FilmCentral Movie Review: Ice Cream Man: Don’t Expect High Art — Expect Absolute Carnage!

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It isn’t subtle, it isn’t sensible and it certainly isn’t for everyone — but Eli Roth’s gloriously unhinged horror ride knows exactly what it wants to be.

There are two ways to approach Ice Cream Man.

You can walk in expecting a serious horror film with meticulously constructed characters, airtight logic and a story that behaves itself.

Or you can sit back, grab the popcorn and accept that Eli Roth has basically driven an ice-cream van directly through the gates of sanity.

The second option is considerably more fun.

Ice Cream Man is not interested in subtlety. It isn’t trying to reinvent the horror genre or become the next great piece of elevated cinema. Instead, it embraces the glorious tradition of the B-movie: big kills, bigger ideas, questionable decisions and enough gore to make the freezer aisle look like a crime scene.

And, surprisingly often, it works.

SCOOP BY SCOOP

The first thing to understand about Ice Cream Man is that realism has been left somewhere in the car park.

This is heightened, cartoonish horror where one outrageous situation leads to another, with the film seemingly daring the audience to guess what twisted idea is coming next.

The experience can feel less like watching a conventional slasher and more like playing a particularly deranged horror video game.

Move forward.

Survive the next encounter.

Wait for the next kill.

Repeat.

Once you surrender to that rhythm, the film becomes considerably more entertaining.

There’s a gleeful unpredictability to it. You never quite know where Roth is going to take things next, and that willingness to embrace the ridiculous gives the film an infectious energy.

Is it realistic?

Absolutely not.

Does every scene make perfect sense?

Not remotely.

Does it matter?

Not nearly as much as you might think.

WELCOME TO THE HOUSE OF HORRORS

The closest comparison isn’t necessarily another film.

It’s a Halloween Horror Nights attraction.

There’s something about Ice Cream Man that feels as though someone has taken the experience of walking through an elaborate horror maze and expanded it into a feature-length movie.

The story is there, technically, but it’s really the individual nightmares that matter.

You move from one grotesque set-piece to another, with the film continually escalating its violence and absurdity.

It’s candy-coloured nastiness.

Cartoonish carnage.

Cheesy one-liners.

Ridiculous situations.

And a lingering sense that nobody involved in the production ever asked the most obvious question:

“Should we perhaps stop?”

Fortunately, they didn’t.

ELI ROTH DOES WHAT ELI ROTH DOES

If you’ve seen Eli Roth’s previous work, you won’t exactly be shocked by the contents of Ice Cream Man.

Roth has never been a filmmaker particularly interested in restraint.

His cinema tends to favour practical gore, graphic violence, outrageous scenarios and the occasional moment that makes you instinctively look away before immediately looking back.

Ice Cream Man is cut from precisely the same cloth.

The film understands that horror fans don’t necessarily need every movie to make a grand statement.

Sometimes they just want carnage.

And there’s nothing inherently wrong with that.

In fact, there’s something refreshing about a horror movie that knows its own limitations and decides to have fun with them.

THE KILLS

This is where Ice Cream Man earns its stripes.

The kills are imaginative, brutal and frequently ridiculous in exactly the right way.

The practical effects are particularly effective, giving the violence a physical quality that modern CGI-heavy horror can sometimes lack.

You can almost feel the squelch.

The prosthetics, makeup effects and physical gore give the movie an appropriately nasty texture, and some of the set-pieces are clearly designed to make horror fans grin while everyone else reaches for the exit.

Not every effect lands.

There are moments where the digital work looks noticeably cheaper, particularly when placed beside the stronger practical effects.

But even when the effects wobble, the enthusiasm doesn’t.

And that’s important.

This is a film made by people who clearly enjoy the art of making audiences uncomfortable.

DON’T COME FOR THE SCREENPLAY

The screenplay is going to be divisive.

There are some lines that are so outrageously cheesy they become entertaining. There are others that simply make you wonder whether the actors were given the script five minutes before shooting.

The story itself is deliberately thin, with bits of strange mythology and lore occasionally thrown into the mix without much concern for whether everything fits neatly together.

If you’re looking for a perfectly engineered horror narrative, you’re likely to be frustrated.

But Ice Cream Man works better when you stop demanding that it behave like one.

This isn’t The Silence of the Lambs.

It’s closer to the sort of midnight horror movie you’d discover years later, become slightly obsessed with and start recommending to people with the words:

“Trust me. You have to see this.”

That feels like the future this film deserves.

CHARACTER? WHAT CHARACTER?

The performances aren’t really the selling point.

The characters exist primarily to move the story towards its next spectacularly unpleasant encounter.

This isn’t a film about carefully developed emotional arcs. It’s a film about putting people in increasingly horrible situations and seeing what happens.

Some performances work nicely within the deliberately exaggerated tone.

Others are less convincing.

But demanding Oscar-worthy dramatic depth from Ice Cream Man would be like complaining that a rollercoaster doesn’t contain enough meaningful dialogue.

That’s not why you’re here.

THE AI QUESTION

Then there’s the film’s most contemporary controversy: its use of artificial intelligence.

AI-generated material appears briefly, particularly in some of the dream-like imagery, and the footage itself represents only a tiny portion of the overall film.

That doesn’t mean the discussion isn’t worthwhile.

The use of generative AI in filmmaking raises legitimate questions about authorship, artistic labour and the future role of visual-effects artists.

Roth has stated that some of the material originated from hand-drawn artwork he created, which was subsequently developed using AI technology.

If that’s the process, there’s a meaningful distinction between using AI as a tool to manipulate an artist’s own work and simply generating finished imagery from scratch.

Either way, the debate is likely to continue long after the credits roll.

Visually, though, the AI material doesn’t dominate the movie. The film’s identity is still overwhelmingly defined by practical gore, makeup effects and physical stunt work.

SO, IS IT ANY GOOD?

That’s probably the wrong question.

The better question is:

Did you have fun?

Because Ice Cream Man isn’t pretending to be something it isn’t.

It’s a messy, bloody, occasionally cheap-looking, completely excessive horror romp.

And sometimes that’s exactly what you want.

Not every horror film needs to be profound.

Not every villain needs a detailed psychological profile.

Not every death needs to represent the collapse of modern society.

Sometimes a film can simply throw a bucket of blood at the screen and ask you to enjoy yourself.

Ice Cream Man does exactly that.

THE VERDICT

There will absolutely be people who hate this movie.

And, to be fair, they won’t be entirely wrong.

The screenplay can be ridiculous. Some effects look ropey. The characterisation is thin. The story occasionally seems to have been assembled with a chainsaw.

But none of that changes the fact that the film is enormously entertaining when approached on its own terms.

It’s fast.

It’s bloody.

It’s colourful.

It’s weird.

And it’s got enough gleefully depraved energy to keep the whole thing moving.

Most importantly, it isn’t boring.

And in horror, that’s a bigger compliment than it sounds.

Ice Cream Man feels destined for the midnight-movie circuit — the kind of film that audiences rediscover years later, quote endlessly and defend passionately while everyone else wonders what the hell they’re talking about.

It’s not high art.

It’s not trying to be.

It’s a giant tub of cinematic junk food, served cold, covered in blood and absolutely loaded with sprinkles.

★★★½ / 5

THE SCOOP: Come for the ice cream. Stay for the carnage.

FilmCentral Movie Review: Spider-Man: Brand New Day — Tom Holland’s Best Spider-Man Yet

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Editorial credit: Opasbbb / Shutterstock.com

A street-level reset gives Tom Holland’s Peter Parker his most personal — and potentially his best — adventure yet.

After Spider-Man: No Way Home went full multiverse fireworks factory, you could forgive Marvel for thinking the only way forward was bigger, louder and considerably more complicated.

Instead, Spider-Man: Brand New Day does something much smarter.

It scales back.

Peter Parker is alone. Properly alone. The world has forgotten him, his closest relationships have been severed, and the enormous Marvel safety net that once surrounded him has vanished. There are no Avengers waiting for backup. No Iron Man technology to bail him out. No cosmic crisis demanding that he save reality before lunchtime.

There is just Peter, his mask and New York City.

And bloody hell, it works.

Directed by Destin Daniel Cretton, Brand New Day feels like the film Tom Holland’s Spider-Man has been quietly working towards since his MCU debut. This isn’t the eager kid desperate to impress Tony Stark. This is a more battered, mature and emotionally exhausted Peter Parker who has discovered that being Spider-Man doesn’t necessarily mean anyone will know — or care — who is underneath the mask.

That gives the film a surprisingly melancholy heartbeat.

THE LONELIEST SPIDER-MAN

The smartest decision here is refusing to immediately undo the emotional consequences of No Way Home.

Peter has lost MJ. He’s lost Ned. He’s still carrying the grief of Aunt May. And yet every morning, he gets up and does the job.

That’s Spider-Man.

The film understands that Peter’s defining superpower isn’t his strength, his spider-sense or his ability to stick to walls. It’s his refusal to stop caring.

Holland is terrific here. He’s always brought a terrific mixture of awkwardness, humour and youthful energy to Peter, but this time there’s something heavier behind his eyes. His performance is less about announcing Peter’s pain and more about allowing us to sit with it.

This is a Peter Parker who has become a little quieter.

A little wiser.

And considerably more lonely.

The result is Holland’s most mature performance in the role.

BACK TO THE STREETS

If the previous Spider-Man films occasionally felt like they belonged to the sprawling machinery of the MCU, Brand New Day finally feels like it belongs to Spider-Man.

New York is once again central to the story. Peter swings through its streets, protects ordinary people and tackles problems that feel immediate rather than universe-ending.

It’s refreshing.

The film doesn’t need another multiverse to justify its existence. It doesn’t need five Spider-Men. It doesn’t need a cosmic portal opening above Manhattan.

It needs Peter Parker.

And thankfully, that’s exactly what we get.

Cretton understands the appeal of a street-level superhero story, and his experience directing Shang-Chi and the Legend of the Ten Rings is all over the action. The fights have weight, rhythm and personality, while the practical stunt work gives the film a satisfying physicality.

When Spider-Man gets punched, you feel it.

When he swings, you feel the momentum.

When he lands, it feels like he’s actually occupying the space rather than being digitally pasted into it.

THE ACTION

And then there’s the choreography.

This is seriously good stuff.

Cretton and his stunt team deliver some of the MCU’s most impressive hand-to-hand combat, blending martial arts with Spider-Man’s unique abilities. Web-swinging isn’t simply transportation; it becomes part of the choreography.

Peter ricochets through environments, uses his webs creatively and turns the city itself into a weapon.

The action is spectacular without becoming incomprehensible.

There’s also a welcome sense of comic-book composition throughout the film. Several shots look as though they’ve escaped directly from a panel and been given a very expensive camera crew.

The film understands that superhero spectacle works best when you can actually see the hero.

A radical concept, apparently.

ENTER THE PUNISHER

One of the film’s biggest wild cards is Jon Bernthal’s Frank Castle.

And yes, it works.

Putting Spider-Man and the Punisher in the same story could easily have become a noisy MCU crossover exercise. Instead, their opposing philosophies give the film another layer.

Peter believes people can be saved.

Castle believes some people can’t.

Their chemistry is excellent, and Bernthal brings the same intimidating physical presence and underlying vulnerability that made his version of Frank Castle so compelling in the first place.

The contrast between them also reinforces one of the film’s central ideas: what does it actually mean to be a hero?

Peter’s answer is simple.

You keep helping.

Even when nobody remembers you.

SADIE SINK AND THE NEW THREAT

Sadie Sink makes an impressive MCU entrance, bringing emotional intensity to the film’s mysterious telepathic threat.

Her character fits neatly into the film’s larger themes of isolation and identity, creating an interesting parallel with Peter. Both characters are dealing with abilities that separate them from ordinary life, and their connection gives the story an emotional dimension beyond the usual hero-versus-villain formula.

Mark Ruffalo also returns as Bruce Banner — and, thankfully, the Hulk.

Banner provides some welcome warmth and humour, while the return of a more aggressive Hulk will undoubtedly put a grin on the faces of longtime Marvel fans.

Zendaya and Jacob Batalon also remain crucial to Peter’s emotional journey, particularly as he attempts to navigate relationships with people whose memories of him have disappeared.

The film wisely avoids turning those connections into easy fixes.

There are no shortcuts.

Peter has to live with what happened.

LOOKING LIKE A COMIC BOOK

Visually, Brand New Day is a stunner.

The cinematography is vibrant, atmospheric and packed with colour. New York looks enormous again, but it also feels intimate — a city full of people who don’t know the anonymous superhero racing above them.

Cretton also demonstrates a strong eye for composition. Some sequences feel deliberately constructed around classic comic-book imagery, and fans will have plenty to spot.

The film’s best visual trick, though, is knowing when not to go big.

Some of its most effective scenes are quiet.

A conversation.

A look.

A moment of hesitation.

Peter sitting alone.

Those moments matter because the film has taken the time to establish what he’s lost.

NOT QUITE PERFECT

There are cracks in the web.

For all its strengths, Brand New Day occasionally feels overloaded. There are a lot of characters, a lot of mythology and a lot of ideas competing for space.

Some supporting characters feel underdeveloped, while certain story elements appear to be setting up future MCU stories before they’ve completely earned their place in this one.

And the third act could definitely have done with a trim.

It throws everything at the screen — ninjas, superpowers, emotional revelations and enormous action — when the film’s greatest strength has always been its intimacy.

Still, these are relatively minor complaints.

Because when Brand New Day works, it really works.

THE BEST THING ABOUT IT?

It remembers why Spider-Man matters.

Not because he’s the strongest superhero.

Not because he’s connected to the biggest franchise in cinema.

Not because he can save the multiverse.

Because he’s Peter Parker.

A guy who gets knocked down and gets back up.

A guy who loses everything and still stops to save a stranger.

A guy who can be completely forgotten by the world and still decides that the world is worth protecting.

That’s the character.

And after years of increasingly complicated superhero storytelling, there’s something almost radical about a Spider-Man film simply understanding that.

VERDICT

Spider-Man: Brand New Day isn’t just another chapter in the MCU machine. It’s a reset, a character piece and a reminder of why Peter Parker remains one of popular culture’s greatest superheroes.

Tom Holland delivers his strongest Peter Parker yet. Destin Daniel Cretton brings muscular, beautifully choreographed action and a striking visual style. Jon Bernthal is terrific as the Punisher, Sadie Sink makes a strong impression and the entire film benefits enormously from its decision to put Peter — rather than the wider MCU — at the centre.

It’s emotional without becoming miserable, funny without constantly reaching for a punchline and spectacular without forgetting that spectacle means very little if you don’t care about the person underneath the mask.

After No Way Home, Peter Parker needed a clean slate.

He needed to lose the armour, lose the Avengers, lose the multiverse and, perhaps most importantly, lose the expectation that every Spider-Man story has to save the universe.

What he needed was a neighbourhood.

A city.

A mask.

And a reason to keep going.

With great power comes great responsibility.

Turns out, with great Spider-Man movies, all you really need is Peter Parker.

★★★★½ / 5

FilmCentral Movie Review: Jackass: Best and Last — The Beautifully Stupid, Painfully Funny Final Ride!

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LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA – JUNE 24: (L-R) Sean Cliver, Spike Jonze, Zach Holmes, Jasper Dolphin, Preston Lacy, Rachel Wolfson, Jason Acuña aka Wee Man, Jeff Tremaine, Steve-O, Johnny Knoxville, Ehren McGhehey, Sean McInerney, Compston Wilson and Dave England attend the “jackass: best and last” Global Premiere at Paramount Pictures Studios on June 24, 2026, in Los Angeles, California. (Photo by Phillip Faraone/Getty Images for Paramount Pictures)

Rating 4/5 Stars

“Hi, I’m Johnny Knoxville, and welcome to Jackass.”

Few introductions in pop culture history carry the same warning label. Those eight words are not just a greeting — they are a promise. They tell audiences that common sense is about to disappear, safety precautions are optional, and a group of grown men is once again prepared to sacrifice their bodies for the sake of comedy.

For more than two decades, Jackass has existed as a glorious contradiction: unbelievably stupid yet strangely brilliant, painfully uncomfortable yet impossible to stop watching. Now, with Jackass: Best and Last, director Jeff Tremaine brings the legendary crew together for what feels like the ultimate victory lap — a chaotic, affectionate and wildly entertaining farewell to one of the most unlikely entertainment phenomena ever created.

Based on the original concept created by Jeff Tremaine, Spike Jonze, and Johnny Knoxville, the film reunites the familiar faces who transformed reckless stupidity into an international brand. Knoxville, Steve-O, Chris Pontius, Jason “Wee Man” Acuña, Dave England, Ehren “Danger” McGhehey, Preston Lacy, Sean “Poopies” McInerney, Zach Holmes, Davon “Jasper” Wilson and Rachel Wolfson return for another round of stunts, pranks and punishment that prove the Jackass spirit remains very much alive.

The formula has never been complicated. There are no elaborate twists, no dramatic character arcs and no attempt to disguise the madness. The mission is simple: create a ridiculous idea, convince someone to do it, and capture the chaos that follows.

And somehow, after all these years, it still works.

The greatest achievement of Jackass: Best and Last is that it understands exactly what audiences come for. This is not a film about the destination — it is about the terrifying anticipation before the stunt begins. It is the moment when Knoxville smiles, the crew gathers around, and viewers instantly know something incredibly foolish is about to happen.

The result is a collection of sequences that range from painfully uncomfortable to genuinely hilarious. Some moments are so outrageous that laughter becomes the only possible response. Others leave you questioning whether you should be laughing at all. That uncomfortable line between shock and comedy has always been where Jackass thrives.

In a packed cinema, the experience becomes even better. The collective reactions — the laughter, the gasps, the nervous silence before impact — transform the film from a series of stunts into a shared event. Jackass has always been about watching people do ridiculous things, but it has also been about watching audiences react together.

What makes this final chapter surprisingly effective is the heart beneath the chaos.

For all the injuries, explosions, pranks, and absurd challenges, the Jackass franchise has always been built around friendship. Knoxville and his crew have spent decades pushing each other to physical extremes, but audiences have stayed loyal because the chemistry between them feels real.

There is genuine affection among the group, and the film embraces that history. Through a mixture of new footage and archival material, Jackass: Best and Last looks back at the journey that took a group of fearless performers from a controversial television series to a global cultural phenomenon.

The inclusion of previously unseen footage adds a sense of discovery, while appearances and references connected to former members of the Jackass family provide emotional reminders of the franchise’s long history. The tribute to the late Ryan Dunn is particularly touching, acknowledging the people who helped make Jackass what it became.

The film also recognises how much the franchise has evolved. While longtime favourites remain the centre of attention, newer members such as Poopies, Zach Holmes, Jasper and Rachel Wolfson bring fresh energy and ensure the legacy continues beyond the original crew.

Not every element lands perfectly. The heavy use of nostalgia may feel familiar to devoted fans, with some archival moments that revisit material audiences already know. However, the retrospective approach also works as a celebration — a reminder of just how much this reckless little idea has meant to millions of fans around the world.

Ultimately, Jackass: Best and Last is not attempting to outdo every previous entry. It does not need to. This is a film about appreciation — appreciating the madness, the memories and the friendships that have carried the franchise for so long.

There is something strangely moving about watching performers who have spent years destroying their bodies finally acknowledge what this journey has meant to them. The farewell feels earned because it comes from a place of genuine gratitude rather than obligation.

Could this really be the end? With Jackass, never say never. This is a franchise built on unexpected returns, impossible ideas, and people doing things nobody thought they would actually do.

But if this is the final goodbye, it is exactly the goodbye fans would want.

No unnecessary drama. No polished Hollywood farewell. Just Johnny Knoxville, Steve-O and the gang delivering one last ridiculous, disgusting, unforgettable ride.

Jackass: Best and Last is not sophisticated. It is not refined. It is not trying to be.

It is gloriously, unapologetically stupid.

And that is precisely why it works.

FilmCentral Movie Review: Minions & Monsters. . . A Surprisingly Sharp Bite of Hollywood Satire

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Editorial credit: Opasbbb / Shutterstock.com

The Despicable Me franchise has always thrived on organised chaos: banana-fuelled slapstick, elastic logic, and the comforting sense that nothing in this universe is ever meant to behave itself for too long. Minions & Monsters initially appears to be more of the same. But somewhere in its brightly coloured disorder, it sneaks in something far stranger — a pointed, self-aware satire of the very machinery that created it.

At first glance, the film sets up a familiar rhythm. James, a Minion who doesn’t quite conform to the relentless productivity of his kind, finds himself out of step with the collective. While others follow orders with mechanical enthusiasm, James is drawn to something more fragile and dangerous in this world: creativity. His sketches, ideas, and restless imagination are dismissed by the group’s rigid leader, Dick, as distractions from “proper” work. But the film quietly frames this rejection as its emotional engine — a story about the cost of nonconformity in a system built on repetition.

What elevates this entry beyond standard franchise antics is the introduction of Max, a seasoned filmmaker who becomes an unlikely mentor. Through him, Minions & Monsters pivots into something sharper. Max doesn’t romanticise the industry; he dismantles it. He describes a creative ecosystem where vision is constantly filtered through producers, metrics, and commercial expectations — a place where artistry is often reduced to “viable” or “not viable.”

It’s unexpectedly biting material for a film aimed at younger audiences, but it never tips into cynicism. Instead, it frames resilience as its core idea. Max’s decision to place a camera in James’ hands becomes a symbolic act: not just teaching him how to make films, but how to protect his imagination in a system that wants to streamline it.

From there, the film leans fully into its meta-cinematic instincts. What begins as a story about making movies quickly becomes a story that behaves like a collapsing production itself. A strange creature called Goomi, alongside the towering multi-eyed presence of Irene, pushes the narrative into escalating disorder — a deliberate echo of a film shoot spiralling beyond control. The result is a playful but effective metaphor for creative chaos: ambition colliding with reality in real time.

Supporting characters help ground the spectacle. Henry, the ever-loyal enforcer of action and absurd risk, throws himself into every escalating set-piece with reckless enthusiasm. Ed, a deaf Minion who communicates through sign language, emerges as the quiet stabiliser of the group — less defined by exposition than by presence and action. Together, they form a makeshift crew that feels less like a gag machine and more like a dysfunctional but committed filmmaking unit.

There’s even a sense that Minions & Monsters is in conversation with cinema history itself. Its opening passages evoke early Hollywood imagery and silent-era aesthetics, while visual nods and structural echoes of classic filmmaking traditions are scattered throughout. At its best, the film feels like a love letter to the act of creation — messy, collaborative, and constantly at risk of collapse.

But for all its ambition, the film is unevenly weighted. The first half is sharp, energetic, and genuinely funny, with the Minions at their most inventive in years. The pacing is tight, the visual comedy lands with precision, and the Hollywood setting feels fresh. The second half, however, shifts tone and structure. The monster-driven escalation, while conceptually aligned with the “chaotic production” metaphor, dilutes momentum and stretches the narrative’s focus.

Humour becomes more erratic, and the emotional through-line — James’ creative struggle — is partially lost in the noise. Where the film initially feels like it’s building toward a coherent thesis about art and control, it gradually becomes more fragmented, as though the production metaphor has overtaken the story itself.

Still, the animation remains consistently impressive, bursting with texture, movement, and invention. The voice cast brings considerable energy, with Trey Parker’s turn as Goomi standing out for its unpredictability and tonal elasticity.

Ultimately, Minions & Monsters is a curious hybrid: part franchise continuation, part industry satire, part chaotic sketchbook of ideas about filmmaking itself. It doesn’t fully reconcile those identities, but the ambition is hard to ignore.

What remains is a film that is often funny, occasionally insightful, and structurally unruly — much like the production it seems to be parodying. It may not fully master its own monster, but it understands exactly how entertaining it is to let it run loose.

A spirited, uneven, and unexpectedly self-aware entry in the Minions saga.

Rating: 3/5 Stars

FilmCentral Movie Review: Spielberg’s Disclosure Day Teases Cosmic Wonder. . . But Never Quite Ignites

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Editorial credit: Real_Java / Shutterstock.com

There is a flicker of something monumental inside Disclosure Day — the sense that, at any second, Steven Spielberg is about to tilt the world on its axis and reveal something extraordinary. You can feel it being assembled: the mystery tightening, the factions circling, the stakes quietly rising. And yet the ignition never quite arrives when the film promises it will.

Instead, Spielberg’s latest unfolds as a drawn-out pursuit of revelation rather than revelation itself. It’s a film built on anticipation — and for long stretches, that anticipation becomes the entire experience.

On the surface, Disclosure Day plays like a familiar high-concept thriller: a group of characters are drawn into orbit around a mysterious object whose origins and implications slowly unravel. Government forces, private interests, and uneasy allies all converge, each chasing an answer that remains frustratingly out of reach. It’s a setup rich with possibility — conspiracy-tinged sci-fi in classic Spielberg territory.

But the execution is surprisingly restrained. Much of the runtime is spent in motion rather than progression: characters relocating, escaping, regrouping, repeating. The film is busy, even kinetic at times, yet strangely circular, as though it is circling its own revelations rather than building towards them with urgency.

When the major story turns finally do arrive, they are concentrated in the final act — too concentrated, depending on your patience. The structure withholds its most intriguing ideas for so long that the release feels compressed, rather than earned.

That said, Spielberg’s command of cinematic language remains intact. Even when the screenplay stalls, the direction does not. Janusz Kamiński’s cinematography bathes the film in his signature palette of deep shadow and metallic light, lending the story a moody, almost haunted texture. Faces emerge from darkness mid-revelation; vast environments dwarf the characters as they inch toward truths that feel physically out of reach. It’s technically immaculate — sometimes too consistent, bordering on familiarity.

The cast does significant heavy lifting throughout. Emily Blunt gives the film its most grounded centre, anchoring the chaos with clarity and emotional precision. Josh O’Connor brings a brittle intensity, while Colman Domingo offers a steadier, authoritative presence that suggests far more depth than the script always allows him to explore.

What undermines much of the momentum is the screenplay’s cautious relationship with its own ideas. David Koepp’s script is undeniably functional — carefully structured, heavily plotted — but it rarely feels daring. Characters often exist in service of movement rather than motivation, and dialogue frequently defaults to exposition at the expense of subtext. The result is a film that advances its plot while rarely deepening its emotional stakes.

Even John Williams’ score, usually a defining emotional engine in Spielberg’s films, takes a subdued approach here. Instead of soaring motifs or thematic clarity, the music drifts beneath the surface — atmospheric rather than declarative. It’s tasteful, certainly, but it also strips away some of the grandeur the story occasionally seems to reach for.

Thematically, Disclosure Day gestures toward ideas of discovery, control, and human response to the unknown, but it often frames those ideas through the lens of a grounded chase thriller rather than a sense of wonder. There is intelligence in that choice, but it comes at the expense of awe — a quality audiences have long associated with Spielberg’s most resonant work.

By the time the final act arrives, the film does attempt a reconfiguration of everything that has come before, unveiling a broader conceptual ambition that reframes earlier events. For some viewers, this retrospective clarity may elevate what preceded it. For others, it will feel like too little, delivered too late.

Reactions are likely to fracture. Some will see restraint and thematic subtlety; others will see delay and deflation. Much depends on expectation — and Spielberg, perhaps more than any living filmmaker, carries expectations of wonder that are difficult to sidestep.

Ultimately, Disclosure Day feels like a film that reaches for something expansive yet is contained by its own structure. It is polished, intermittently gripping, and often visually compelling, yet it struggles to sustain the momentum of its ideas.

There are glimpses — fleeting, almost teasing — of the kind of transcendence the premise promises. But they remain glimpses rather than fulfilment.

A thoughtful, uneven sci-fi thriller, then, rather than a revelation. One that lingers more in concept than in impact.

Rating: 2.5/5

FilmCentral Movie Review: Toy Story 5 Delivers Fun, Emotion and a Fresh Take on Childhood in the Digital Age

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Editorial credit: tetesong / Shutterstock.com

Pixar returns to one of its most beloved franchises with Toy Story 5, a sequel that arrives with the weight of expectation and a fair bit of scepticism. After nearly three decades of Woody, Buzz and the gang, it would be easy to assume the magic might finally be wearing thin. Yet, while this latest instalment doesn’t always hit the emotional highs of its predecessors, it still manages to land as a warm, thoughtful and intermittently moving return to form.

At its core, Toy Story 5 feels like Pixar once again doing what it does best: using a deceptively simple premise to explore something deeply human. This time, the focus shifts to the evolving nature of childhood in a world dominated by technology. Rather than a traditional villain, the film introduces a broader conflict — the slow disappearance of imagination as children become increasingly absorbed by screens.

It’s a bold structural choice, and one that gives the film a more thematic, almost reflective tone. Instead of a clear antagonist, the “threat” is modern life itself, embodied through a sleek new digital toy that represents the changing habits of a new generation.

Jessie Takes the Lead

Perhaps the most significant shift in Toy Story 5 is the decision to hand the emotional reins to Jessie. While Woody and Buzz remain present, this is very much her story — and it’s a move that largely works in the film’s favour.

Jessie is a natural fit for the spotlight. Her energy, vulnerability, and resilience give the film a strong emotional anchor, and her arc ties neatly into the film’s wider themes of belonging and relevance. Woody’s role, by contrast, feels intentionally restrained, almost like a passing of the torch that has already been long in motion across previous instalments.

Some viewers may miss the more dominant presence of the franchise’s original duo, but Jessie’s elevation feels like a logical evolution rather than a forced reinvention.

A Familiar Blend of Heart and Humour

In classic Pixar fashion, Toy Story 5 balances humour, adventure and emotional storytelling, even if the balance isn’t always perfect. There are moments of genuine fun and visual invention, alongside quieter, more reflective beats that aim for emotional resonance.

However, the film’s pacing can feel uneven, particularly in its middle stretch, where the narrative occasionally loses momentum. Some sequences feel slightly underdeveloped, as if the film is more interested in its ideas than in fully fleshing out every plot beat.

Still, when it works, it works well. The emotional beats land more often than they miss, and the film’s central message — about change, connection and letting go — is handled with characteristic Pixar sincerity.

Technology, Toys and Growing Up

The most interesting aspect of Toy Story 5 is its thematic focus. The film doesn’t demonise technology, but instead explores its impact on childhood imagination. The idea that toys are being replaced, not by a villain, but by convenience and distraction, gives the story a quietly melancholic edge.

It’s a surprisingly mature direction for the franchise, and while it may not always be as sharply executed as earlier entries, it does give the film a contemporary relevance that feels timely rather than forced.

Final Verdict

Toy Story 5 is not the franchise’s strongest entry, but it is far from a misstep. It lacks the near-perfect storytelling precision of Toy Story 2 or the emotional punch of Toy Story 3, yet it still offers enough charm, warmth, and visual brilliance to justify its existence.

Jessie’s long-overdue time in the spotlight gives the film its strongest through-line, and Pixar’s craftsmanship remains as polished as ever. While not essential, Toy Story 5 is still a heartfelt and entertaining chapter in one of animation’s most enduring franchises.

Verdict: A solid, if slightly uneven, return that proves there’s still life — and heart — left in the toy box.

Rating: 3/5 Stars

FilmCentral Movie Review: Milly Alcock Shines in a Supergirl That Never Fully Takes Flight

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There’s a certain inevitability to the excitement surrounding Supergirl, particularly as Kara Zor-El finally steps into the spotlight of the new DCU. Yet what unfolds on screen is a surprisingly uncertain debut — a film that never quite decides who it’s about, and by the end, leaves the uneasy impression that its title character is playing second fiddle in her own story.

At the heart of the problem is focus. The film repeatedly diverts attention to a secondary character who is pushed so aggressively into prominence that she begins to feel like the emotional centre of the narrative. The issue isn’t simply one of screen time, but of narrative justification: she’s given little meaningful development to support the weight she’s made to carry. Her dialogue frequently grates, her presence becomes increasingly intrusive, and most crucially, she is never granted a compelling arc that earns her dominance in the story.

This structural imbalance undermines what could have been a confident Supergirl showcase. The screenplay feels underdeveloped considering the scale of the production, with pacing that drifts, emotional beats that struggle to land, and a narrative that often feels like it’s simply moving from one set piece to the next without meaningful connective tissue.

That said, Milly Alcock emerges as one of the film’s clear strengths. Her Supergirl possesses real charisma and screen presence, balancing fragility and strength with ease. The film occasionally gestures towards an intriguing contrast between her and Superman — optimism against trauma — and whenever the script allows space for this idea to breathe, Alcock delivers. It’s no exaggeration to say she provides much of the film’s emotional accessibility.

Jason Momoa’s Lobo is another standout, clearly relishing the opportunity to inject chaos, humour and swagger into the proceedings. His performance crackles with energy, even if the character is ultimately underused, reduced more to intermittent bursts of entertainment than a fully integrated narrative force.

Elsewhere, supporting figures such as Ruthye Marye Knoll and Krem are disappointingly underwritten. Ruthye’s revenge storyline never develops beyond its basic outline, while Krem lacks the menace required to function as a convincing antagonist, aside from sporadic moments of violence that never truly raise the stakes.

On a technical level, Supergirl is competent and occasionally striking. The cinematography marks an improvement on Superman, favouring wider, more dynamic framing during action sequences rather than excessive close-ups. Production design is another highlight, particularly in its contrasting planetary environments, which lend the film a welcome visual variety. Lobo’s character design, in particular, is a standout — a strong translation of his punk-rock aesthetic.

However, the visual effects are inconsistent, most noticeably in the flying sequences, while the editing struggles to smooth over the film’s uneven pacing. The score and sound design are functional but rarely memorable, contributing to a broader sense that the film seldom reaches true cinematic or emotional lift-off.

Narratively, Supergirl falters most in its storytelling. The opening act establishes a promising foundation, introducing Kara’s fractured emotional state and hinting at a deeper exploration of grief and vengeance. Yet once the journey begins in earnest, the film loses narrative direction, leaning heavily on exposition rather than allowing its themes to evolve organically.

There is a compelling idea buried within the film — two damaged individuals navigating trauma in opposing ways — but it never fully matures into something resonant. Much is explained rather than shown, and emotional weight is frequently described rather than genuinely felt.

The tonal balance proves equally problematic. While the film occasionally attempts humour, the shifts between levity and seriousness are often awkward, creating a sense of inconsistency. At times, this chaos may be intentional — reflecting Supergirl’s internal instability — but it rarely translates into coherent storytelling.

Overall, Supergirl represents a mixed and uncertain introduction for the character within the DCU. It avoids being a misfire, but equally falls short of the confident, character-driven superhero film it aspires to be. Compared to Superman, it feels like a step backwards in narrative cohesion and emotional impact, even if it offers modest improvements in visual presentation.

Milly Alcock and Jason Momoa help keep the film afloat, but the surrounding material struggles to find a clear identity. For casual audiences, it’s difficult to call this essential viewing, and even for DC fans, it feels more like a tentative experiment than a fully realised chapter in a new cinematic universe.

There are glimpses of a stronger film within Supergirl, but as it stands, it remains a collection of strong components that never quite cohere into something memorable.

Rating: 2.5/5 Stars

Masters of the Universe Review: A Flawed but Thrilling Love Letter to 80s Fantasy Legend

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There are films that aim for reinvention, and there are films that aim for resurrection. Masters of the Universe is firmly the latter — a loud, proud, slightly chaotic revival of a franchise that never asked to be subtle in the first place. And thank goodness for that.

This is not a film trying to hide its origins in plastic action figures and Saturday-morning mythology. Instead, it leans into them with chest-puffed sincerity, delivering a spectacle that feels less like a modern reboot and more like a childhood imagination rendered at blockbuster scale. Eternia is back — and it has never looked more alive, or more unapologetically extra.

From the outset, director Travis Knight treats this universe with a surprising level of craft. The world-building is rich without being exhausting, favouring bold visual storytelling over dense exposition dumps. Eternia itself is the real headliner: a kaleidoscope of ancient technology, mythic architecture and surreal landscapes that look like they’ve been airbrushed directly from a 1980s toy box dream.

And then there’s the action — fast, muscular, and gloriously legible. In an era where blockbuster fights too often dissolve into shaky abstraction, Masters of the Universe keeps its camera steady and its choreography clear. Every clash of steel, burst of magic and bone-rattling impact is designed to be read, felt, and quietly cheered at. It’s big-screen filmmaking with confidence in what’s happening on screen.

But what truly elevates the experience is the score. It’s not just good — it’s goosebump-inducing. The kind of orchestral surge that hijacks your nervous system in the best way possible. Sweeping, heroic, and emotionally overqualified for half the scenes it accompanies, it turns even simple exchanges into mythic declarations. This is music that demands a playlist add before the credits even roll.

Nicholas Galitzine’s Prince Adam is positioned as a young man caught between inherited destiny and reluctant maturity, and while the arc occasionally wobbles under familiar beats, there’s enough earnestness in the performance to keep it grounded. He’s not yet the fully-formed icon — and that’s very much the point.

Then, of course, there’s Skeletor.

Jared Leto’s take on Eternia’s most theatrical nightmare is pure, unfiltered villainous entertainment. Camp without collapse, menace with a grin, he dominates every frame he inhabits. The film knows it, too — and wisely gets out of his way whenever possible. If He-Man is the heart of the story, Skeletor is its electricity surge.

Not everything lands. The humour is… plentiful. Sometimes too plentiful. The film occasionally falls into the modern blockbuster trap of undercutting emotional beats with quips that feel more reflexive than earned. A few dialogue exchanges clunk against the otherwise polished world-building, reminding you that this is still a studio tentpole trying to please everyone at once.

And yet — none of it really matters in the way it should.

Because Masters of the Universe succeeds on a far more fundamental level: it is fun. Properly, unapologetically fun. It understands that Eternia doesn’t need to be reinterpreted into realism or grit. It needs scale. Colour. Myth. Noise. It needs to feel like a universe where a man can shout a transformation line and the world genuinely believes him.

For viewers unfamiliar with the original lore, the film does enough heavy lifting to bring you along for the ride without requiring a PhD in vintage toy catalogues. For those who grew up with it, this is a nostalgia hit engineered with surprising affection — not cynical, not embarrassed, but celebratory.

It’s also refreshingly self-aware in a way that doesn’t undermine its sincerity. The film occasionally winks at its own absurdity, but it never laughs at it. That distinction matters. It keeps the emotional core intact, even when the dialogue gets a little wobbly or the plot falls back on familiar good-versus-evil scaffolding.

In the end, Masters of the Universe isn’t trying to be clever. It’s trying to be epic. And against the odds, it mostly succeeds.

This is blockbuster cinema as spectacle and escape — the kind of film designed for popcorn-sticky immersion, not post-viewing dissection. You don’t walk away analysing its mythology so much as remembering how it felt when the score swelled, the swords clashed, and Eternia lit up in impossible colours.

Flawed? Yes. Overstuffed? At times. But dull? Never.

And if a sequel arrives, it won’t need convincing to get audiences back. They’ll already be halfway to the cinema, humming that score, ready to raise their swords again.

Because, once more, you will believe it:

He has the power.

Rating: 3/5 Stars

Cold Storage Movie Review: A Splattery, Darkly Comic Creature Feature With B-Movie Charm

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The premise behind Cold Storage is delightfully pulpy: what happens when a long-forgotten biological threat escapes the one place designed to keep it contained? The film opens with a fictionalised account of the 1979 crash of the space station Skylab, which brings with it an unexpected and dangerous passenger — a mutated parasitic fungus capable of infecting living organisms and spreading at terrifying speed.

Government operatives Robert Quinn and Trini Romano successfully contain the organism, sealing it inside a specialised vault within a secret facility in Kansas run by the Defence Threat Reduction Agency. The fungus is placed in cryogenic containment, effectively locked away from the world.

Fast-forward eighteen years and the once-secret government building has long since been abandoned, sold off and repurposed as a mundane self-storage facility. Its deadly secret remains hidden within the walls, largely forgotten by the authorities who once safeguarded it.

Working the quiet night shift are Travis “Teacake”, a parolee trying to stay out of trouble, and Naomi, a struggling single mum doing what she can to keep her life together. When the pair hear a strange rhythmic beeping echoing through the building’s structure, their curiosity leads them to investigate — and accidentally uncover the long-neglected containment vault.

With rising temperatures and failing infrastructure allowing the fungus to awaken, the organism begins spreading through the building and surrounding wildlife. Soon, the facility becomes ground zero for a rapidly escalating outbreak.

Alerted to the breach, former containment specialist Quinn rushes to Kansas to deal with the situation before it spirals into a full-blown disaster. What follows is a frantic race against time as Quinn, Teacake and Naomi attempt to contain an invisible and relentlessly growing threat before it escapes into the wider world.

Cast and Crew

Director Jonny Campbell approaches the material with a clear appreciation for genre cinema, leaning into the story’s B-movie DNA while keeping the performances grounded enough to sell the stakes.

The screenplay comes from David Koepp, who adapted the film from his own novel after originally conceiving the idea as a movie. Koepp’s career spans everything from blockbuster thrillers to pulpy sci-fi, and that experience shows in a script that balances high-concept horror with moments of dark humour.

Leading the cast are Joe Keery as the scrappy and slightly overwhelmed Travis “Teacake” and Georgina Campbell as Naomi, whose practical instincts help ground the increasingly chaotic situation.

Meanwhile Liam Neeson plays Robert Quinn, a veteran bioterrorism agent who returns to deal with a threat he thought had been permanently neutralised. Supporting turns from Lesley Manville, Sosie Bacon, and the legendary Vanessa Redgrave round out a cast that clearly understands the film’s slightly absurd tone.

Review

If Cold Storage proves anything, it’s that sometimes a simple premise — executed with confidence — is more than enough to carry a film.

This is unapologetically a B-movie creature feature, but one that knows exactly what it is. The film walks a delicate tonal tightrope between horror and comedy, blending body horror with moments of dry humour and outright absurdity. Think outbreak thriller meets splattery monster movie, with just enough camp to keep things lively.

The film’s biggest strength lies in its cast. Joe Keery and Georgina Campbell make for an engaging central duo, bringing charm and personality to characters who could easily have been generic genre archetypes. Their chemistry helps anchor the film’s more outlandish moments, particularly when confronted with increasingly grotesque fungal horrors.

Then there’s Liam Neeson, who appears to be having an absolute blast playing the straight-faced action veteran thrown into an increasingly ridiculous scenario. His complete commitment to the seriousness of the mission creates some of the film’s funniest moments without ever turning the character into a parody.

Visually, the film delivers a pleasing mixture of practical gore effects and digital work. The spreading fungus itself is often unsettling, producing some enjoyably grotesque imagery as it infects animals and humans alike. Not every effect lands perfectly — one particular CGI creature moment stands out for the wrong reasons — but overall the creature work is effective and suitably disgusting.

Tonally, the film occasionally feels like it’s holding itself back. There are moments where it seems poised to embrace full-blown cult-movie madness in the vein of Return of the Living Dead, only to pull back into safer territory. Had it pushed further into that chaotic energy, it might have elevated itself from entertaining genre fare into something genuinely memorable.

Pacing is another slight issue. The film rarely slows down, which keeps the action moving briskly but occasionally makes the final stretch feel a little rushed. At times it feels as though the story is sprinting towards the finish line without allowing enough space for tension to fully build.

Still, these are relatively minor quibbles. What Cold Storage lacks in originality it makes up for in sheer entertainment value. This is the kind of film that doesn’t demand deep analysis or narrative scrutiny. Instead, it offers an enjoyable mix of explosions, gooey horror, and dark humour.

Sometimes that’s exactly what you want from a trip to the cinema.

Verdict

Cold Storage may not reinvent the horror-comedy formula, but it delivers enough infectious energy, likeable characters and splattery fun to make for an entertaining ride. With a cast that clearly understands the assignment and a premise that embraces its B-movie roots, it’s an easy film to enjoy — just don’t think about it too hard.

Rating

⭐⭐⭐☆☆ (3/5)

A gooey, tongue-in-cheek creature feature that delivers solid genre thrills, even if it never quite mutates into something truly unforgettable.

Send Help Movie Review: Sam Raimi’s Send Help Turns Office Politics Into Survival Horror

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There’s a specific cinematic tightrope that few filmmakers can walk without falling into outright parody: the line between absurdity and sincerity. Sam Raimi has spent his career dancing along it, and Send Help might be his most controlled balancing act yet. A survival horror thriller that somehow doubles as a workplace satire, it pushes humour, dread, and psychological warfare to breaking point — then calmly steps back before it snaps.

At first glance, the setup sounds almost sitcom-simple. Linda Liddle (Rachel McAdams) is a brilliant financial strategist trapped in the corporate equivalent of quicksand: invisible in meetings, talked over by colleagues, and routinely robbed of credit for her work. Her newly promoted boss Bradley Preston (Dylan O’Brien) is the walking embodiment of boardroom confidence — charismatic, smug and catastrophically incompetent beneath the surface.

Then the plane crashes.

Stranded as the sole survivors on a remote island en route to Bangkok, the carefully constructed hierarchy of the office evaporates instantly. Titles don’t start fires. Confidence doesn’t clean wounds. And motivational leadership seminars are useless when dehydration is trying to kill you.

This is where Send Help reveals its true premise: not survival against nature, but survival against personality.

Bradley is helpless. Linda — a devoted survival reality show enthusiast who once tried to get onto Survivor — is not. She builds shelter, sources food, and keeps him alive. The power dynamic flips with ruthless efficiency. The man who controlled her livelihood now depends on her basic competence to keep breathing.

The brilliance of the film is that it never turns this reversal into a lecture. Instead, it becomes dark comedy. Bradley keeps trying to reclaim authority through corporate language—delegating, framing, and strategising —while Linda simply solves problems. Watching his leadership vocabulary collapse in real time becomes one of the year’s funniest running gags.

McAdams delivers a career-highlight performance. Linda isn’t a heroic archetype; she’s painfully awkward, socially misaligned, and occasionally a bit frightening once she realises she doesn’t need permission anymore. McAdams shifts between vulnerability, irritation, and barely contained mania within single scenes. It’s uncomfortable and hilarious, often simultaneously.

O’Brien, meanwhile, commits fearlessly to unlikeability. Bradley is not secretly noble. He’s not misunderstood. He’s a man whose identity was built entirely on an environment that rewarded confidence over ability. As the island strips that away, O’Brien lets the character unravel layer by layer — from smug authority to bargaining desperation to something almost childlike. It’s a risky performance that pays off spectacularly.

Writers Mark Swift and Damian Shannon craft dialogue that sounds like people actually talking rather than characters delivering exposition. Arguments escalate naturally, humour comes from behaviour rather than punchlines, and tension builds from personality clashes rather than plot contrivances. The screenplay’s smartest move is restraint: it trusts the situation to carry the message.

And yes, there is a message — but the film wisely never states it aloud. Strip away artificial hierarchies, and competence becomes obvious. Confidence without skill is just noise. The corporate “alpha” mentality doesn’t survive contact with reality.

Once the story settles onto the island, Raimi unleashes his signature visual language. The jungle isn’t a backdrop — it’s an antagonist. Rain becomes oppressive. Trees loom like witnesses. Shadows swallow characters whole. His frantic POV camera sweeps, familiar to fans of The Evil Dead, inject bursts of manic energy into scenes that might otherwise feel static.

Importantly, the horror never descends into gore-for-gore’s sake. The film is frightening without being trashy, heightened without losing believability. Raimi orchestrates chaos with precision: every moment that threatens to tip into ridiculousness pulls back just in time.

The pacing does take patience early on. The corporate setup lingers longer than expected, but in retrospect, it’s essential groundwork. By the time Linda undergoes her psychological shift—embracing capability rather than seeking approval—the second half lands with real impact. What follows is tense, funny, and increasingly unsettling as dependence turns into resentment and survival becomes psychological warfare.

What makes Send Help stand out isn’t simply that it blends genres — it’s that it understands why those genres work. The comedy comes from character truth. The horror comes from loss of control. The drama comes from identity collapse. Each element feeds the others rather than competing for attention.

Most importantly, it feels designed for a cinema audience. The atmosphere builds collectively; the laughs grow louder as discomfort increases; the tension becomes communal. Watching it alone on streaming would flatten its rhythm. This is a film that benefits from shared reactions — gasps, groans, and nervous laughter echoing across a theatre.

By the time the credits roll, Send Help has transformed from a survival thriller into something sharper: a story about status, competence, and who we become when the structures that define us disappear.

Funny, unnerving, and sneakily insightful, it’s Raimi operating with mischievous confidence — proving once again he can push right up to the edge of chaos without ever falling off.

Verdict: 4/5

A wildly entertaining genre mash-up elevated by fearless performances and razor-sharp direction — awkward, tense and wickedly funny in equal measure.