright'. The guy is one of the most imaginative and stylistically gifted writer-directors working in film today, so be it comic parody, crime thriller or psychological horror, it's never enough to talk about his films in conventional genre terms. This time, however, Wright has abandoned key trademarks, like smash cuts and rapid-fire dialogue, in favour or something much more straight-faced and brooding. His work is as visually arresting as ever, and as rich in detail; this time, however, it's all bent towards turning our heads with this bygone London's sexy shimmer, then taking us on an increasingly unsettling trip (pun absolutely intended) through its seedy underbelly. A flawless 360-degree pan of 1965 Soho Square is the epitome of all that excites, while garish red neon hints at the horrors to come. 

As Eloise, McKenzie shoulders a mainstream film for the first time, and she does a commendable job - embodying naive idealism and 'country mouse' vulnerability in London's present, before being both seduced and terrorised by its past. Taylor Joy takes another step up the ladder to greatness as Sandie, all poise and self-confidence, and never more than when she nails an a cappella version of Downtown to make Petula Clark proud. (That one can sing, dance, act, and play chess!) Sequences underscoring the girls' bizarre time-travelling connection deliver some of the most head-spinning virtuosity in the film. Matt Smith and Michael Ajao provide very different kinds of support to the girls, while the most notable members of the support cast all hail from the actual British cinema of the 1960s - Terence Stamp, Rita Tushingham and the late, legendary Diana Rigg in a worthy final performance. 

Wright, you see, loves his cinema history, and stews the film in its influences - from the urban Brit dramas of the '60s to Dario Argento's original Suspiria (of which there's more than a little here) - while creating something totally the director's own. It's a delicious musical stew as well, with more classic '60s pop than you could cram into a two-disc vinyl compilation. All of that said, this film's Wrighty goodness doesn't stretch quite as far as I'd hoped. The hysteria that afflicts the final act of many horror films takes over here too, with the director's creativity undermined by tropes that are a bit cliche, and plot twists some of which make more sense than others. A heavy-handedness also shows in the screenplay, with the story's subtext spelt out a bit too plainly. (Yes, we get what you're saying, now just leave it be.) 

Here's the thing - an Edgar Wright film that falters in the final stretch still turns out to be more worth your time than a dozen other films that stay their intended course. This is a movie to revisit, with its ravishing art design, evocation of time and place and whirling cinematic ingenuity. It's steeped in atmosphere and tells a compelling tale - so even if the close doesn't match all that's gone before, it's still a film for the collection, and one that serves up some of the most memorable cinematic moments of the year. Wright's take on Swinging London demands a visit.

Gut Reaction: A bit of 'Please stick the landing' frustration, but largely advanced levels of enjoyment. 

Memorable Moment: Mirror girl. 

Ed's Verdict: 7/10. An overcooked ending detracts from but doesn't negate Last Night in Soho's advanced levels of creativity, or the originality of its premise. It's one to see, and a fascinating new direction for one of the greatest entertainers in film today.

Film Review - Dune (12A)

 A great man doesn't seek to lead...

Of the many film releases postponed by the pandemic, Denis Villeneuve's retelling of Dune was the delay that frustrated me most. I read the first Dune novel as a teenager, and while I admired rather than out-and-out liked it, the material seemed perfectly suited to the vastness and clarity of Villeneuve's storytelling imagination. Anyone who can expand on a film as iconic as Blade Runner, complimenting it while making a sequel so much their own, is a perfect choice for Herbert's multi-planet cerebral space-opera. But with Covid cancellations cranking up the already insane hype of modern studio films to barely matchable levels, could this one do anything less than disappoint? Thankfully the answer is a solid YES.

For those unfamiliar with the Duniverse (I surely can't be the first to make that dreadful pun), here's the non-spoilery gist of the story and mythology. The desert planet of Arrakis is the richest in the/some/our(?) galaxy, due to the prevalence in its dunes of a mind-expanding substance referred to as 'spice'. This of course makes the planet and its indigenous people, the 'Fremen', prey to unscrupulous invading forces, which is why the noble Atreides family has been tasked with overseeing the mining of spice from the planet surface. But there's another reason why the destiny of Paul, son of house Atreides (Timothee Chalamet - above), is linked to the planet and its people, all to do with his mother Lady Jessica (Rebecca Ferguson - above) and her links to a mysterious sisterhood called the Bene Gesserit. And when terms like 'fate' and 'destiny' start to get attached to a person, they have reason to start worrying about whether they should go with their family to a specified planet at all. That's without taking bitter rivalries, treachery and sand-worms the size of the Channel Tunnel into account.

The reason why the Dune novels have frequently been labelled 'unfilmable' (despite two previous adaptations) is their epic scope and sheer depth of mythology, brimming as the stories are with religious and political allegory. It's what makes Villeneuve the perfect filmmaker for the job. While his 2016 movie Arrival showed that he could do convincingly real science-fiction spectacle, the more recent Blade Runner: 2049 proved he was equal to the task of full-scale world building. The new Dune is on a whole other level of expansiveness - call it universe building on the level of Star Wars, but with a much more adult tone. This is big storytelling, but however vast, it feels solid and lived-in rather than computer-made and in any way fake. The planetary landscapes and space travel are awe-inspiring (the influence of 2001: A Space Odyssey is clear in the latter), and the interiors are intricately detailed without ever feeling cluttered. It's visually mesmerising, however restrained in its use of colour (maybe more so because of that), with Hans Zimmer's music and a rich soundscape adding to the depth and character of everything on screen. 

It's all of those audio and visual aspects, along with a roster of authentic performances from a head-turning cast, that keep viewers (well, a lot of them) absorbed in a narrative that's deliberately paced. There's a ton of set-up here - different families, races and belief systems rooted in long histories - and the film takes its time, using craft and nuanced performance over exposition to introduce us to several different worlds. Chalamet confirms his blockbuster-shouldering status as the reserved but emotionally deep-rooted protagonist, with Ferguson and Oscar Isaac rounding out the Atreides family with a true sense of familial bond (Ferguson is particularly good here). Jason Mamoa goes beardless after Game of Thrones and Aquaman as the family's charismatic master of arms, Stellan Skarsgard oozes menace pretty much literally as their nemesis Baron Harkonnen, and Sharon Duncan-Brewster is arguably most fascinating of all, as a planetologist with divided loyalties. And Zendaya shows up enigmatically in dream sequences, with the promise that her character will really matter down the line.

Because this is a Part One, and it's good to know that going in. Dune 2021 is effectively the opening to an even bigger story, one of colossal scale and moral complexity, and nothing is going to get resolved here. That's not to say the film isn't complete in itself - it's a satisfyingly complete first act. There's some relief, then, that Dune Part Two has been green-lit, so that you can go see this one in the knowledge that you won't be left hanging. And I do encourage you to see it at the cinema, in IMAX if possible, to get the full force of the film's look and have the sound run through your bones. In terms of cinematic craft alone this Dune is remarkable - if its follow-up expands and concludes the narrative in a way that matches, it'll be nothing short of a cinematic milestone. At least it's now assured that we'll find out.

Gut Reaction: Just awe. As in 'awwwww' - when do I get to see the rest?

Memorable Moment: The bit between where it starts and when it stops. Okay then - the sand-worm reveal is frickin' awesome. 

Ed's Verdict: 9/10. Subject to change in an upwards direction, if Part Two turns this from audio-visual poetry to full-on Lawrence of Arabia in Space greatness. With Denis in charge, there's a better than even chance it will. 

Netflix Review - Eurovision Song Contest: The Story of Fire Saga (12)

The elves went too far!

The Gist: Icelandic fisherman Lars Erickssong (Will Ferrall) has nursed a dream of representing his country in the Eurovision Song Contest since childhood, when he witnessed ABBA's revelatory performance of Waterloo. With lifelong friend Sigrid (Rachel McAdams) he plays village pub gigs in Eurovision covers-band Fire Saga, their own neighbours threatening to boo them offstage, if they perform their own songs rather than Contest classic Ja Ja Ding Dong. Then several combined flukes of fate puts Lars' dream within reach, pitching him and Sigrid into the madness of Eurovision. Once there it's their proclivity for onstage disaster as much as ambitious fellow-contestants that threatens both their friendship and their shot at the big glittery prize.

The Juice: The Story of Fire Saga will probably play best to those who already know and love (in however ironic a sense) the real Eurovision Song Contest. Here in the UK it's been an annual TV event from way before I was born - ridiculed for years, before ultimately being embraced as a warm-hearted festival of kitsch. Will Ferrell treats it as such, having been introduced to the glitzy wonders of Eurovision through his Swedish wife and in-laws. As a result this is a celebration of a phenomenon way beyond satire, the movie's outlandish musical numbers only marginally more absurd than those of the actual competition.

In many senses this is as nuts-and-bolts a Will Ferrell comedy as you could get. Like Blades of Glory it's the story of a driven but disaster-prone dreamer repeatedly collaspsing on his face while striving for unlikely success. And Lars is the clumsy man-child we saw as far back as Elf and numerous times since. It's also got that tendency to ramble on too long in between its very recognisable plot beats.

What will likely keep you engaged is the film's sheer good nature and the affection is has for Eurovision's crazy brand of camp. Ferrell is never a chore to watch (2018's misguided Sherlock Holmes a best-forgotten exception), while McAdams is massively endearing as Sigrid - the wide-eyed innocent who still believes in the elves native to her country, while nursing a deep-seated but unrequited love for her best friend. She can hold a decent tune as well, even if supported digitally on the high notes by vocalist Molly Sanden. In fact the musical numbers are all well-crafted Eurovision-style pop-rock and they're delivered in appropriately over-the-top style - never more so than by the multiple scene-grabbing Dan Stevens as swaggering Russian chanteur Alexander Lemtov. But just possibly my favourite bits are those shot on location in Iceland, the brightly authentic folk setting a visually gorgeous counterpart to Eurovision's glitzy excesses.

(Your actual elfish dwellings)

The Judgement: 6.5/10. In terms of narrative structure - yes, you've seen it all before and had it told in a more focused manner. But in terms of heart and good-humour there's lots to enjoy in a comedy that lauds the Song Contest's earnestness and inclusivity, even while making gentle fun of it. If you're Eurovision-agnostic (or just plain Eurovision-clueless), it might well leave you scratching your head. If you're an aficionado of the actual Contest, however, you'll get it - and it'll put a big grin all over your face. In a year where Covid 19 did for the real thing, Fire Saga and their competitors aren't a bad substitute.

Netflix Review - Da 5 Bloods (18)

We fought an immoral war that wasn't ours for rights we didn't have.

The Gist: Four African American veterans of the Vietnam War return to that country half a century after having left both it and the body of their fallen squad leader - 'Stormin' Norman' - behind. Their purpose for going back 'in country' is to retrieve Norman's remains along with the hoard of gold bars they left buried close to his body - originally intended as payment to South Vietnamese allies. The scars of war run deep, never more so than in the mind of Paul (Delroy Lindo), whose PTSD-fuelled paranoid threatens the whole expedition. And how far they can trust the businessman who has agreed to help them smuggle the gold out of the country is a whole other cause for concern. For these men the war turns out to be far from over...

The Juice: Da 5 Bloods is a whole lot of movie, created on a scale that makes you long to watch it on a big screen. As director Spike Lee's follow-up to BlacKkKlansman it's an epic of African American history and no less confrontational than its 2018 predecessor, while also providing a tense, thrilling and viscerally bloody jungle adventure. The gold fever that threatens to undermine these Bloods' better intentions is reminiscent of Bogart classic The Treasure of the Sierra Madre and the thriller elements are nerve-jangling, but this story always comes back to a bigger picture - of men whose lives should have mattered more to their country, whether in Vietnam or back home. It tackles the unspeakable horrors of the historic war too, confronting its audience with the most emotionally jarring news footage of the era and refusing to flinch from the imagery, however much we're inclined to do so.

In terms of its craft this is as ambitious and experimental a film as Lee has ever made. The widescreen shots of modern Ho Chi Minh City - gorgeous and colour-saturated - shrink to a boxy aspect ratio for flashback sequences involving the original '5'. The ageing actors all play themselves in pulsing action sequences from late '60s Vietnam, Black Panther's Chadwick Boseman the only youthful face among them as Stormin' Norman; no Irishman-style de-aging here, but this narrative decision makes the moments seem dreamlike, the surviving comrades recalling a spiritually-inclined warrior more in tune with his history than any of them.

The Bloods themselves convey intense camaraderie from their airport reunion and continue to sell the bond and break of these war-torn individuals, as they revisit horrors they've never truly left behind. Clarke Peters's Otis is the voice of empathy and reason throughout (Peters will always be The Wire's Lester Freamon to me) and Isiah Whitlock Jr brings an enjoyably earthy humour to Melvin, but it's Lindo who has the meatiest role as damaged Paul. Sympathetic, repellent and heartbreaking on repeat, he's a powerful study in the worst that war can do to a man. If there's a beatific glow surrounding Norman as remembered by his friends, Paul is the portrait of a man in his own private Hell. 

The Judgement: 8/10. Da 5 Bloods is a more sprawling affair than the tightly focused BlacKkKlansman, like a deli sandwich with so many ingredients that the bread can scarcely hold them all together. It also signposts one or two of its most explosive moments more than it should. That said, this reenvisioning of the 'Nam movie is full of bona fide Lee brilliance, its challenging aspects born as much of recent times as of the War itself. While the director has much to say about the conflict's repercussions (both for GIs and for Vietnam itself), it also places the Bloods' grim adventures in the broader flow of black American experience from the Civil Rights movement right up to now. It's not Lee at his absolute best, but with butt-clenching action adventure and searing political relevance, it comes pretty damn close. 

   

Short-Film Review - The Tell Tale Heart

This is the cause here... It is the beating of his hideous heart.

The Tell Tale Heart, Edgar Allen Poe's 1843 mini-tale of obsession, murder and mind-shredding guilt, is as Gothic as classic literature gets - a lurid tale with an unreliable narrator who pleads his innocence even while bathed (metaphorically and otherwise) in the blood of his victim. With its blending of crime and horror it's also a precursor to the pulpy noir stories that first proved popular half a century later. Director McClain Lindquist gets all of this in his deliciously deranged new short, one that retells Poe's story with a bold and bloody relish that would surely make the 19th century horror master smile.

Sonny Grimsley plays The Narrator, a modern take on Poe's murderous protagonist, but one psychologically rooted in a bygone pre-forensics era. Like the literary character he's carer to an elderly man who he claims to love and knows to be good, meanwhile being driven mad by a fixation with the ailing gentleman's vulture-like eye. When two detectives investigate reports of 'screaming bloody murder', they are welcomed by a man whose mannered grace belies gnawing guilt, along with a mortal terror that no deed - however wicked - can lay to rest.

Lindquist's best decision here is to embrace pure madness with every neatly structured frame and every precisely integrated sound of his devious little movie. The mansion in which the blood-letting occurs is Gothic to its foundations (the Knives Out family home sprang to mind), with richly detailed interiors and a glossy cinematic sheen that shows to best effect the classiness and the gore. But it's what he and his team do within their precision-designed setting that provide this short with its uncanny edge.

It's all about the psychology here - whether the antique clock-tick that has arguably driven our narrator deranged to begin with, or the visceral images that haunt him in the aftermath of his grim act. This simple story has been crafted into a dark and probing study of insanity, shot through with moments of pure horror. Lindquist knows every cross-cutting, shadow-casting trick in the genre playbook and uses them to juicy effect, tossing in a few unique visual flourishes of his own. He also understands when to let the camera linger at visually unsettling moments, and has the practical effects at hand to back it up. It's all steeped in a disorienting soundscape too, one that compliments Grimsley's enjoyably ripe and glowering central performance.

The Tell Tale Heart (2020) takes all that makes classic Gothic horror so enjoyable - its melodrama, it rich symbolism, its deep-dive into the murkier realms of the human psyche - and cranks them up full-volume. It's also got a deviant sense of fun in keeping with its narrator's sheer delusion. Twenty minutes inside this guy's head makes for a deliciously shuddering nightmare. It also bodes well for these filmmakers' futures - in horror or wherever else they choose to ply their cunning craft. They know their movie grammar well, and use it to deliver a story as pulsing with menace as the words Poe once inked onto his page.