Jujji - Habib Shahzad | Runtime - 1hr 13m | Genre: Thriller/Crime/Drama Logline: Two officers-one idealistic, one cynical -pursue a brutal serial killer. As they close in on the elusive Jujji, their inner conflicts rise to the surface, exposing inner demons and challenging their notions of justice and morality. **You can watch this new crime thriller on Amazon Prime, from the 21st November.**

I keep coming back to the way a person can talk themselves into believing they’re the victim of their own decisions. That particular brand of self-pity — the kind that ferments into delusion — fuels "Game," and it hits harder than any sermon about morality ever could. It’s a film that traps you inside someone’s worst moment and then asks: “So… you still think you’d behave better?”

"The Smashing Machine" is one of those films that sneaks up on you—not because of any twist or spectacle, but because it quietly chips away at the version of events you think you’re prepared for. I went in expecting a rough-edged sports biopic and came out with something far stranger and more intimate: a portrait of a man so physically indestructible that every emotional fracture feels louder, heavier, and far more catastrophic.

There’s something oddly comforting about watching an angel crumble under capitalism–knowing the grind can affect even the divine. "Good Fortune" opens with that beautiful contradiction — divine wisdom meets minimum wage — and never really lets go of it. It’s a film about luck, imbalance, and what happens when the cosmic and the common are forced to share a cramped apartment with overdue bills and a broken coffee machine.

There’s a moment in Guillermo del Toro’s "Frankenstein" where the thunder quiets, the lightning fades, and what remains isn’t a monster or a man, but something suspended between the two — a being stitched together by grief, rejection, and the unspoken ache of wanting to be loved. Watching it, I felt that ache return in me. Because beneath the Gothic splendour, beneath the howling winds and the feverish machinery, this story has always been about fathers and sons — about the things they pass down, and the things they fail to. I grew up without mine, and I am now one myself, so it’s impossible not to feel the shadow of my fathers absence, just as it is impossible not to feel the heart of my sons journey (so far), echoing through Victor Frankenstein and his creation. Here, del Toro has not adapted Mary Shelley’s novel so much as stripped it bare, exposing the tender, infected nerve at its heart.

There is a certain cruelty to hope, especially when it arrives in the hands of someone who hasn’t earned it. That’s what struck me most watching Roofman—not the robberies, not the escapes, not the myth of a man who slipped through ceiling tiles to steal cash from fast-food chains—but the quiet ache of watching a human being taste belonging for the first time only to slowly poison it with the lie that allowed him to have it. Derek Cianfrance doesn’t treat Jeffrey Winchester like a criminal worth chasing. He treats him like a man worth understanding, which is infinitely more confronting.

There’s a particular kind of dread that doesn’t arrive with violence or spectacle. It arrives with rhythm. Footsteps. Repetition. The grinding of will against structure. "The Long Walk" begins there, in motion, but it doesn’t walk toward hope or triumph — it walks toward exposure. What it slowly reveals isn’t just the brutality of a fascist state or the complicity of an entertainment-obsessed population — it reveals something far more uncomfortable: people will tolerate almost anything as long as they’re given permission to watch it from a safe distance.

There are films that thrill, films that entertain, and then there are films that slowly peel back the skin of human desire until all that’s left is the raw, quivering truth beneath. Lurkerdoesn’t chase shocks or cheap spectacle; it creeps into your conscience, whispering in places you didn’t know were vulnerable. It lives in the spaces between admiration and obsession, ambition and self-erasure, loneliness and the violent hunger to be seen. What begins as a story about a young filmmaker attaching himself to a rising musician transforms into something far darker—a study of complicity, performance, and the quiet savagery of longing.

I went into "Code 3" expecting a light buddy-comedy with some heart. What I got instead was a relentlessly intense, stomach-churning plunge into the fractured world of paramedics—one that earns its laughs and wears its anxiety on its sleeve.

Perhaps the most striking quality of "One Battle After Another"is the precision with which Paul Thomas Anderson controls his narrative—he seems to know instinctively when to push forward and when to pull back, what to expose, and what to let breathe. The film surges into life with Teyana Taylor’s Perfidia Beverly Hills, a spark of volatile passion and moral contradiction, and then shifts elsewhere, allowing the fallout from her radical life to echo and evolve through characters like Bob (Leonardo DiCaprio), Willa (Chase Infiniti), Lockjaw (Sean Penn), Benicio Del Toro’s sensei, and the institutional monoliths they’re all up against. What Anderson achieves is not just a story, but a compound tension: between idealism and compromise, between violent resistance and its costs, between past revolutions and a future that inherits both their hopes and their failures.

There are films that politely observe grief from a safe distance, and then there are films like Twinless—the sort that climb inside your ribcage, rummage around in the vulnerable bits, and dare you to keep breathing. It’s a pitch-black comedy that moves with the pulse of a ghost: warm one moment, cruel the next, always haunted by the ache of what’s missing. It shouldn’t work—grief and humour aren’t supposed to hold hands this tightly—but James Sweeney directs with such fearless emotional clarity that the tightrope never snaps.

There’s something profoundly unsettling about watching grief take form — not metaphorically, but literally. In "The Thing With Feathers," that form is a hulking, feathered creature: part nightmare, part companion, part mirror. It emerges from the imagination of a broken man, and yet it feels as if it was always there, circling him, waiting. Adapted from Max Porter’s poetic novel Grief Is the Thing with Feathers, Dylan Southern’s film is less a story than a psychological haunting — a reckoning with sorrow so consuming that it begins to mutate into its own living thing.