There is something inherently haunting about a person becoming a mystery. Not just dying, but disappearing into paperwork. Reduced to a case file, a photograph, an evidence bag. A life condensed into administrative language. Haifaa Al-Mansour’s Unidentified understands that horror better than most crime thrillers, and while the film occasionally struggles to generate momentum as a mystery, it finds something far more interesting in the process: a meditation on grief, empathy,

Kenji Tanigaki’s The Furious doesn’t so much tell a story as it hurls one at your head. It arrives swinging, kicking, crashing through tables, and rarely pauses long enough to catch its breath. Child traffickers kidnap the daughter of a mute laborer. A journalist disappears while investigating the same criminal network. Two men collide, exchange punches, discover they want the same thing, and spend the next ninety minutes reducing an army of villains to broken bones and blood

Steven Spielberg has spent nearly fifty years looking to the stars. From the awe-struck obsession of Close Encounters of the Third Kind to the childlike wonder of E.T. and the terror of War of the Worlds, extraterrestrials have long served as a vessel for the filmmaker’s deepest anxieties, hopes, and questions about humanity. With Disclosure Day, Spielberg returns to that well once again, this time asking a provocative question: If humanity learned we weren’t alone, would we

Aleshea Harris’ Is God Is opens like a revenge movie and slowly reveals itself to be something thornier, sadder, stranger, and ultimately far more profound. On paper, the film sounds almost gleefully pulp: twin sisters set out across America to murder the father who burned their family alive years earlier. But Harris’ astonishing debut feature is not interested in the clean catharsis of revenge cinema so much as the rot that necessitates it in the first place. What begins as

For a franchise built on spinal extractions, acid vomit, and the phrase “Finish Him,” the most surprising thing about Mortal Kombat II is how desperately it wants to entertain you. Not impress you. Not elevate itself above its origins. Not apologize for being based on a game where a four-armed monster punches ninjas into skeletons. Simon McQuoid’s sequel understands that the appeal of Mortal Kombat has always lived somewhere between adolescent power fantasy and grindhouse abs

There’s something inherently promising about a filmmaker who understands that a setting can do as much storytelling as any line of dialogue. Damian McCarthy, coming off the slow-burn unease of Caveat and Oddity, clearly gets that. With Hokum, he trades in those tighter, more controlled chambers of dread for something a bit grander, a creaky, half-forgotten Irish hotel that feels less like a location and more like a living accusation. For long stretches, it’s enough to carry t