Consider this another beast in show! Takashi Yamazaki’s Godzilla Minus Zero (B+) delivers a stirring adventure that finds resonance in personal sacrifice and ingenuity in building a better mousetrap for a monster. While the filmmaking no longer carries the same shock of discovery as its predecessor, the sequel deepens the emotional stakes and enriches the saga. Two years after Godzilla plunged a war-ravaged Japan below zero, a new threat shatters the fragile peace and inspires fresh acts of heroism. Ryunosuke Kamiki and Minami Hamabe shine as the film’s emotional anchors, struggling to hold their family together while bringing their distinctive strengths to the kaiju resistance. Yamazaki’s spectacular visual effects find an equally impressive match in Anri Jojo and Wataru Hirai’s meticulous production design. Naoki Sato’s rousing score gives both the monster mayhem and the human drama an extra surge of power. This is serious stuff from the get-go and an impressive entry into this series.
The novelty of a man trapped in the belly of a whale threatens to swallow the deeper achievement of Brian Duffield’s Whalefall (B+): a moving exploration of the emotional depths between fathers and sons. Magnificent practical effects bring this maritime survival tale to life inside an 80-foot, 60-ton leviathan, where Austin Abrams’s imperiled protagonist must also reckon with the legacy of his salty, stubborn father, played by Josh Brolin. Well-placed flashbacks punctuate the adventure, revealing a contentious bond that gives the physical ordeal its emotional weight. The journey through the creature’s innards occasionally grows tedious, but Abrams and Brolin lend an almost spiritual dimension to two men struggling to translate love into words and actions. Their unfinished business proves as gripping as the mechanics of survival. A triumph of spectacle and emotion, the film finds an unexpectedly potent vessel for exploring generational trauma and the painful work of surfacing from it.
Anne Hathaway continues her 2026 cinematic dominance tour as the most believable character in the high-concept madness of dinosaurs invading ‘80s suburbia in David Robert Mitchell’s enjoyable adventure The End of Oak Street (B). Opposite a more subdued Ewan McGregor (his American accent roles are not as good), Hathaway shines as the mother, wife and closet fantasy novel writer who discovers her cul de sac has been transported to the Cretaceous era. The Spielbergian art direction and tropes are enjoyable as the teens secretly know their parents are having marital trouble, but the existential dread soon has tails, teeth and claws. It’s a stirring and heartfelt adventure with lots of plot holes and perhaps not the most sterling supporting cast or script. But there’s great joy in fighting against the dino invasion and perhaps saving the domestic unit. Mitchell’s movie milks the most from its prehistoric meets pop cultural milieu.
Before nearly everything goes wrong for him, Odysseus, famed Greek King of Ithaca, had one really good idea – or did he? As embodied by Matt Damon, this celebrated architect of an elegant and deadly war tool finds the fragments of his life flashing before him Oppenheimer-style (i.e. in either no particular order or in an absolutely meticulous series of absorbing episodes) in a way only writer/director Christopher Nolan could summon to the screen. The acclaimed director’s The Odyssey (A-) is epic in every conceivable way: high adventure on the open seas, palace intrigue, brutal battles, the ultimate hero’s journey and a theory behind the case of Homer’s epic poem that cracks it open like a seismic siren song. Damon is fantastic in the jacked but world-weary central role, and Anne Hathaway and Robert Pattinson are solid and a little campy as his estranged wife and her villainous suitor, respectively. The rest of the star-studded cast takes a bit of a dramatic back seat to the spectacle, stop-motion animation and visceral clarion call of it all. The adventure sequences are absorbing and march to a persistent drummer (his name is Ludwig Göransson) including Trojan War flashbacks, an encounter with Cyclops, an unconventional pig pickin’ with a witch and an obligatory trip to hell. Hoyte van Hoytema’s all-IMAX cinematography is a wonder to behold in both sweeping vistas and intimate chambers. At times the film is a more unpleasant and grisly experience than some might expect, but you do have to descend into darkness to ever find the light. The final act is pretty satisfying after it gets adrift for a spell. All in all, a great escape, a magnum opus with a bit of Big Think thrown in; in other words, it’s Nolan through and through. Bountiful, practically-filmed battles and a mostly satisfying human drama make for one of the most ambitious summer movies released in a long time. All hail cinema kings Nolan and Damon.
Kara Zor-El is clearly rebounding from interpersonal trauma as Craig Gillespie helms her big-screen reboot in the 2026 version of Supergirl (B), equal parts trial and era. Flying and fighting through the lightning strikes means this Kryptonite is mixed with a little opalite, to speak swiftly. It’s not a movie of big swings, soaring prose or eyes-on-the-skies wonder but rather the ramshackle tale of a troubled prodigal fending off her worst impulses and awakening into her benevolent powers. The atmosphere and antics around the central character are sometimes a messy mixed bag, but there’s no question Milly Alcock is both transfixing and tender in her bold take on the superheroine. She doesn’t need a ten-minute song or fifteen minutes of fame for viewers to recognize the pathos in her eyes as her snarky-exterior character binge-drinks herself into a stupor, outrunning the poison and power of solar orbs and outracing demons from her past she knows all too well would haunt her in full lucidity. The film’s biggest stumbling blocks are of momentum and pace; there’s one particular race against time that plays out on its own meandering beat, clear hands of that cosmic clock be damned. But in terms of Supergirl’s sisterly relationship with a similarly wounded character warmly played by Eve Ridley; juxtaposed with her ill-behaved pup companion Krypto; and opposite her more by-the-books earthbound cousin (David Corenswet great in a trio of extended cameos), she demonstrates deep heart and a capacity for goodness. There’s a subplot about sex trafficking and a few under-the-breath lines which are more subversive than expected; it’s certainly not all a bowl of cheery. Both the lived-in quality of this creative universe and fascinating flashback origin story lore contour and enrich the proceedings. Jason Manoa is perfectly in place as emerging character Lobo (think The Kurgan meets Beetlejuice meets Han Solo) on planets evocative of a Mad Max dystopia. Matthias Schoenaerts is rather upstaged as the primary villain in this dusty vista; his arc feels pretty underwritten. The overall film is not quite the action extravaganza nor the unabashed dramatic triumph necessary to help it convincingly attract detractors, but the movie is peculiar in many ways and far from boring. The same people who declare the comic book movie dead and buried (it’s been a year since we’ve seen cinematic capes) will certainly return to theatres for Peter Parker’s ninth above-the-title film outing within weeks. Meanwhile Supergirl is worth the trip: it builds on James Gunn’s punk rock universe, develops characters including a central hero with full and complete agency and transports its viewers to some interesting places both physical and metaphorical. It’s certainly not the Omegahedron in the punch bowl some have made it out to be, and mostly it’s a bit of a rush. It dares you to stare both at the sun and in the mirror rooting for this unexpected hero.
The breadcrumbs leading to a close encounter are more contemplative than candy-coated in Steven Spielberg’s latest: if we were luring E.T. himself into the action, it would be done here with a bag of Reese’s Thesis. Spielberg has a lot on his mind, and his Disclosure Day (B) exports many of his deep thoughts to celluloid with a smash-up of paranoid thriller and existential essay. Without spoiling the plot, suffice it to say the director is interested in knowing if today’s global population of human beings could contemplate, agree on or even properly behold a miracle coming true in the modern world. All aren’t created equal in the film’s ensemble, with Emily Blunt standing head and shoulders over her cast mates as a news personality recently obsessed with perpetual movement toward a singular life event. As a tech expert outrunning the secrets of his sinister former employer, Josh O’Connor is on a similar trajectory toward something leviathan; his part is just less showy and interesting. Much of the movie’s first act is preoccupied with tracking down characters’ locations and leaving the viewer pondering myriad questions; but by the final act, the hot take gets cooking. There’s a propulsive, talky way of getting at some major interconnected issues, with a few magnificently staged chases including one with a crashed car attached to a moving train providing a rousing respite from all the speculating. There is an underdeveloped character (Colman Domingo) assembling others to some sort of makeshift sound stage and a stock villain (Colin Firth) who ultimately doesn’t have much to do aside from, again, finding peoples’ locations. Much of the plot could be curtailed with a good GPS! But by the time the director goes for the big swings about one of his lifelong cosmic preoccupations, he largely sticks the landing. Some action sequences feel long jn the tooth, and the intellectual passages don’t all necessarily pay off. Blunt makes the most of it all as a woman possessed; all the best sequences in the film involve her surreal journey. Wyatt Russell as her love interest is delightful and underused in a flash of comic relief and relatability. John Williams provides workmanlike music for this outing, and the effects are good but not great, with a throwaway line nearly apologizing for the rendering of some of the animal effects. Janusz Kamiński’s cinematography is stunning; there are lots of sequences with characters reflected together through glass which deepen connections and help themes to gel. Despite many great elements, the film is ultimately a prelude to a great conversation rather than a masterpiece in and of itself.
The Robin Hood legend reimagined as grim cinematic endurance test wasn’t on my bingo card. Michael Sarnoski’s moribund and self-satisfied The Death of Robin Hood (D) inexplicably deconstructs and reimagines the titular outlaw as a violent, aging man grappling with his past who finds a chance at redemption through a woman and child. As the lead character, and an antihero to be sure, Hugh Jackman plays against type in nearly every way, including gruesomely killing animals and children in a first act feast of carnage then spending most of the film’s remainder bedridden. He’s committed, I suppose, to the role. Jodie Comer and Bill Skarsgård play underdeveloped supporting characters who make little impression. The prolonged tone poem comprising most of the film’s duration may confound all but the most ardent fans of this myth. This revisionist twist on a classic tale was so far removed from its usual tropes that it might have been just as effective as “the slow death of any old violent mean man.” There are flickers of interesting film composition in this Middle Ages melodrama , and the vocal song over the closing credits made for a nice ditty as our group continued to discuss, slackjawed, what exactly we just watched. If viewers are like me, they will feel equally robbed of rich summer fun time given to the poor souls inhabiting this dim dirge.
In a saga that’s survived Trade Federation blockades, Empire strikes and imperial zombie villain retreads of the First Order, no menace, phantom or otherwise, has single-handedly deadened the Star Wars universe more than the new TV-to-big screen adaptation featuring a helmeted warrior and a cute green puppet. In a multimedia collection rife with spinoffs, series, sequels, prequels, fan fiction, flash forwards and even a once-aired holiday variety show, Jon Favreau’s misbegotten The Mandalorian and Grogu (F) may be the murkiest, dullest and most joyless entry yet. Everything in this film is bottom of the barrel, from plot to characterization to effects; it almost dares viewers to convince themselves they’re not watching as big a big-screen turkey as a summer movie can possibly be (Last Action Hero or Battlefield Earth, take a seat!). The story is simple enough as the titular bounty hunter (voiced by Pedro Pascal) and his diminutive companion must rescue and return Rotta the Hutt, the Jeremy Allen White-voiced prizefighter progeny of the late Jabba, to the clutches of gangster twins running his family’s lair. Foster teen Rotta, a space slug with abs as convincing as the char marks of a McRib and dialogue someone should have edited before the rendering of his considerable CGI contours, deserves his place in a disgraceful pantheon occupied by Child Anakin and Jar Jar Binks as one of the series’ most ill-conceived and nearly unwatchable occupants of celluloid space. Pound for pound, he’s the first sign this flop sweat of a film is Hutt hurt and circling the drain. Prepare for scene after torturous sequence of battles against an array of creatures with few discernible features including a showdown with what could easily pass as a Transformer (Bumblebee could sue somebody’s AI platform for unfair use of likeness) and lots of sea snakes from the trash compactor dumpster fire imagination of the film’s three screenwriters. The uninspired planetary environments in the film’s treacly travelogue will not easily sway many viewers they weren’t actually filmed in the Galactic Edge theme parks. All the jaw-dropping missteps – hell, even Martin Scorsese stinks up his scene as a four-armed food truck vendor (yes, that happens) – could be forgiven if there were heart, heroism or humor to enliven the proceedings. The film even fails at giving anyone a reason to care about its two title characters; no one will confuse these guys with Butch and Sundance or even Ecks vs. Sever. As “Baby Yoda” eats blue macarons, there’s a sinking feeling money-grubbers in search of the next butter beer style merch might have gotten their way if any of this high-flying hokum was even remotely cool. Ultimately it truly feels like a complete chore to watch this, and I come to these popcorn adventures, AMC promo Nicole Kidman style, ready to be swept off my shimmering pantsuit feet into a carefree romp headspace. Instead heartbreak really does hit different here. That aforementioned Trade Federation should plan a tax write-off on this horrible episode as both its dreary content and poor box office prospects are destined for a certain kind of notoriety.
Writer/director Aleshea Harris adapts her acclaimed play of the same name into the assured feature film Is God Is (B) about twins played by Kara Young and Mallori Johnson, both in riveting performances, traveling cross-country from the Deep Dirty South to California chic upon request of their mom (Vivica A. Fox) to exact revenge on their estranged dad (Sterling K. Brown). The film contains gritty drama fused with a campy spaghetti western violent sensibility akin to Thelma & Louise by way of the Kill Bill saga. Harris marches to the beat of her own drumline with her two unlikely protagonists often speaking in knowing telepathy to one another, rendered in subtitle fragments. Encounters with larger-than-life adversaries make for some jaw-dropping episodes while the women, disfigured in infancy, alternately grapple with impulses to forgive or fight. These are characters we haven’t seen on screen before in an unexpected thinking person’s road trip revenge adventure.
Strap onto your seats, not out of a promise of actual cinematic intensity, but because only literal harnesses or handcuffs will keep anticipatory viewers sufficiently locked in for this misbegotten A.I. justice thriller. Timur Bekmambetov’s Mercy (F) tethers career-worst performances by both Chris Pratt and Rebecca Ferguson to a belabored plot, accompanied by a constant countdown which incessantly reminds viewers it’s almost over. The story places Pratt in a literal chair from which he must defend himself against a crime of passion before Ferguson’s monotone cyber judge with the assistance of computer files, municipal cloud recordings, location records and phone-a-friend technologies. This data dump boasts all the thrills of overnight mainframe maintenance. None of the film’s preposterous characters bears resemblance to any found naturally in reality, and the stakes are rotten from the get-go. The film’s format robs a generally charismatic actor of his charm and the actress of her nuance. Even a final act showdown is thwarted by mind-numbing dialogue and baffling answers to an already shaky thesis. This hour and a half of cheesy effects and weasely affectations is akin to an escape room where every participant simply wants out. It redefines “edge of your seat” in that you’ll find yourself rearing to slither away to any other place.
What happens when a battle-tested boy, an isolated physician, a naked and sedated alpha zombie and a gang of miscreants encounter one another for the second part of an inventive film trilogy in a long-running series? It’s bloody interesting, when that film installment is Nia DaCosta’s 28 Years Later: The Bone Temple (B). Ralph Fiennes’ kindly physician character takes center stage, and his “bone temple” memorial to lost lives in an uncertain future becomes a veritable amphitheater for this movie’s showdown with some unlikely villains. This film amps up the gore, brutality and existential dread about true evil in the world, and Fiennes anchors the film with grace notes of humanity mixed with a hint of the unhinged. As the teen who came of age in the previous installment, Alfie Williams is again wonderfully emotive but a little sidelined in a majority of the story. Jack O’Connell is dynamite as a menacing leader of a band of renegades including an effective Erin Kellyman. Even Chi Lewis-Parry brings humanity to his hulking infected character. This latest trilogy upends many of the tropes of the undead genre, with conversation and contemplation featured more often than straightforward action. It’s still very engrossing, even if the myth-making in Danny Boyle’s previous movie was more revelatory than the religious angles of DaCosta’s. This is a delightful and delicate mash-up of genres and one of the most offbeat Hollywood tentpole films to be released in some time. Again, it’s exciting and insightful.
Those wondering if the third film in the saga about clashes between humans and blue alien creatures would live up to the epic stature of its predecessors can hold their collective Pandora breath. Despite a lush rendered environment, James Cameron’s latest opus Avatar: Fire and Ash (C) is just as head-scratching in its mediocrity as the two films before it. In some ways this one’s a little worse as it flagrantly rehashes many of the themes in the last bloated entry. Rarely has so much meticulous craft been invented at the service of such benign characters and pedantic a storyline. Riffs on loss, conflicts with warring tribes and meddling humans, meditations on the nobility of sea creatures and even Biblical parables about fathers and surrogate sons don’t make this entry any better. The soggy story and screenplay extinguish most of the intrigue here, with flickers of action sequences filling the ample running time between the senseless sermonizing. None of the CGI-coated actors get much of a showcase as this glorified screen saver parades before us.
