t’s rare that a film title acts as both a plea for forgiveness and a damning indictment of the entire human condition, but Park Chan-wook has never been one for half-measures. "No Other Choice" arrives not just as a thriller, but as a scalpel taking a precise, agonizing slice out of the modern capitalist rot, and frankly, it’s a cutthroat farcical masterpiece. Watching Lee Byung-hun navigate the crushing humiliation of unemployment before deciding that the only way to fix a broken system is to literally execute the competition isn't just entertainment; it’s a horrifyingly coherent argument for why the job market feels like a slaughterhouse. Because in this film, it literally is one. What Park seems to understand better than most, and what he forces us to confront in this smart satire, is that when you strip a man of his dignity and back him into a corner, he might just start believing, there is no other choice.

The sound of that squeaky peg-leg will echoe in my mind for all eternity.

Watching "Dust Bunny" is like stepping into one of Bryan Fuller’s fever dreams — meticulously crafted, strikingly weird, and just a touch too committed to its own sensations. Fuller’s first feature film doesn’t just wear his creative DNA on its sleeve; it burrows into the frame and rearranges it, much like the film’s own titular terror lurking beneath the floorboards. It’s obvious from the opening minutes that this isn’t a movie designed to fit comfortably into anyone’s expectations — not critics’, not mainstream audiences’, and certainly not the average mouth-breathing horror fan.

If there is, or was, a petition to officially designate the last two years, as "The Josh O’Connor Era," consider this my signature in bold, black text. In Rian Johnson’s third—and arguably finest—entry into the Knives Out anthology, "Wake Up Dead Man," we are purportedly here for another Benoit Blanc mystery.

If you were to compile a list of filmmakers suited to the adrenaline-fueled, stopwatch-ticking precision of the heist genre, Kelly Reichardt would likely sit somewhere near the bottom, comfortably nestled between Bela Tarr and Hirokazu Kore-eda. And yet, with "The Mastermind," she has not only entered the genre but quietly dismantled it, rearranging the pieces into a shape that is distinctly, unmistakably hers.

"Predator: Badlands" is not just another sequel; it's a bold, propulsive reinvention that cracks open the lore of the iconic Yautja, or Predators, and reframes the entire franchise. Director Dan Trachtenberg, continuing his masterful work from Prey, fully commits to a perspective shift, placing the exiled, underdog Yautja warrior Dek as the protagonist, a "runt" sent on a desperate, near-suicidal hunt to the deadly planet Genna to retrieve the trophy of the near-unkillable apex creature, the Kalisk, in a bid to reclaim honor from his tyrannical father.

Edgar Wright’s reimagining of "The Running Man" is a sleek, hyper-kinetic machine that functions exactly as intended, even if it feels like some of the director’s soul was left in the garage. Stepping away from the campy neon of the Schwarzenegger era and leaning closer to Stephen King’s futuristic source material, Wright delivers a film that looks every bit of its massive budget. It's a relentless, propulsive experience that succeeds largely on the back of its leading man, though it struggles to find a pulse beneath its polished chrome exterior.

There is a specific, uncomfortable texture to the London of Harris Dickinson’s directorial debut, "Urchin." It isn’t just the grey damp of the Dalston streets or the fluorescent hum of a probation office; it is the sticky, claustrophobic sensation of a life that refuses to move forward. For years, Dickinson has been one of Britain’s most magnetic screen presences—from the raw vulnerability of Beach Rats to the sharp satire of Triangle of Sadness. With Urchin, he steps behind the camera not with the vanity of an actor looking for a new hobby, but with the assured, bruising vision of a filmmaker who has something urgent to say about the people we step over on our way to the tube.

"It: Welcome to Derry" is a staggering achievement in horror television, managing the near-impossible feat of expanding a beloved, closed-ended mythology without ever feeling like a hollow cash grab. While many prequels stumble by over-explaining the mystery, Welcome to Derry thrives by leaning into the atmospheric dread of a town that was rotting from the inside out long before the clown arrived. It is a dense, beautifully grim exploration of Derry’s DNA, proving that the true horror of Stephen King’s universe isn't just the monster under the porch, but the systemic cruelty that feeds it.

The problem with a genius like Tim Robinson is that he’s always been trapped. His previous work—the glorious, screaming chaos of I Think You Should Leave—was a series of small, perfect, explosive sketches, like watching a man repeatedly detonate in a social setting. But with his new HBO series, The Chair Company, co-created with Zach Kanin, Robinson has finally built a world large enough to contain his magnificent style, and the result is a paranoid thriller that is simultaneously one of the funniest and most deeply unpleasant viewing experiences of the decade.

The title "If I Had Legs I'd Kick You" reads less like a threat and more like a desperate plea for support. It captures the crushing reality of being a parent, a partner, and—last and always least—your own person. Mary Bronstein has crafted an audacious, thrill-ride of a film that dissects the hurdles of parental stress with surgical precision. It succeeds exactly where "Nightbitch" failed, blending oddball mystery with pitch-black comedy and bleak drama.

"Die My Love" feels like what happens when a mind refuses to stay quiet, instead acting out every carnal/primal thought we would normally keep buried beneath the "image" of us.