If it seems odd to call Steven Spielberg a 21st-century filmmaker, that’s surely because Steven Spielberg has had an odd 21st century. On the surface there’s been little consistency to his choice of projects. Yet look closer, and some themes emerge. There are the weird one-offs (The Adventures of Tintin), hokey throwbacks (War Horse, Kingdom of the Crystal Skull), a remake (West Side Story), and weird vanity projects (The BFG, Ready Player One).
Obsession is a nifty little horror movie. Genuinely disturbing, and exhausting, it seems destined to become a midnight movie classic, if we still have that kind of thing anymore. That the film was made for a pittance (less than $1 million) and has just become the least expensive movie since 2009’s Paranormal Activity to top the box office is an obvious victory for buzzy little movies, and a hopeful sign that audience interest can still accrue somewhat naturally around a tiny film like this. Of course, it’s still 2026, so said film must almost inevitably be a horror film and some kind of conversation piece.
They’ve been calling Kristoffer Borgli this year’s enfant terrible, and I can’t be bothered to figure out why. I’ve been avoiding all The Drama drama. I’ve fully opted out. Deep within my brittle bones I’ve grown more than fatigued by the cinematic discourse du jour. I’ve started to feel its weight, like a particularly evil germ, haunting my digestive tract.
Oscars Season is upon us, and consistent readers can probably guess which films I favor for the biggest awards. One Battle After Another certainly seems like a lock for Best Picture, Director, and Adapted Screenplay — and as our greatest working director, Paul Thomas Anderson deserves to finally be recognized by the Academy. So you’ll get no complaints about that from me.
I want to take advantage of the ramp-up to Oscar season — a wonderful time, during which my inner child will always be excited, no matter how pessimistic I’ve become over the years. I believe in being candid, so I’ll admit this serves a dual purpose: (1) allowing me to get to a few films from 2025 which I still have yet to review, and (2) allowing for time, since movies are usually released much later here in London than in the States, and several enticing films (Sirât, Resurrection, Sound of Falling, The Moment, The Secret Agent) haven’t even hit theaters.
In my brief tenure as critic here, I’ve been pretty clearly pessimistic about the current state of the cinema. Discerning readers will note that the only film I’ve reviewed positively so far was released 50 years ago. They’ll note, too, that I’ve been entirely ambivalent about the overall quality of this past year’s cinematic output. I took the chance in my Superman review to air my exhaustion with the whole superhero genre (a sentiment that at least seems somewhat shared by the general moviegoing public — for now).
It gives me little pleasure to report that Train Dreams is an unfortunately empty film. A pretty film, in some ways. But an empty one. And as a moviegoer who believes that today’s critics are, on the whole, far too easy on this contemporary strain of middlebrow cinema, I must confess: I’m tired of films that look and feel like Train Dreams. I know nothing about the original Denis Johnson novel, which some people I know have called a great one — I only have the film.
Someday someone will actually adapt Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein into a film. Until then, we will have to make do with filmmakers using Shelley’s ever-resilient scaffolding as a playground for their own obsessions. Del Toro’s newest treatment of the story has been marketed and blurbed by many critics as “the movie he was born to make.” More than anything, though, the film serves to prove how far we still are from realizing the depths of Shelley’s original vision. Del Toro’s achingly sincere and fitfully compelling version of the book has maintained only that — the mere scaffolding of the story.
Seth Rogen is dreaming of New Hollywood. Just a few weeks ago, Apple’s The Studio won 13 Emmys — setting the record for most wins for a comedy series. The cynical read on this would be that there’s nothing Hollywood loves more than another backstage satire about itself; such an avalanche of golden trophies is as much a marker of the movie business’ self-love as it is for any qualities of the show, which are plenty. Certainly, The Studio is no Sunset Boulevard — no pitch-black excoriation of the underbelly of the world’s glitziest exploitation land, nor some more highly wrought tragic riff on a dying medium.
My friend, I’ve decided this will be the last piece I ever send you. You’ve been my editor for, what, forty years now? Forty-five? Jesus, you know I love you, dear man — dearest — and always will. But this is it. Consider it my resignation, if that much matters. You and I both know I’m well past retirement. And though I know we always said we’d never let ’em lick us, that we’d never let it get us down, yet I’m tired, old man. Tired, and I want to leave this city. While I still have time. A little time.
It’s a gift for the young cineaste to be introduced to certain filmmakers at certain stages of life. The films of Charlie Chaplin and the Marx Brothers, for instance, are a perfect education for the very young. They teach a fundamental fact. Movies are composed of conventions — frames, movements, transitions, plots, character types, stock situations — and it’s the responsibility of a great filmmaker to idiosyncratically adapt, or else explode, those conventions whenever possible.
Superhero films are strange things. For all that we’ve been inundated with in that bloating genre ever since Bryan Singer’s first X-Men movie kicked off the contemporary rush, it’s easy to forget just how unlike everything else these kinds of films are. They’re sort of like other blockbusters, sure — only of course we all know they’re not. Each new superhero flick, in these days of superhero exhaustion, serves as an opportunity to step back, and consider just how strange it is that the last 25 years of American culture have seen us drowning in fantasies of wearing tights, capes, and technosuits while beating the ever-living hell out of each other.
Both times I’ve seen Robert Eggers’ Nosferatu on the big screen — the first time on 35mm, the second digital; each in packed houses of squirming audiences — were vaguely ecstatic experiences. On 35mm the film was like an occult artifact, like a magic lantern capturing some older time, peeking in on things which we were perhaps not meant to be seen. I felt overwhelmed by the sound, the shadowed images — “like Rembrandts” a friend of mine said. The detail was overwhelming, the atmosphere beyond unnerving. Like being pitched into a dark storm at the center of which stood real, palpable evil.