Friday, 23 October 2026

For what it's worth...




UK box office Top Ten (for the weekend of October 16-18, 2026):

1 (new) Street Fighter (12A)
2 (new) Forgotten Island (PG) **
3 (new) Jailer 2 (15)
4 (2) Verity (15)
5 (1) Other Mommy (15)
6 (new) Hadestown: the Musical (PG)
7 (new) Whalefall (15) **
8 (3) Heart of the Beast (12A) ***
9 (4) Resident Evil (15)
10 (6) Sense and Sensibility (U)

(source: BFI)

My top five:
1. Scream


DVD/Blu-Ray/Download top ten: 

2 (new) Practical Magic 2 (12)
3 (re) Evil Dead Burn (18)
4 (new) Rise of the Footsoldier: Retribution (15)
5 (3) Paw Patrol: The Dino Movie (U)
6 (4) Minions & Monsters (U)
7 (14) Moana [2026] (PG)
8 (13) Obsession (18) *
9 (7) Disclosure Day (12) **
10 (2) Toy Story 5 (PG) **


My top five: 
1. The Secret Agent


Top five films on terrestrial TV this week:
1. Carrie (Friday, BBC Two, 10pm)
2. Petite Maman (Saturday, Channel 4, 4.45am)
3. Grease [above] (Sunday, ITV1, 4pm)
4. Sisu (Saturday, Channel 4, 11.25pm)
5. Ready or Not (Tuesday, Channel 4, 2.50am)

In memoriam: Nana Patekar (Guardian 22/10/26)


The Indian actor
Nana Patekar, who has died of a heart attack aged 75, first broke through in Mira Nair’s Salaam Bombay! (1988), and the Bollywood hits Parinda (1989) and Krantiveer (1994). These early credits established Patekar as a performer of rare versatility: he and Irrfan Khan remain the only performers to have won Filmfare’s best actor, best supporting actor and best villain awards. Yet the question of whether Patekar was better suited to heroism or villainy lingered: allegations of sexual harassment and intimidation made by his former co-star Tanushree Dutta in 2018 kickstarted India’s #MeToo movement.

Until that point, the actor's rougher edges had mostly been cheered and celebrated. As an actor, Patekar demonstrated a baggy-eyed naturalism that spoke more to Bombay streetlife than Bollywood fantasy; given to writing out his dialogue until he had internalised it, his growling line readings were both idiosyncratic and much imitated. Satyajit Ray counted among the actor’s most illustrious admirers, but could not find a suitable project for him; Patekar instead had Nair to thank for launching him to international prominence in Salaam Bombay! as Baba Golub, the brutal pimp and drug dealer lording over an army of street children. Even here, though, harsh reality poked through: during shooting, Patekar was accidentally stabbed in the stomach by a young co-star who had disregarded Nair’s instructions.

Yet the Bollywood studios also made good use of his grouchy grit. He was commanding as the kingpin Anna in Parinda, Vidhu Vinod Chopra’s inventive relocation of On the Waterfront, for which he won two best supporting actor awards; he was appointed an honorary captain in the Indian Territorial Army after undergoing three years of training for Prahaar: The Final Attack (1991), a film he also ended up directing. He crossed paths with the emergent megastar Shah Rukh Khan in Raju Ban Gaya Gentleman (1992) and was momentarily in the running for Subhash Ghai’s blockbuster Khalnayak (1993), losing out to Sanjay Dutt.

Relations between Patekar and Dutt deteriorated further after the latter was linked to the 1993 Bombay bus bombings in which Patekar’s brother was killed. (Patekar’s wife, the Marathi actor Neelakanti, was also due to board one of the targeted vehicles.) Even after Dutt’s comeback, Patekar remained defiant: “I have not worked with [Dutt] in 22 years of my career. I will not work with him in the future.” A comparable rage powered Krantiveer, where he played a dissolute gambler reviving his fortunes via social activism. Heart problems meant he shot his final scenes with a doctor on standby; while distributors thought Patekar a commercial risk, the film struck a chord, becoming the third biggest Hindi hit of 1994.

Born Vishwanath Patekar in Murud-Janjira, Maharashtra, Nana was one of the three sons of Dinkar Patekar, a textile painter and businessman, and his wife, Nirmala. He attended Samarth Vidyalaya and the Bandra School of Arts in Mumbai, supporting his family after his father's business collapsed by painting zebra crossings and cinema posters: "I had to come from school at 1.30pm, eat something, walk eight kilometres there and eight kilometres back." He went on to study commercial art at the Sir JJ Institute of Art, where he also joined the drama society.

After graduation, he briefly worked as a police sketch artist before joining the acclaimed Marathi theatre group Rangayan. Switched on to films by his friend, the renowned Indian actor Smita Patil (“I was happy doing theatre, but she insisted”), he made his screen debut in Patil's 1978 social drama Gaman, about a rural migrant trying to establish himself in the big city. (Patil also taught Patekar to drive.) A string of supporting roles followed; two years before Salaam Bombay!, he played Gandhi’s assassin Nathuram Godse in the Emmy-winning TV miniseries Lord Mountbatten: The Last Viceroy.

Despite his success with Krantiveer, for which he won several best actor awards, Patekar was not always the easiest fit with the studio system. He was replaced on Raja (1995) after spending two days hectoring his co-stars Madhuri Dixit and Mukesh Khanna with acting notes. (Upon being replaced by Paresh Rawal, he returned his fee to the producers.) And he paused his career during the Kargil war of 1999 to re-enlist, this time with the Maratha Light Infantry, serving 60 days in Srinigar, Dras and Leh; he lost 20kg in the process, while earning a promotion to the rank of major.

Back on civvy street, he landed a signature role as Inspector Sadhu, the dirty cop who becomes the hero of Ab Tak Chhappan (2004), and swept India's Best Villain prizes as the underworld don Tabrez Alam in Prakash Jha's Aparahan (2005), then switched into a lighter mode for the knockabout comedies Welcome (2007) and Welcome Back (2015). Elder statesman status beckoned: he played Mumbai’s police commissioner in Ram Gopal Varma’s The Attacks of 26/11 (2013), voiced Shere Khan in the Hindi dub of Disney’s The Jungle Book (2016) and enjoyed a major success with the Marathi film Natsamrat (2016), playing an acclaimed actor unravelling in retirement. He was awarded the Padma Shri and the Raj Kapoor special contribution award in 2013; in 2015, he set up the NAAM Foundation with fellow actor Makarand Anaspure to help drought-hit farmers. 

Then came Dutta’s 2018 interview with The Hindu, where she repeated an earlier accusation that Patekar had first sexually harassed her while shooting a dance sequence for the unreleased Horn ‘OK’ Pleassss (2009), then sent hired thugs her way after she fled the set; the thugs surrounded Dutta's car, smashing the windscreen and trapping her inside. (The journalist Janice Sequeira, who witnessed the attack, verified Dutta’s account.) Patekar denied the allegations. The Mumbai police opened an investigation; while no formal charges were brought, the incident sparked renewed concern about the treatment of women in Bollywood.

After a spell in industry purdah, Patekar recently attempted a comeback of sorts. There were supporting roles in the propagandistic The Vaccine War (2023), limp comedy Housefull 5 (2025) and the streaming-bound Subedaar (2026), though the actor also lent a wry centre to Vishal Bhardwaj’s Shakespeare riff O’ Romeo (2026), advising caution as the handler to Shahid Kapoor's wayward hitman.
 
He married Neelakanti in 1978, and they had two sons; the first, Durvasa, died in 1980, aged two. Patekar is survived by his wife and his second son, Malhar.
 
Nana Patekar, actor and director, born January 1, 1951, died October 8, 2026. 

Thursday, 22 October 2026

From the archive: "The Rolling Stones: Live At The Max"


Dating from the early days of IMAX (1991, to be precise),
The Rolling Stones: Live at the Max is a 90-minute concert film, co-directed by Julien Temple, which sees its subjects - even then, a pretty seasoned five-piece, with Bill Wyman still in tow - take to the stage of the old Wembley for the London leg of their 1990 Steel Wheels tour, another stop on the trajectory by which this group transitioned from chart-troubling hitmakers to hard-travelling heritage act. They were, at this point, some twenty-odd years on from Altamont and everything that came with it; the songs now a mix of the classics the crowd had come to hear and the new material the band were here to promote, the set part-rollercoaster, part-steampunk pirate ship, with just the merest hint of Pat Sharp's Fun House. The rickety old rock 'n' roll circus was being converted, year by year, tour by tour, into a giant theme park offering (expensive) glee for all the family. (Keith was a decade or so from becoming a walking punchline in a Pirates of the Caribbean movie.) This stage, criss-crossed by dolly tracks that resemble some toytown narrow-gauge railway, was a playground on which these now fiftysomething rockers could rejuvenate, like sexually suggestive Doctor Whos, in order to recreate certain glories of their shared youth. (Not least when two inflatable Amazonians unfurl from the rigging during "Honky Tonk Woman", one of whom has the audacity to mess up Mick's hair with her foot.) Here is a rare concert movie that also functions as a form of music journalism: without resorting to dull backstage interviews, it explains why the Stones have kept on touring, it explains why people keep paying through the nose to see them, and it also explains, in passing, why Mick Jagger has remained as slender as he has. (His step count for this one night alone must have been astronomical.)

What Live at the Max also demonstrated along the way was that IMAX as a format is good for two (and maybe only two) things. First: large-scale portraits of personalities. It's Mick, clad in a succession of doubtless designer dress coats, visibly desperate - even after all these years - to prove that he's more than just a one-trick pony: here he is picking up and plucking at a guitar, here he is tossing his maracas into the wings in a demonstration of rockstar noblesse oblige. It's Keef stepping forward from time to time, either to sing when Mick nips off for a mid-set pee (the bladders aren't what they used to be) or to duet and duel with a perma-smoking Ronnie Wood (different times). Through it all, Charlie is keeping time at the back, vaguely self-conscious whenever this camera peers in through his kit for a close-up, but also quietly delighted, visibly touched by the audience's response after all this time. Bill, being Bill, appears utterly unfussed and unfazed by any of it, which is its own definition of cool. Second: the format invites immersivity. Around a quarter (and maybe even a third) of the screen is filled with raised and clapping hands during "You Can't Always Get What You Want", and we're almost certainly hearing a better sound mix in this format that we would have heard on the night at the Wembley of 1990. Nothing, neither song nor chant nor cheer, is lost; we're at the max, yes, but we're also right there in the thick of it. Floating around the band here is an early inkling of just how vast such gigs were going to get in the 21st century: coming soon, a whole spectacle, a whole infrastructure, a whole rotating ecosystem, because shows like these were going to be the only way for musicians to make any money going forwards. What Live at the Max chiefly confirms is that the Stones were always legendary showmen; they were the Beatles who figured out how to play live before a screaming audience. Sometimes you pander to them, as Mick does; sometimes you ignore them entirely, as Keef and Bill do, and play as if no-one else is listening, as you did in your teenage bedroom. But soon all gigs would be this maximal, even for acts who don't have this deathless a back catalogue.

(December 2025)

The Rolling Stones: Live at the Max airs on Sky Arts tomorrow night (Fri 23) at 9pm.

Tangled: "Wildwood"


It's felt like some time since we last saw anything from stopmotion specialists Laika: 2019's fun Yeti saga 
Missing Link was such a crushing commercial flop (budget: $100m, take: $27m) it put paid to a major studio distribution deal. It turns out the company has spent some of this spell in the wilderness working on the most magnum of opuses. At 132 minutes, Wildwood will likely be the longest of the animated features pitched into awards battle this year; it also seems certain to be the most detailed and the most involved. This is, recognisably, the work of a studio determining to go its own way, stretching both its limbs and its resources to the max. (Again, the budget is reported as in the region of $100m.) A 2011 novel by Colin Meloy - hitherto best known as the frontman of hipster faves The Decemberists - allows director (and Laika honcho) Travis Knight to commingle the real and the fantastical in the form of two adjacent kingdoms. After a brisk and charming snapshot of a stopmotion Portland - hipster coffee shops, hipster parents, vaguely resentful-seeming offspring - the narrative suddenly yanks us into a nearby woodland known as The Impassable Wilderness, a fairytale land ruled over by a Romanov-style dynasty yet populated chiefly by talking animals. Either Meloy or Knight appears to have a soft spot for Labyrinth, a film now forty years young: our bipedal teenage heroine Prue (voiced by Peyton Elizabeth Lee) heads deep into the woods to rescue her baby brother, snatched away from a Portland playground by a murder of crows operating by royal command. By chance, Pru drags along a younger contemporary, Curtis (Jacob Tremblay), who's soon recruited by the tyrannical regime as a potential soldier boy (or mere cannon fodder) and sent out on a grim whistlestop tour of this mirror world's mud-and-blood-smeared battlefields. We're not just getting one fairytale, then; at various points in Wildwood, it seems as though we're getting a whole compendium of them.

If there's a lot of it, there's also much to like, beyond the ambient sensation we're getting our money's worth. Wildwood is undeniably ambitious in its scope and often beautiful with it: we find this wilderness in autumn, which grants every frame an extra visual dynamism. Knight's animators are masters of shades and lighting, while their character modelling grew on me: these faces aren't Disney-perfect - they have lines and wrinkles, gaps in their teeth - but they're all the more distinctive and expressive for that. It's reassuring to encounter a modern mass-market animation that isn't perpetually winking at us, that wants its every narrative beat to land and count; it's also that rarity, a multiplex animation that knows how to make its (spectacular) setpieces count, that isn't just busy for the sake of being busy. There's only one problem, and it's a big one: Wildwood is clogged up with story, and some of these beats are so elaborate there are places where you sense the movie struggling to move forwards at all. (Worse: every now and again, it has the drab feel of homework, like something we're going to be tested on.) Knight has determined to give us so much fairytale he loses the simplicity of the best fairytales; like the ivy that blights the Impassable Wilderness, this script needed pruning. (And maybe a few more jokes? It feels like Laika laid off their gagwriters in the wake of Missing Link's failure.) I wonder whether Wildwood will be to Laika what Princess Mononoke or The Tale of the Princess Kaguya were to Studio Ghibli: animation that heads adore, but which struggles to cross over to the mass audience in the way the lighter, simpler Spirited Away and Ponyo did. (And I worry, given the time and money spent on Knight's film, and Laika's recent commercial track record.) Granted, you could argue any Western animation that inspires comparison with Ghibli has to be doing something right, and in an age where we've grown complacent about the miracle of animation - and the miracle of stopmotion in particular - Wildwood will at least inspire you to wonder anew how on earth these animators did that. It's just that the sleight-of-hand it sets before us proves altogether too convoluted to be as dazzling as one had hoped.

Wildwood opens in cinemas nationwide tomorrow.

Tuesday, 20 October 2026

From the archive: "Jailer"


Jailer
 finds the venerable Tamil superstar Rajinikanth embracing his Liam Neeson period in playing Pandian, a "dinosaur" retiree whose efforts to make YouTube videos with a precocious grandson are interrupted by news the kid's father, an upstanding police officer, has gone missing while on assignment. As Pandian ventures back into an underworld he once ruled over as a no-nonsense prison warden - and starts beating seven bells out of a network smuggling religious idols - we are once more reminded of this leading man's ability to organise not just an entire film, but whole scenes around himself; he's the real idol being showcased and worshipped here. Now 72, Rajinikanth remains nothing much to look at, with his (stick-on) Noel Edmonds beard and chunky NHS specs. But that may just be his secret weapon: he is at heart a character actor who broke through in an industry just small enough for a character actor with real screen smarts to make it big, a man who appears in complete control of almost every situation into which he steps. (Jailer's first half is dependent on Pandian charming both a taxi driver and a psychiatrist into doing his bidding and covering his tracks.) Such overbearing gravitational pull poses a slight problem for the movie - or would pose a problem if it had been conceived as anything more substantial than fan art. From the moment Pandian reveals he's overpowered the (much younger) thugs who've bundled him into the back of his car, we're left in no doubt that this man will come through and save the day. 
As star vehicles go, it's altogether plain sailing; safe to say Rajinikanth isn't unduly exerted in the execution of these tasks, and you might argue he's worked long and hard enough not to have to put his back into these projects any more.

He's gained a useful ally, however, in the young writer-director Nelson, who allows for no such thing as an entirely uninteresting shot. Faced with a movie star who just wants to play the movie star, Nelson does his most imaginative work here around Pandian's nemeses, principally their cackling chief Varman (Vinayakan, giving exactly what you want for this role), whose chosen method of flushing out rats in his organisation involves suspending them over vats of acid and interrogating them before a hooting audience of ne'er-do-wells. (These sequences have the air of a nefarious game show: Squeal or No Squeal.) Whether filming these villains breaking into a communal dance after phoning in a threat or staging - hands down, heads off - the decapitation of the year, Nelson has taken it upon himself to disrupt the inevitability of this outcome wherever possible, or at least to make it a fun ride for the most part, each shot a wink to his intended audience. You and I both know where this is going, he's saying, but that doesn't mean we can't get up to some middling-to-expert mischief along the way. It's the wonky smirk Rajnikanth breaks into once he knows he has the drop on a foe; it's the wacko pre-intermission scene that encourages us to cheer even louder for our hero as he grandly announces his plan to lapse into outright sociopathy for the duration of the second half. (So grab yourself a Kia-Ora and be back in your seats in ten.) The movie gets away with it only because that second half is so deranged that even attempting to synopsise its contents could well see you sectioned: all I can recall, from this distance, is that to steal the artefact he needs to get his son back, Pandian has to navigate a truly bizarre love triangle involving a preening, bewigged film star, his patsy proxy and the former's leading lady. From Taken, in other words, the movie bounds into Elmore Leonard territory, the only rationale being that the film business is the one milieu more cutthroat than organised crime. (The Internet has its theories on who these new characters represent, and whether this is one superstar taking a swipe at another.) Too haphazard to qualify as first-rank Rajnikanth, it often seems as though the star is the only organising principle in play here, surrounded as he is by wild spitballs and flagrant non-sequiturs. Yet it's nevertheless one of the livelier examples of dadsploitation fired our way of late. In the unlikely event his algorithm led him here, Liam Neeson would probably kill for some of this energy and verve.

(November 2023)

Jailer is now streaming via Prime Video; a sequel, Jailer 2, is now showing in cinemas nationwide and shall be reviewed here in the coming days.

Monday, 19 October 2026

In memoriam: Frank Mancuso Sr. (Telegraph 18/10/26)


Frank Mancuso Sr.
, who has died aged 93, was a studio chief whose spell at the helm of Paramount Pictures became the stuff of industry legend; between 1984 and 1991, he oversaw a run of major commercial hits, notably Beverly Hills Cop (1984), Top Gun (1986), Fatal Attraction (1987) and Ghost (1990).

A softly spoken figure dubbed “Gentleman Frank”, Mancuso joined the studio’s Buffalo office in 1962 as a film booker. After establishing himself in sales, he was appointed VP of domestic distribution in 1977, overseeing publicity for Saturday Night Fever (1977). That epochal hit taught Mancuso the importance of regular radio airplay for tie-in tunes that became inseparable from a movie’s images: An Officer and a Gentleman (1982), Flashdance (1983) and Top Gun would all benefit.

In 1980, Mancuso took over distribution, launching Robert Redford’s Ordinary People to Best Picture glory. Appointed president of Paramount’s motion-picture division in 1983, he was similarly instrumental to the success of James L. Brooks’s Terms of Endearment, insisting the comedy-drama should open at Thanksgiving; the decision paid off with excellent box office and a second Best Picture triumph.

Upon Paramount chief Barry Diller’s departure for Fox in 1984, Mancuso was appointed chairman and CEO, beating out future Disney head Michael Eisner; he quickly reinforced his team, appointing the keen-eyed Ned Tanen to head the motion-picture division, and cutting exclusivity deals with such talent as Flashdance producers Don Simpson and Jerry Bruckheimer and comic-turned-star Eddie Murphy, whose Beverly Hills Cop had just been a summer blockbuster.

The Mancuso regime began bumpily, with an abortive (and costly) 1985 attempt to film The Two Jakes, Robert Towne’s long-nurtured sequel to Chinatown (1974); the studio dipped to fourth in that year’s rankings. Yet it regained the top spot in 1986, Simpson/Bruckheimer’s Top Gun the high-flier on a notably varied slate that also included “Crocodile” Dundee, Ferris Bueller’s Day Off and Children of a Lesser God. 

1987 was even better, with Paramount producing three of the year’s top four films: Beverly Hills Cop II heading talking-point thriller Fatal Attraction and Brian De Palma’s stylish throwback The Untouchables. Further hits followed via Murphy (Coming to America, 1988) and Steven Spielberg (Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, 1989). Yet after an exhausted Tanen quit in 1988, the studio found itself newly vulnerable to creative ego and marketplace vagaries.

In 1990, the studio had a huge summer hit with Ghost, but the Tom Cruise vehicle Days of Thunder, Francis Ford Coppola’s The Godfather Part III and the completed The Two Jakes all underperformed. Following squabbles with Paramount’s parent company Gulf + Western, Mancuso walked away, filing a breach-of-contract lawsuit and receiving a $20m settlement. He told reporters: “Most people who know me never mistake my fairness and the calmness in my manner for weakness.”

Frank George Mancuso was born on July 25, 1933 to Buffalo postal worker George Mancuso and his wife Mary (née Scott). He got into film early: at fifteen, he lied about his age to become an usher in his hometown’s Lafayette Theatre. He was promoted to assistant manager while studying optometry at New York State University; after graduating in 1958, he oversaw programming of the same cinema chain’s fifty theatres across New York and Pennsylvania.

In 1993, Mancuso returned to the studio fold, replacing Alan Ladd Jr. as the head of MGM. Once again, he began to work his magic: MGM won awards with Leaving Las Vegas (1995) and had hits with Stargate (1994), Get Shorty (1995) and the revived James Bond series, while a shrewd acquisitions policy swelled MGM’s film library from 1,600 to 3,800 titles. (These were foundational to the $8.5bn deal by which Amazon acquired MGM in 2022.)

He was appointed Governor of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences in 1986; he served as chairman of the Motion Picture and Television fund between 2003 and 2010.

He is survived by Frances “Fay” Mancuso (née Mauro), the childhood sweetheart he married in 1957, and by the couple’s two children, the designer Maria Mancuso Gersh and the producer Frank Mancuso Jr.

Frank Mancuso Sr., born July 25, 1933, died October 1, 2026.

Frantic: "Forgotten Island"


Competition for the latest round of Best Animated Feature gongs is in the process of ratcheting up. Netflix launched its Brad Bird-directed
Ray Gunn at last week's London Film Festival; Laika's stopmotion Wildwood lands in cinemas this Friday. In the meantime, we shall have to make do with Forgotten Island, DreamWorks' zappy effort to split the difference between Disney's Moana, their own Trolls franchise and last year's all-conquering Netflix behemoth K-Pop Demon Hunters. From the former, directors Joel Crawford and Januel P. Mercado take a sherbet colour palette and an honourable yen for greater Pacific island representation: our heroines are schoolgirls in the Philippines of the 1990s - brainiac Raissa (Liza Soberano) and rowdy wildcard (H.E.R.) - whose friendship is founded on a keen sense of adventure. From the latter two, the film takes anime-style cutaways, a hyperonline mode of audience address and a belief in the power of pop music to either change the world or simply capture an emotion - although as the featured songs are Eighties standards by the likes of Journey, Simple Minds and INXS (and as the leads' Ryan Tedder-penned closing-credits duet "BRB" appears to owe some uncredited musical debt to When in Rome's 1987 artefact "The Promise") the primary emotion viewers outside the target demographic will feel being captured is a deep sigh of Christ, I'm old weariness.

Unacknowledged amid the movie's frantic digimated splicing-and-dicing: any real recognition that last year was such an undistinguished year for feature animation that a well-marketed ever-present like Demon Hunters - unavoidable on TV, the radio, the merch shelves or the Internet - was always likely to scoop everything. Forgotten Island, for its part, suggests the limitations of the lol, random storytelling style that has become a feature of so much 21st century family fare. While it's undeniably a progression that the animated feature has moved past Disney's picture-perfect princesses, having a pair of distractible dorks gabble through key scenes of exposition lessens the dramatic stakes and leaves us less than clear as to what's going on. As Jo and Raissa tumble through one such unexplained portal and into the fantasyland of the title - lol, random - the manic gabbiness brings us to some funny lines and cute bits of business: I liked the angry marshmallow warriors, resembling the Terracotta Army as remodelled by Pillsbury. Yet it also seems to speak, at roughly twelve to the dozen, to an underlying creative insecurity: we're being dragged by the seat of our pants through a culture rather than being allowed - as the original Moana allowed us - to sit with and marvel at it. Even as these events unfolded, I would have struggled to tell you the specific cultural significance of the giant parrot, the three-eyed baby, the cat memory demon, the talking dog with the infected chest tattoo or his cerulean gymbuddy with a trident: they're just the colourful filler characters we've all too regularly encountered inside the multiplex. It's a case of mixed blessings, then. Unlike a lot of commercially minded animation, Forgotten Island does have a personality, but it's the overbearing (and extremely loud) kind you tend to back away from at parties; and it does have moments of visual artistry, but - as with the surreal dream house finale - these are freefloating, unmoored from what's around them, and they register for a split-second before Crawford and Mercado scrabble onto the next setpiece. Belatedly, their film arrives at a crystallising image for itself, in the form of a thousand Post-It notes blowing in the wind; it feels like a production that's had to be hastened into cinemas before the animated bar gets decisively raised for another year.

Forgotten Island is now showing in cinemas nationwide.

Sunday, 18 October 2026

For what it's worth...




UK box office Top Ten (for the weekend of October 9-11, 2026):

1 (new) Other Mommy (15)
2 (1) Verity (15)
3 (3) Heart of the Beast (12A) ***
4 (2) Resident Evil (15)
5 (new) The Social Reckoning (15) **
6 (5) Sense and Sensibility (U)
7 (new) The Uprising (15) **
9 (4) Digger (15)
10 (12) The Odyssey (15) ***

(source: BFI)

My top five:
1. The Others [above]
3. Dracula/Horror of Dracula


DVD/Blu-Ray/Download top ten: 

1 (new) Spider-Man: Brand New Day (12) ***
2 (re) Toy Story 5 (PG) **
3 (new) Paw Patrol: The Dino Movie (U)
4 (re) Minions & Monsters (U)
5 (new) Insidious: Out of the Further (15)
7 (2) Disclosure Day (12) **
8 (1) The Mandolarian & Grogu (12)
9 (new) Paw Patrol: 3-Movie Collection (U)
10 (13) Michael (12)


My top five: 
1. The Secret Agent


Top five films on terrestrial TV this week:
1. North by North-West (Saturday, BBC Two, 2.15pm)
2. Halloween (Friday, BBC Two, 10pm)
3. Selma (Monday, BBC Two, 11.05pm)
4. Children of Men (Sunday, BBC One, 11.40pm)
5. Priscilla (Sunday, BBC Two, 10.45pm)

Saturday, 17 October 2026

Kelp!: "Whalefall"


Brian Duffield's Whalefall has one of the daffier conceits you will see an American studio movie proceed from in 2026: this is, to some degree, Hollywood taking the Book of Jonah at face value. A year after the mysterious suicide of his diver father at sea, grief-stricken college kid Jay (Austin Abrams) returns to the bay where pop took his final plunge and starts scouring the ocean floor in a bid to retrieve his father's remains. The opening stretch of Duffield's film does much to show off the advances made in underwater photography in recent years: we can discern every passing frond and fish Jay encounters beneath the waves, before the film arrives at a pivotal pause on the brink of an ominous abyss, into which our kid will make a fateful descent of his own. He is, we fear, getting rapidly out of his depth, a suspicion only confirmed after Jay gets snarled up in the backwash of a fight between a giant squid and a passing sperm whale, and - worse still - is swallowed up by the latter. Suddenly the screen floods with picture-book images of which Jules Verne himself might have approved. Here's our guy clinging onto the whale's front incisors for dear life; here he is trying to avoid a clubbing from the creature's heavy, lolling tongue; and now here he is in the whale's stomach, having to rely on the phosphorescence of the whale's largely liquid lunch (parbroiled jellyfish with a sprig of plankton) to help light his way. That's right: it's a Hollywood movie where the hero spends almost the entire running time literally in the belly of the beast. Whatever else Visionary Filmmaker Christopher Nolan™ pulled off with this summer's The Odyssey, he never thought to give us that.


Co-written by Duffield with Daniel Kraus (adapting his own fiction bestseller), the film that results is a curious hybrid, splashing around between a number of genres and never quite making dry land. (Hence the critical bafflement.) Some considerable part of Whalefall steers close to boys'-own adventure territory: Jay is trying to prove himself to the memory of an overbearing father (Josh Brolin, in prologue and semi-regular flashbacks) who once accused his boy of having "weak lungs". At times, something more horrific drifts into view, akin to an Alien movie that aligns us with the perspective of John Hurt's chestburster, or a damper, stickier Cube: Jay has to navigate his host's duodenum, the intestines large and small, each cavity and chamber posing its own challenges. There's even something of the generic prison-break movie sloshing around in here: consider it Jacques Cousteau's The Shawshank Redemption. Whalefall gives good production design (by Ramsey Avery), even if it's not always clear where we are and what Abrams, obliged by circumstance to keep the mouthpiece of his breathing apparatus in place, is trying to articulate. (A prevailing limitation: this is, shall we say, not the most relatable crisis into which a movie has pitched its audience.) Those sporadic, Slumdog-like flashbacks - revealing Jay had the solutions to his problems all along - would seem very rote were it not for Brolin, having an absolute ball as a heavily tatted, highly individualistic old salt. (This is recognisably the Brolin of the actor's recent memoir.) By contrast, Elisabeth Shue and Jane Levy are mostly wasted as our guy's mom and sister: it is, in the end, another all-American dads-and-lads tale, one that falls short of the cosmic, circle-of-life scale Duffield and Kraus are aiming for, instead landing closer to Ad Astra on a budget. My suspicion was that Whalefall might have been tossed out like chum in the January dumping grounds had it not been for the success of the recent, Abrams-starring Resident Evil redo, yet it's the kind of semi-diverting goof you watch with a smile on your face and a chuckle never too far from your lips. (How on earth did anyone sign off on this?) It's not good, exactly, but it might slip down well with a big bucket of salted popcorn; the delicate ecosystem of the multiplex will always feel healthier for a studio taking a modest gamble on a spitball like this, rather than betting the house on a film like Digger.

Whalefall is now showing in cinemas nationwide.

Connection lost: "The Social Reckoning"


Hollywood has got its wires crossed again. Aaron Sorkin wanted David Fincher to direct his latest script, it being the sequel to 2010's The Social Network, which Fincher directed. Fincher, however, was busy at Netflix, directing one of Quentin Tarantino's cast-offs, so Sorkin decided to direct The Social Reckoning himself. Such is the dishevelment of the studio system in 2026: everyone has ended up in the wrong place doing the wrong thing. Flash back to 2010, and you'll remember The Social Network was something like Peak Fincher, the work of a former pop promo tyro using his mastery of sound, vision and editing to craft a film as addictive as its social-media subject. (I remember the quiet buzz of a packed public preview the night before the film officially opened: the audience, for once, glued to one big screen, collectively humming like a data centre.) When that much-feted project failed to land Fincher the awards he had so conspicuously been working towards with TSN and its immediate predecessors (2007's Zodiac, 2009's Benjamin Button), that was it: there followed a half-decade of the director giving the public what he felt they wanted (2011's The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, 2014's Gone Girl) before he took the Netflix dime on the grounds it was the path of least resistance. The tardy sequel that follows without him falls instead to a writer still best known for his TV work and a decidedly B-team cast of TV faces (few of whom have been proven to work on the big screen), so it's perhaps little surprise it should seem like a TV movie of sorts, perfunctorily and artlessly recreating the real-world circumstances whereby whistleblower Frances Haugen (played here by Anora's Mikey Madison) and Wall Street Journal reporter Jeff Horwitz (Jeremy Allen White) came to expose the fact Facebook was actively radicalising its users. Not since 2010's Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps has a sequel been more deleteriously overshadowed by what's come before. Where the first film was sharp and snappy, a Facebook movie for the age of Twitter (RIP), this follow-up is creaky and clunky, a Facebook movie modelled after a Western Union telegram.


One issue Sorkin never overcomes is that Reckoning tells an intrinsically less compelling story. The first movie's drama was interpersonal, Fincher working against the televisual neatness of Sorkin's writing by pitting his capable actors against one another in interesting, involving ways. (The Social Network may still be as close as anybody's got to filming Donna Tartt's beloved novel The Secret History.) Reckoning's story is more heavily informational, relying on regular data dumps and exposition, on mouthpiece-characters explaining who they are and what they do for a living. As yet another such figure pops up, you realise one reason the Musks and Zuckerbergs of this world have so far got away with as much as they have is that their excesses and crimes are very hard to describe without putting the layman (and any jurist) to sleep; their brand of sociopathy, switching ones and zeroes on a whim, is banally algorithmic and data-driven. The first movie had characters, personalities who took carefully defined shape before your eyes, every cut serving as a screen refresh: what Sorkin wrote was matched (perhaps even improved upon) by who Fincher cast and what those actors did with their roles. The connections held, and the electricity powering the whole project flowed from film to viewer: we, too, felt plugged in. Here, everything proves far fritzier, starting with Sorkin's casting. Madison obviously represents hot casting in the wake of her Oscar win, but she seems young even for an idealistic Facebook wonk; Sorkin has to resort to putting glasses on her and a stock soaring score under her climactic speech in the hope of lending her words the necessary weight. (The mind inevitably drifts back towards Rooney Mara in the Fincher film, older and wiser than her years.) White stolidly holds down the Sorkin position: his Horwitz is a dyed-in-the-wool nostalgic who prefers paper maps to Waze, knows the words to the songs of Show Boat and is so resolutely offline he has no idea how Protonmail works. Yet he remains an altogether bland hero, where the Andrew Garfield character in TSN had skin in the game, often appearing as disgusted by himself as he was by anything Zuckerberg did.

Jeremy Strong's Zuck, meanwhile, is another of this actor's very sharp yet ever so slightly joyless impersonations. He sure looks the part - like a gym-hardened Roman emperor, both his profile and his bearing crying out to be minted on coins - yet he's been characterised as a villain in the old-school sense: no longer the wayward prodigy Jesse Eisenberg so brilliantly captured, this Zuckerberg is a made man, someone long gone down his chosen path, someone who has himself had all the empathy radicalised out of him. All we can do during his scenes is boo (or hit the thumbs-down emoticon); it doesn't help that the character has been cordoned off in the section of the film that most resembles a Sorkin stageplay, where we find him being briefed by his advisors as to how to respond to the heroes' accusations. Just from a dramatic perspective, it's a letdown that he never comes face-to-face with the outside world represented by Horwitz and Haugen: true to life though this may be, it leaves us feeling some vital connection, some motivating spark, has been lost. In isolation, Sorkin can still write a funny line, a good scene, a neat payoff, but this Sorkin is the Sorkin of The Newsroom, trying to set the world to rights with the tricks and tropes he picked up from the scribes of his youth, oblivious to the fact the world and its algorithms have moved on. Fincher the agitator determined to mess with that syntax and punch up the underlying conflicts, but Sorkin's direction is merely content to underline everything he'd earlier set down at the word processor. (I can't be certain what Fincher would have made of the scene here where Sorkin mansplains mansplaining, but the results would almost certainly have been less self-satisfied.) The Social Network remains significant, because it demonstrated that even as recently as sixteen years ago, with the Marvel corporation gearing up for global hegemony, a major American studio could still rally its creative resources and deliver a state-of-the-art movie that engaged the general public. When I came to see The Social Reckoning on the final day of its opening week, by complete contrast, I was the only person in the cinema. As a literalisation of where social media has left us, that cannot be beaten. But it also suggests Aaron Sorkin could no more recapture the zeitgeist in 2026 than I could be the next James Bond.

The Social Reckoning is now showing in selected cinemas.

Tuesday, 13 October 2026

The good, the bad, the weird: "Hope"


In one go, you can see exactly why Na Hong-jin's
Hope was snapped up by boutique studio Neon at Cannes this year, why it didn't win any prizes there, and why it hasn't exactly set the Western box office alight in recent weeks, as its distributor surely hoped. This is a subtitled Korean action fantasy constructed on modern Hollywood lines, the business of a pulpy B-movie drawn out to a length (160 minutes) more commonly associated with Memories of Murder-like artistic statements, topped with a coda setting up sequels that may or may not now follow. (Everybody wants a money-spinning universe, before they've determined whether there's an audience out there.) Previously a purveyor of much-exported, much-cheered genre items (The Chaser, The Yellow Sea, The Wailing), Na is pushing on into bigger-picture, potential blockbuster territory here: such expansiveness is clear from Hope's prologue, which spends a leisurely ten-to-fifteen minutes determining that we're on the outskirts of a small bordertown, where intemperate police chief Bum-seok (Hwang Jung-min) and a huddle of concerned citizens with hunting rifles have congregated over the carcass of a recently mauled heifer. Dead livestock will prove the least of this group's problems, as the following two hours turn up human limbs hanging limply from trees, holes blown through local real estate, and a pack of feral monsters revealed to be aliens on a tear. (With, it turns out, good reason.) We get the pulp, the blood, the gore, thrills both cheap and nasty, plus bonus flickers of genuine event-movie artistry. But as early as that prologue, we're also getting plenty of bluster, waffle, hot air, wrong turns and dead ends. For better and worse, Na remains one of those incorrigible auteurs who take not the slightest bit of notice of even their most trusted producers' notes; Hope, accordingly, turns out to be something like the Tristram Shandy of monster movies.

Both the maximalism and the waywardness here were built-in. Rather than seek out a choice handful of shooting locations, Na appears to have commandeered an entire town for several weeks, shaken its properties around by the ankles, and emptied their contents out onto the streets before him. The movie is a masterpiece of production and art design, countering the minimalism of a Backrooms with the chaotically dishevelled sightlines of a garage sale: one alternative title would be Front Yards. (Everything must go.) That roominess has encouraged Na to start showboating: he, too, is in salesman mode here. He directs in pauses for audience gasps and laughter; a scene where two characters count to three and still do nothing; a mid-film lunch break; a long postmortem; and an even longer monologue about pooing. Throughout, he keeps bringing on turns who bicker, bumble, fumble, stumble and fall over; it takes these variably dimwitted folks a good ten minutes longer than us to reach the same conclusions, which means we spend much of the running time waiting around for them to catch up. In Memories of Murder, that comprehension lag served a narrative purpose: it told us something about the unreliability of the authorities working the case. Here, however, it just plays as a consequence of a well-placed filmmaker taking an opportunity to goof off. There are certainly reasons for Na to delay showing the film's monsters: when they're finally tracked down, they're revealed as sloppy old things, resembling aggrieved ragdolls or rejected Iron Maiden cover art. These aggressors port across some of the ferocity of Na's earlier work - they're certainly more frenzied than, say, Mark Ruffalo's mo-cap Hulk - but they also pitch us into yet another conflict between humans and visual effects; much of the first hour feels like watching somebody else play a videogame, much of the second is live-action cartoon, with the principals being bounced repeatedly off trees at high velocity without incurring harm, and then it's back to videogames again for the inconclusive wrap-up. Parasite crossed over because it was doing something Hollywood, in its current iteration, couldn't: craft a Marxist parable within a distinctively Korean idiom. (It felt both radical and a discovery, even before we considered the excellence of its storytelling.) Nothing in Hope dispels the notion Na is a capable engineer of baroque shaggy-dog stories, but equally nothing goes too far beyond one of the better made MCU instalments: the movie is, finally, just a bloodier variant of that spectacle Hollywood has been pumping out every three months for the past eighteen years. Rightly or wrongly, in this case, audiences have decided to shop local.

Hope is now showing in selected cinemas.

Sunday, 11 October 2026

The climb: "Tenzing"


Given the film industry's general direction of travel in recent years,
Tenzing might perhaps seem like an inevitability. Here's a lavish, streamer-backed period drama about the 1953 conquest of Everest - or Chomolungma, to give it its local name - as revisited not from the colonialists' POV, but that of Tenzing Norgay, the Nepalese sherpa who made it possible. The director is Jennifer Peedom, who established herself as a big-climb specialist with her 2015 documentary Sherpa and its 2017 follow-up Mountain; together with Lion screenwriter Luke Davies, she's adapted Ed Douglas's 2003 biography Tenzing: Hero of Everest. As played by Genden Phuntsok with a soulful mien and floppy period hair that is eventually revealed to have narrative significance, this Tenzing is seen to have travelled this way before. A prologue dramatises the young Tenzing's encounter with George Mallory (a cameoing Johnny Flynn) on the mountain's lower slopes in 1924; his adult self, we learn, was part of the Swiss expedition who only just failed to reach the summit in 1952. The palefaces here are relegated to the supporting cast, from where they summon varying levels of colonial condescension. Willem Dafoe, with a chewy English accent, is the blustery Colonel John Hunt, insisting his men conquer the mountain for the new Queen before overseeing a vertical talent contest to determine which climbers will make it to the very top; a nicely relaxed Tom Hiddleston is Edmund Hillary, the Kiwi loner who comes to feel he has more in common with his Nepalese guides than with his English masters; and Catriona Balfe, embodying a recognisably mumsy upper-class type, is the Army secretary who packs her boys off on their way. It is, then, a film that has worked out something seasoned climbers will appreciate: a different yet no less rewarding line of approach, offering new sights, sounds and perspectives. Around half of Davies's dialogue is presented as subtitled Sherpa, and Peedom can now cut pointedly to Tenzing's face when the British ambassador declares Everest a British mountain, catching emotions most directors wouldn't have thought to film two decades ago.

What Tenzing can't quite shake, as it proceeds on this climb, is that familiar biopic sense of predestination. Peedom and Davies are simply updating an old adventure-movie template, after all, cross-fading between spectacular vistas, mocked-up cine-camera footage and dotted lines on interstitial maps. Partly, this is a structural issue: the ascent is interrupted by clockwork-regular flashbacks, filling us in on how the protagonist got this far. These sequences at least reveal how Tenzing was having to navigate not just the Brits' prejudices, but those of his own people: accusations he was a mere servant boy (and from a lower caste than sherpas were typically drawn), fears that a successful ascent would put paid to any future sherpa-ing work. (History and the mountains of litter now threatening to obscure Everest would seem to have proven those fears ill-founded.) The writing gets more haphazard the closer we get to the top: there are one or two false trails, while a late veer into pop psychology feels notably more "rousing Hollywood movie" than "lived Sherpa experience". Yet Peedom really does know how to shoot mountains: working with the Aussie cinematographer Stefan Duscio, she lights these rock formations as Josef von Sternberg once did Dietrich, and shows Everest looming over her players and stunt climbers as at once a source of fascination, a place of surreal, forbidding beauty and a challenge to which the smitten must rise. She locks down the physical aspects of mountaineering: the crampons and carabiners, the draining hard work of lugging equipment from one camp to the next in subzero conditions. But she also understands the spiritual implications: she's realised this ascent was a far bigger deal for someone who was tilling fields a few years before this expedition than it would have been for rich foreigners trailing all the equipment, training and resources in the world. Speaking of whom: it's a pity Apple aren't deigning to give Tenzing anything more than the most cursory theatrical push, for this is, in the end, a handsome, foursquare, finally stirring big-screen entertainment, not to mention an early frontrunner in the category of the year's Best Dad Film. There will surely be shakier and less satisfying ventures as we hike on deeper into awards season: you may want to stock up on Kendal Mint Cake while you have the chance.

Tenzing is now showing in selected cinemas, and will be available to stream on Apple TV from Friday 16.

Saturday, 10 October 2026

Anger management: "The Uprising"


This has been the most muted reception afforded a Paul Greengrass film since 2020's
News of the World, and that emerged during lockdown as one of those occasional for-streaming projects directors now have to undertake for creative collateral. Part of that response is likely the muddiness - and, as many critical first responders have noted, the sheer muddledness - of The Uprising itself, Greengrass's self-penned account of the 14th century Peasants' Revolt. Part of it may be a residual metropolitan unease around the idea of Englishness being evoked here. We rejoin this filmmaker in social historian mode: it's Greengrass the World in Action graduate trying to tap into that pulsing vein of popular discontent that has bulged out of the world's forehead in recent times. (In interviews, the director has pointed out that the epicentres of this Revolt - notably Kent and Essex - were also the epicentres of Brexit.) This script doesn't have to look far to spot parallels between then and now: the widely perceived shredding of a social contract (here overseen by a child king, as bratty and guileless as many recent British PMs), a restless populace emerging from years of plague with a desire for a world that aligns more closely with their beliefs and ideals, politicos choosing to spare the rich and tax the poor instead, a festering resentment that suddenly gathers momentum and erupts overground with unanticipated consequences. The film's notional subject, then, is rage: that urge we sometimes get, individually and collectively, to rise up, smash things up and - if necessary - string people up. It's Brexit, it's January 6th, it's whatever the fuck is currently going on down on the South Coast. But at a crucial juncture, The Uprising turns against itself; someone other than Greengrass appears to take back control, and the drama is seen to shoot itself in the foot. In the end, it's a film that doesn't so much explain Brexit as exemplify it.

The opening two thirds, guided by a sometime documentarist's eye, aren't bad: this is almost certainly the first multiplex film of this type to have been made by someone who's seen and internalised the work of Peter Watkins and the Brownlow/Mollo Winstanley. (Not unrelated: Greengrass appears to be working on a smaller budget than usual.) We spy traces of Greengrass the skilled tactician at work in the depiction of how networks of resistance are built, a process that in the 14th century was far more haphazard - and far more complicated - than simply clicking on a Facebook group. And familiar faces and names begin to emerge from the prevailing autumnal gloom: Cosmo Jarvis as the farmer-turned-figurehead Wat Tyler, Jamie Bell as the so-called heretic preacher John Ball. Our primary focal point, however, is a young man referred to only as Ploughman. Played by Andrew Garfield, with his soulful, searching gaze and boyband hair, Ploughman enters the gathering throng with the best of intentions and the dictionary definition of legitimate concerns: as we find him, he's just being radicalised by the imposition of the so-called death tax, which obliged family members to pay for the passing of their loved ones, and by the roughing-up of a defenceless woman by the King's goons. Set against the radical Ball and the insurrectionist Tyler, Ploughman can seem a bit Lib Dem, imploring his fellow citizens to send captured noblemen back to their castles and palaces with warning messages, rather than taking an axe to any heads. Yet as the crowd marches on London, Ploughman's function here is mostly that of an observer, spotting the notes of solidarity and fellow-feeling, hearing out shared grievances, registering what happens when the delicate process of dialogue breaks down, bearing witness to the subsequent spiralling of rage, acts of treachery and finally bloodshed. For the most part, The Uprising is the same cautionary tale you were told in secondary school - by teachers themselves trying to ward off potential insurrections - only written slightly larger for the big screen.

As filmed history, it's small-c conservative rather than joltingly radical, but governed by a steadying sobriety and seriousness that steers it some of the way: I wasn't reminded of Python, as some colleagues have been. Cinematographer Pål Ulvik Rokseth shoots in sombre earth tones, capturing individuals getting swallowed up by and lost in frenzied, hollering, pitchfork-wielding mobs, rebels on one side, courtiers (an illustrious cabal: Tom Hollander, Stephen Dillane, Stanley Townsend, Jonny Lee Miller) on the other, a woman and a child (in the form of Woody Norman's Richard II and his etiolated mother Katherine Waterston) somewhere in the middle. Greengrass the reporter beds in among them, keeping an eye out for both the root causes and the murderously illegitimate effects of this revolt. Sure, tear it down, burn it up, leave the EU, if you must; toss your leaders and figureheads out of windows and under a bus. But what are you going to replace those things with? What's your long-term strategy here? Those aren't bad questions for a mass entertainment to be asking in 2026, and they inform the supporting performances to some degree. Jarvis's Tyler is a simple man elevated to prominence after landing a few well-aimed punches; strategically, though, he's soon out of his depth, spending almost the entire second half looking woozy, punch-drunk, historically concussed. (Bell's Ball, meanwhile, resembles Nosferatu in his shaven head and robes.) The Kiwi Thomasin McKenzie, however, feels miscast as a close-cropped Home Counties urchin, seemingly drafted in to make a rugged film less blokey, and this Uprising does finally appear to have been quelled by a slow drip of producers' notes. (Among the less expected names on these credits: Jason Blum, founder of Blumhouse.) For ninety minutes, The Uprising is - contra its title - a mournful, circumspect, quietly admirable pageant, striving to calm us down rather than agitate. Yet towards the end, the tone shifts and the film charges away from its director. Altogether more bullish in its action, the battlefield conclusion is Sealed Knot Ridley Scott, while a frankly silly coda, reframing the Ploughman as a proto-Robin Hood putting the fear of God into the ruling classes, leaves us in the sunlit uplands of historical wish-fulfilment. Greengrass, too, seems to have been worn down into giving the people what they want. It's a pity, but The Uprising has the distinct look of a film on the roots of English resistance cut off at the knees by foreign agitators: in this case, restless test audiences in suburban Californian multiplexes.

The Uprising is now playing in cinemas nationwide.

Friday, 9 October 2026

For what it's worth...




UK box office Top Ten (for the weekend of October 2-4, 2026):

1 (new) Verity (15)
2 (2) Resident Evil (15)
3 (3) Heart of the Beast (12A) ***
4 (new) Digger (15)
5 (4) Sense and Sensibility (U)
6 (1) Avengers: Endgame Encore (12A)
8 (new) Drishyam: The Conclusion (12A)
9 (6) Practical Magic 2 (12A)
10 (7) Pressure (15) ***

(source: BFI)

My top five:


DVD/Blu-Ray/Download top ten: 

1 (re) The Mandolarian & Grogu (12)
2 (1) Disclosure Day (12) **
3 (new) A Better Tomorrow Trilogy (15)
4 (re) Amélie (15) ***
5 (9) Supergirl (12)
6 (new) Forbidden Planet (U) ****
7 (new) Colony (15)
8 (7) Obsession (18) *
9 (5) Scary Movie [2026] (15)
10 (new) The Abominable Snowman (PG)


My top five: 
1. The Secret Agent


Top five films on terrestrial TV this week:
1. A Matter of Life and Death (Saturday, BBC Two, 10.15am)
2. A Few Good Men [above] (Sunday, Channel 4, 7.30pm)
3. Don't Look Now (Sunday, BBC Two, 10.45pm)
4. The Silence of the Lambs (Friday, BBC Two, 10pm)
5. The Great Escape (Saturday, BBC Two, 5.55pm)