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The 2012 Les Miserables adaption is good but why does Eddie Redmayne turn into Kermit the Frog when he sings?

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“You’ll Never Find Me” (2024) serves up a psychological thriller that’s one part existential dread, two parts cabin fever with a twist, and a generous sprinkle of monologues.

The stage is set in the most glamorous of locales—a mobile home that’s seen better days, probably around the same time pagers were considered cutting-edge tech. Here we find Patrick, played by Brendan Rock, who exudes the kind of charisma only a man living in isolation at the back of an isolated trailer park can muster. Then, as if Mother Nature herself decided Patrick needed company, a storm blows in, carrying with it a mysterious young woman, portrayed with enigmatic allure by Jordan Cowan.

The first act of the film might feel like you’re back in high school, stuck listening to classmates’ presentations that go on forever. Patrick and his unexpected guest take turns delivering monologues that feel like they’re sat in a cirlce at an AA group, passing a baton between them when it’s their turn to talk. “And how does that make you feel, Patrick?” one can almost hear an off-screen therapist ask.

Once the verbal relay race concludes, once the monologues stop, the real fun begins. The film masterfully cranks up the tension, turning the mobile home into a battleground of wits and wills, reminiscent of a chess match where the pieces are equally likely to hug it out or stab each other in the back.

The single-location setting of the film, far from being a limitation, becomes a character in its own right. It’s like watching a reality TV show where the contestants are locked in a room with nothing but their secrets, except here, the prize is making it through the night without losing your sanity.

Rock and Cowan’s performances are so riveting, they almost make you forget you’re watching two people essentially stuck in a glorified tin can. Rock’s portrayal of Patrick is a study in how to be simultaneously creepy and sympathetic—a man who probably talks to his houseplants because they’re less judgmental than people. Cowan, as the mysterious visitor, brings a sense of intrigue that’s palpable, making you wonder if her character stumbled upon the trailer park by accident or if she’s really just a fan of budget accommodations with a side of impending doom.

The twist ending is the cherry on top of this bizarre, stormy sundae, delivering a payoff that makes the earlier slog worth it. It’s like realizing the slow cooker you begrudgingly filled in the morning actually made something delicious by dinner time.

“You’ll Never Find Me” is an enjoyably odd journey through the human psyche, with enough quirks and twists to keep you glued to your seat. The film manages to turn monologues into an art form, albeit one that might benefit from an intermission. So grab some popcorn, lower your expectations for a fast-paced thrill ride, and settle in for a movie that’s quite happy to take its sweet time getting to the point. It’s a reminder that sometimes, the best stories are like a mobile home in a storm—unpredictable, a little shaky, but ultimately, a shelter from the predictable plots raining down outside.

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Directed by the maestro of horror himself, John Carpenter, this film is a chilling journey into the darkest recesses of human paranoia and extraterrestrial terror.

First things first, let's talk about the cast. Picture this: Kurt Russell, sporting a beard that could house a family of sparrows, exuding rugged charm and a no-nonsense attitude that's as sharp as the icy winds of Antarctica. And alongside him, we've got the incomparable Keith David, whose voice could make Barry White sound like a choirboy. Together, they lead a ragtag team of scientists in a desperate battle against an otherworldly threat that's as cunning as it is grotesque.

But let's not beat around the frost-covered bush — the real stars of "The Thing" are the creatures themselves. Oh yes, those shape-shifting, body-snatching, tentacle-waving nightmares that make your skin crawl faster than a cockroach in a kitchen. And what's even more impressive? These abominations were brought to life not with fancy CGI, but with good old-fashioned practical effects. From the twisted contortions of the infected to the stomach-churning transformations, this movie's got more gooey goodness than a melted cheese sandwich.

The plot is as follows: A group of scientists holed up in a research station in the Antarctic, cut off from the outside world and slowly losing their grip on reality? Check. A shape-shifting alien entity that can mimic any living organism, turning friend against friend in a deadly game of cat and mouse? Double check. It's like "Survivor" meets "Invasion of the Body Snatchers," with a dash of "Who Goes There?" thrown in for good measure.

But what really sets "The Thing" apart isn't just its chilling premise or its jaw-dropping special effects — it's the palpable sense of paranoia that permeates every frame. As the tension mounts and trust becomes as scarce as a snowflake in the Sahara, you can't help but feel your own sense of unease growing with each passing minute. Who's infected? Who's still human? And most importantly, who can you trust when the fate of humanity hangs in the balance?

Of course, no review of "The Thing" would be complete without mentioning its spine-tingling soundtrack, courtesy of the one and only Ennio Morricone. With its haunting melodies and ominous tones, Morricone's score is the perfect accompaniment to Carpenter's icy visuals, heightening the sense of dread and foreboding at every turn.

Now, let's address the elephant (or should I say, alien) in the room: the infamous debate over who's infected at the end. Is it MacReady? Is it Childs? Or are they both just a couple of paranoid lunatics freezing to death in the Antarctic wasteland? The truth is, even decades after its release, fans are still arguing over the answer, and that's a testament to the film's enduring legacy.

This is a cinematic masterpiece that'll leave you questioning your own humanity faster than you can say "pass the flamethrower." So grab your parka, keep an eye on your friends, and for the love of all that's holy, don't trust the dog. Trust me, you won't regret it.

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In a cinematic landscape where suspension of disbelief is often the price of admission, the 2020 thriller "Run" demands not just suspension but outright catapulting of disbelief into the stratosphere. Directed by Aneesh Chaganty, this film attempts to weave a tale of suspense and maternal manipulation but ends up serving a hodgepodge of plot holes so large, you could pilot the Starship Enterprise through them.

First off, let's address the elephant in the room – or rather, the completely ignored elephant stampede. Our protagonist, Chloe, portrayed with commendable effort by Kiera Allen, somehow manages to overlook the glaringly obvious fact that her mother, played by Sarah Paulson with the subtlety of a neon sign in a monastery, is up to no good. The villainy is so over-played I half expected Sarah to be stood in a corner at one point, twirling a mustache between her fingers. The audience is expected to believe that Chloe, despite being a tech-savvy teenager, never once Googles her own medical condition until the plot decides it's convenient for her to do so.

Then there's the matter of the mysteriously replenishing stock of dangerous drugs and medical equipment in their house. The mother, Diane, seems to have an Amazon Prime account with unlimited next-day delivery to the middle of Nowheresville, USA, for all her illicit pharmaceutical needs. It's as if the filmmakers expect us to believe that every suburban home comes equipped with a fully stocked pharmacy hidden behind the kitchen cabinets, just between the cereal boxes and the canned soup.

One of the drugs, which is solely to blame for Chloe's legs, was prescribed under the pretense that Diane has a dog which is in pain… but we're also led to believe that Chloe has been taking these drugs for years. So nobody questions where Diane's dog is? Has there even been a dog? Nobody mentions never seeing Diane with a dog? How long has this dog supposedly been in pain for? Is it the same dog over all these years?

At one point, the film shows Diane in the shower with a scarred back - this also never gets explained (eventually I found that there's a deleted scene which gives a very throwaway explanation about it - she's also a child of abuse).

While I'm at it, what happens to the postman? We know Diane knocks him out but is he alive or dead? We see Diane dragging a bloodied body away but did she actually finish him off or not?

Oh, and why did Chloe go through the whole process of taking a soldering kit to ultimately break a window? It's like the film just needed an excuse to remind us that Chloe is, in fact, a rather clever girl… So clever she doesn't think to just use the handle of the soldering kit to break a window instead of a stupid science experiment.

Moreover, the world around Chloe and Diane seems eerily devoid of curiosity or concern from others. This lack of outside interaction or intervention is perhaps one of the film's most glaring omissions. In an era where community and connectivity are more pronounced than ever, the film's insular setting feels less like a deliberate choice and more like a narrative oversight, making the story's progression feel not just improbable but impossible.

"Run" takes the concept of a helicopter parent to new, absurd heights, with Diane's overprotectiveness bordering on supervillainy. The film tries to keep you on the edge of your seat but instead leaves you falling off it, laughing at the ludicrous lengths to which it goes to manufacture tension. By the time the climax rolls around, with its attempt at a heart-pounding resolution, the only thing racing will be your thoughts on how such a hilariously hole-ridden plot made it past the drawing board.

This is a masterclass in how not to construct a thriller, with plot holes you could drive a fleet of plot trucks through. It's a rollercoaster ride that derails before it even leaves the station, providing a comedy of errors that's unintentionally funnier than most deliberate attempts at humor. One can only hope that future filmmakers will run – not walk – in the opposite direction when drawing inspiration from this cinematic curiosity.

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In "Madame Web," Sony's ill-conceived venture into the Spider-Verse, the web of intrigue quickly unravels into a tangle of cinematic follies. The 2024 film, which aimed to ensnare audiences with the enigmatic tale of Cassandra Webb, instead traps viewers in a web of disappointment.

Let me get the "Well, duh" comments out of the way...

1) The "great power" line has now become a mangled mess of itself. The fact that it is butchered in this film, and repeated, made me facepalm so hard the guy sat behind me got hit in the face too.

2) Tahar Rahim's dialogue, was it dubbed? It looked out of sync several times in the movie, sometimes so badly lip-synched it made me look around to see if anyone else had seen the same thing?

3) BUY PEPSI. BUY PEPSI. BUY PEPSI. BUY PEPSI. BUY PEPSI. BUY PEPSI. BUY PEPSI. BUY PEPSI. BUY PEPSI. BUY PEPSI. 

4) Yep - they pulled another "Rhino" a la The Amazing Spider-Man 2. The Spider-Women suit up at the end of the film in a flash-forward for all of 30 seconds. They spend the whole film building up to what the people actually want to see and then end it.

So where to begin with this muddled mess? The plot, if one can be generous enough to call it that, is an aimless meander through a series of inexplicably bizarre events that seem to serve no purpose other than to fill time. The dialogue is a trainwreck of cringe-worthy one-liners and heavy-handed exposition that bludgeons the audience with subtlety of a sledgehammer. Every character introduction is a tedious affair, with them announcing their names and purposes with the enthusiasm of a hostage reading a ransom note. This film makes Morbius look like a masterpiece.

Then there's the humor – or what passes for it in this film. The jokes are so painfully unfunny that one must wonder if they were included as some form of avant-garde anti-comedy.

Directorial decisions only exacerbate the suffering. The numerous desperate references to the wider Spider-Man universe come off as a sibling screaming for attention rather than clever nods. The references are shoehorned in with the grace of a wrecking ball, leaving fans to nurse their second-hand embarrassment.

Performances across the board are astonishingly flat. Dakota Johnson, tasked with bringing Madame Web to life, delivers her lines with all the conviction of someone reciting the phone book. The supporting cast isn’t much better, with each member seemingly in their own disjointed film – a cacophony of conflicting genres and styles that never gel.

Action sequences are so poorly choreographed and edited that one can almost hear the director's sigh of resignation. Quick cuts and shaky cam attempt to inject excitement but instead induce a sense of motion sickness. The CGI, a critical component for any superhero flick, is an abomination – it would seem the effects budget was slashed in a boardroom and never restored.

The film's attempts to be dark and edgy are undercut by its own absurdity. It tries to take itself seriously, yet it’s hard to do so when the villain’s master plan seems to have been concocted during a fever dream. There's a subplot involving the future that is so nonsensical it could be a time-travel paradox in itself.

Editing seems to have been done with a chainsaw, lurching from scene to scene with jarring inconsistency. Scenes of potential emotional weight are butchered in favor of more screen time for bewildering subplots. There's a Pepsi product placement so blatant it could be a commercial, and a premonition sequence so ludicrous it makes Madame Web’s psychic abilities seem as believable as a horoscope in a candy wrapper.

Musical choices are equally lazy and obnoxious - with the inclusion of Britney Spears' "Toxic" making the audience eye-roll.

"Madame Web" is a cinematic calamity, a film so woefully executed that it becomes a parody of itself. It's a movie that not only fails to capture the essence of its source material but also fails to provide the most basic elements of storytelling. This film doesn't swing from the heights; it trips over its own laces at the starting line. Madame Web's real precognition would have been to foresee its own critical demise and spare us all by remaining an untold story. The only saving grace is that the film eventually ends, releasing the audience from its bewildering web of woe.

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Lake Mungo

I tried - yes, tried - to find a semblance of a riveting narrative within its watery depths, but alas, all I stumbled upon was a quagmire of narrative emptiness and a confused, muddled mess. Let's embark on this journey of reviewing a film that seemingly tried to mix a serious documentary style with the clichéd elements of a horror flick, only to end up tripping over its own feet in the process.

Picture this: you sit down with a bag of popcorn, ready to immerse yourself in a nail-biting, heart-pounding cinematic experience. But as the minutes tick by, you find yourself engaged in a constant battle with the urge to check your watch, because, my friends, "Lake Mungo" appears to be a master class in how to stretch a thin plot over what feels like an eternity. And in this eternity, it seems that suspense and thrill took a long vacation, leaving behind their lackluster cousins, boredom and confusion.

I need to acknowledge the film's attempt to bring something different to the table with its faux-documentary style. One might argue that it lent a certain authenticity to the tale, but let's not kid ourselves here. This style instead served to heighten the monotony, making viewers slog through a seemingly unending series of interviews and "found footage", which ironically, you'll wish remained unfound.

And let's take a moment to discuss the plot, or rather, the lack thereof. The storyline meanders like a lost river, unsure of where to flow, sometimes trickling into streams of the supernatural, only to diverge into puzzling tributaries of family drama and inexplicable plot developments. It's as if the creators threw a dart at a board of generic horror tropes and just went with whatever it hit, concocting a hodgepodge of elements that never quite gel together.

Furthermore, the acting could very well serve as a study in wooden performances, with characters that seem to have been marinated in a vat of apathy before gracing the screen. The emotional depth here is so lacking; one might find more resonance in a conversation with their houseplant. And the less said about the dialogue, the better, as it stumbles and bumbles its way through an awkward script that seems almost determined to keep the audience at arm's length.

But oh, let's not overlook the cherry on top of this cinematic sundae: the climax that promises revelations and twists, yet manages to deliver an underwhelming resolution that leaves one feeling more bewildered than satisfied. It's as if the creators were building a castle of suspense, only to reveal a shaky structure held together by twigs of weak plot developments and a few stray leaves of attempted scares.

In the midst of all this, one can't help but chuckle at the sheer audacity of "Lake Mungo." It strides boldly into the realm of horror, armed with a bag of tricks borrowed from superior films, yet fumbles spectacularly in its execution. It's akin to watching a magician pull a rabbit out of a hat, only to reveal a stuffed bunny that's seen better days.

"Lake Mungo" serves as a sterling example of how not to craft a compelling horror movie. It's a labyrinthine mess of half-baked ideas and missed opportunities, where tension is as scarce as a coherent storyline. It's an adventure into the doldrums of horror filmmaking, where the only scares to be found are the creeping realization that yes, this film indeed goes on for a whole 87 minutes.

So, gather your friends, prepare your favorite snacks, and settle in for an evening of bewildered laughter and mirth as you navigate the murky waters of "Lake Mungo." It promises an unforgettable journey into the bewildering, the absurd, and the hilariously underwhelming – a true masterclass in cinematic disappointment!

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The Curse of La Llorona

Strap yourselves in as I dive into The Curse of La Llorona, so you don’t have to (unless you feel like you deserve it), a movie that audaciously attempted to breathe life into the chilling Mexican folklore of La Llorona, but instead produced a yawn-inducing tale that even the weeping woman herself would shed tears of disappointment over.

First and foremost, we must address the rather tragic metamorphosis of Raymond Cruz from a hardened, street-savvy drug dealer in "Breaking Bad" to a bewildering portrayal of a priest turned shaman in this horrid cinematic faux pas. Oh, how the mighty have fallen! Cruz delivers his lines with the grace of a crowbar trying to conduct a symphony, causing many a viewer to stifle giggles during moments that were meant to petrify. Picture this: the once menacing Tuco Salamanca, now sprinkling seeds and mumbling incantations as though he were hastily thrown into a low-budget backyard play with the neighborhood kids. The transition is as graceful as a giraffe on roller skates, leaving audiences both amused and slightly dismayed at this odd career trajectory.

As for the storyline, it could be argued that it was constructed by throwing darts at a board filled with overused horror tropes. Oh, look! We hit the "mysterious puddles leading to a ghastly figure" square, followed closely by the "child being dragged into darkness by unseen forces" cliché! One might be tempted to start a betting pool on which overused horror trope will make its appearance next. Spoiler alert: It's all of them. The original folklore brims with terrifying potential, yet "The Curse of La Llorona" seems to have opted for a Frankenstein's monster approach, stitching bits and pieces of every conceivable horror movie cliché into a lumbering beast of cringeworthy moments and lost potential.

Now, onto the leading lady, Linda Cardellini, who tries valiantly to carry this film like a marathon runner trying to complete a race with a sprained ankle. Her portrayal of a concerned mother is as convincing as a cardboard cutout with a speaker playing canned expressions of worry and fear. It is not so much Cardellini's fault, as the script gives her little to work with, forcing her to navigate through scenes with the grace of a sailboat in a hurricane.

Oh, but we mustn't overlook the children, who seem to have attended the "horror movie children school of ill-advised decisions." Never before have audiences witnessed such a glorious celebration of every bad decision a child could possibly make when confronted with supernatural forces. From investigating strange noises alone to seemingly forgetting the concept of running away from danger, these children manage to evoke both frustration and incredulity in the most stoic of viewers.

Furthermore, the film's attempt at creating a haunting atmosphere is about as effective as trying to light a bonfire with a wet matchstick. Each scare is telegraphed from a mile away, with the ominous music swelling as though warning viewers to brace themselves for the impending "shock." Sadly, the shock wears thin, as the weeping woman's appearances become as predictable as the sunrise.

"The Curse of La Llorona" serves as a stern warning to filmmakers about the perils of squandering rich folklore in favor of cheap thrills and clichéd plot devices. As viewers, we are left to mourn what could have been a riveting horror tale but instead were served a plate of regurgitated ideas garnished with a side of hammy performances. One can only hope that La Llorona herself, upon witnessing this abomination, would have mercy on us and wash this film away into the annals of forgotten cinema, where it rightly belongs.

If you seek a thrill that combines the excitement of a lukewarm cup of tea with the depth of a puddle, then by all means, dive headfirst into "The Curse of La Llorona." It's sure to evoke a cascade of stifled giggles and face-palms, making it a potential frontrunner for any "worst movie night" candidate.

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MAFS

So it looks like the next season of Married at First Sight: Australia has started.

So let's talk about why I, as a British person, prefer the Australian version to the British version.

First off, let's talk experts. Australia's got John Aiken, a man who could probably make a rock reflect on its life choices. Whereas over here in the UK... Picture your least favourite uncle at a family gathering, doling out "wisdom" that's as bland as unsalted porridge. "Oh, you two aren't getting along?" Yes, that is something visible to everyone, it didn't need mentioning.

In Australia, we've got a real-life Cupid doling out sexual advice and actively engaging. In the UK? Does the UK's actually do anything? Because I've yet to see her actually move - is that just a mannequin sat there making comments? She might as well be a cardboard cutout. I'm half-convinced they just prop her up each season and play pre-recorded advice.

Aussie's couples are like those people you can't help but love – even when they're throwing dinner plates - except, of course, for a couple of "villains" - those people everyone just hates. The UK's couples are the kind that make you say "Oh yeah those people are here." They're like the background extras in a soap opera - you know, the ones you barely notice unless they accidentally walk into a shot. Australia serves a gourmet meal of chaos, while the UK is reheating last season's leftovers – another cheating scandal? Really? We just did that last season. It's so predictable, my cat's started placing bets on who'll cheat next.

Seriously - let's step it up, UK! Get some decent experts! Ours have less spice than a bland Sunday roast. Get some memorable characters! I know we have them! The cheating storyline is drier than the crackers in grandma's pantry – and she's been gone for five years.