Author: Caillou Pettis

Silent Night, Deadly Night: The BRWC Review.

Mike P. Nelson’s Silent Night, Deadly Night arrives with the weight of legacy on its shoulders. As the second remake of the controversial 1984 cult classic—and the seventh installment in a franchise built on holiday carnage—it attempts to blend reverence, reinvention, and a bracing modern edge. Nelson, who both writes and directs, shifts the tale into a more psychological direction, grounding the iconic Killer Santa archetype in trauma, denial, and buried emotion. What emerges is a film that boasts impressive craft, strong performances, and grisly kill sequences, even if it sometimes feels too restrained and too solemn for its own lineage.

At the center of this new interpretation is Rohan Campbell, portraying Billy Chapman with quiet, wounded intensity. Audiences familiar with Campbell’s work in The Hardy Boys or Halloween Ends know he excels at characters caught between vulnerability and volatility. Nelson makes this duality the spine of the film. The classic premise remains intact: as a child, Billy witnesses the horrific Christmas Eve murder of his parents—a primal rupture that fractures his development and burrows into his subconscious. As an adult, he has become an annual scourge, donning the Santa suit not as a disguise but as an extension of his own damaged psyche. Each holiday season brings another wave of “punishment” in the form of calculated, chilling violence.

But where earlier entries reveled in the outrageous exploitation aesthetic of holiday horror, Nelson reorients the story toward character-driven escalation. This year, Billy’s path crosses with Pamela “Pam” Varo (played by Ruby Modine), a young woman whose compassion—and own brushes with grief—challenge his rigid worldview. Their interactions become the emotional hinge of the movie, a tug-of-war between the possibility of redemption and the inevitability of relapse into violence.

One of the most distinctive aspects of Nelson’s direction is the decision to portray Billy less as a camp icon and more as a haunted figure struggling against patterns he barely understands. In this regard, Campbell delivers a layered, deeply committed performance. His Billy is not charismatic, not quippy, and not gleeful; he is tormented, tense, and at times almost sympathetic. Campbell communicates decades of repressed terror through small gestures—a trembling lip, clenched jaw, or blank-eyed stare as snowflakes fall around him like ghosts. It is, unquestionably, one of the film’s strongest elements.

Ruby Modine complements him beautifully. As Pam, she emerges not as a standard Final Girl but as a character steeped in her own resilience and emotional acuity. Modine brings warmth and grounded strength to a story otherwise dominated by coldness—literal and metaphorical. Her scenes with Campbell provide the film’s most compelling dramatic beats, especially as Pam begins to understand that Billy’s violence stems not from supernatural evil but from unresolved trauma and manipulated memory.

Supporting cast members Mark Acheson (as Charlie) and David Tomlinson (as Max Benedict—the film’s human antagonist) offer steady if less nuanced contributions. Tomlinson in particular leans into the role of an outwardly respectable but morally rotten villain, giving the story a secondary threat that occasionally mirrors Billy’s brutality in unsettling ways.

Slasher films live and die by their set pieces, and Nelson knows this well. One of the most satisfying elements of the remake is the inventive, vicious, and visually stylish kills. Nelson leans into practical effects—the crunch of bone, the sizzle of holiday lights used for electrocutions, the grotesque creativity of snow-themed weaponry. The brutality feels grounded, not cartoonish, but still retains enough flare to satisfy genre fans.

The film’s cinematography is another standout. Snowy exteriors are captured with eerie beauty: cold blue palettes, sharp silhouettes of pine trees, and the warm glow of Christmas lights contrasting violently with the carnage they illuminate. There’s a painterly quality to several sequences, especially those showing Billy wandering through deserted small-town streets or stalking victims through half-lit cabins.

Nelson’s horror aesthetic leans into texture—crisp snow crunches, the creak of old holiday ornaments, the muffled silence of winter nights. These details enrich the atmosphere, giving the film a more polished look than many of its predecessors.

For all its strengths, Silent Night, Deadly Night suffers from a slow, sometimes overly brooding pace. Nelson’s attempt to inject psychological depth occasionally tips into prolonged stretches of introspection that undercut the tension. There are scenes in the middle act—flashbacks, dream sequences, emotional confrontations—that feel repetitive rather than illuminating.

Perhaps more disappointingly, the film lacks the campiness and unhinged charm that defined both the original 1984 film and its most beloved sequels. The absence of over-the-top kills, dark humor, or tongue-in-cheek festive absurdity may alienate longtime fans who cherish the franchise for its unapologetic trashiness. Nelson’s remake is respectful, grim, and serious—sometimes too serious for a property born out of holiday exploitation cinema.

Additionally, while the supporting cast performs adequately, the characters outside Billy and Pam occasionally feel thin, functioning mainly as symbolic targets rather than fully realized personalities.

Where the film regains its footing is in its excellent ending—one of its strongest assets. Without revealing specifics, the final sequence delivers both emotional payoff and chilling ambiguity. Nelson manages to merge the psychological themes with the visceral slasher energy in a way that feels appropriately tragic, surprising, and unsettling. The finale honors the franchise’s legacy while expanding Billy’s arc in a direction that feels earned.

The last scene between Campbell and Modine is especially powerful, offering a bittersweet mixture of fear, empathy, and lingering dread. It is the kind of ending that elevates the whole film and leaves the viewer contemplating what truly defines a monster.

Mike P. Nelson’s Silent Night, Deadly Night (2025) is a bold attempt to modernize the franchise. Its commitment to character drama, strong performances, arresting visuals, and brutally satisfying kill sequences give it substance and texture. However, its slower pacing and the absence of the campy charm that defined earlier entries keep it from becoming a definitive reinvention.

Still, the film is far from a lump of coal. Thanks to Rohan Campbell’s nuanced performance, Ruby Modine’s emotional grounding, and a memorable third act, the 2025 remake stands as a respectable, occasionally compelling, and atmospheric addition to the holiday horror canon

Five Nights At Freddy’s 2: The BRWC Review

Emma Tammi’s Five Nights at Freddy’s 2 continues Blumhouse’s adaptation of Scott Cawthon’s immensely popular game franchise with a sequel that embraces deeper lore, stylish visual craftsmanship, and an expanded cast. It’s a film that clearly knows its audience, rewarding those invested in the mythology of Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza while offering newcomers a more emotionally anchored story through the perspectives of Mike (Josh Hutcherson), Vanessa (Elizabeth Lail), and especially young Abby (Piper Rubio). While the sequel improves on several aspects of its predecessor, it also retains some familiar limitations—especially when it comes to scare factor and pacing. The result is an enjoyable, stylish, and sometimes surprisingly moving supernatural horror film that fans will appreciate, even if it doesn’t fully maximize its horror potential.

Set one year after the events of the first film, Five Nights at Freddy’s 2 pushes its characters into new emotional territory. Mike Schmidt continues to grapple with guilt, trauma, and responsibility, and Hutcherson’s performance brings a weary sincerity to the role. His arc is less about physical survival and more about protecting Abby, confronting the past, and untangling decades-old tragedy. This makes him an empathetic protagonist, even as the story widens far beyond his immediate family.

Vanessa, played once again by Elizabeth Lail, receives far more emotional depth this time around. Her connection to her father William Afton remains a psychological wound the film examines thoughtfully, and Lail portrays Vanessa with a haunted intensity that gives her scenes a powerful undercurrent. Piper Rubio’s Abby, meanwhile, becomes the emotional core of the film. Her curiosity, vulnerability, and lingering connection to the animatronics offer the story a different perspective—one that blends innocence with an unsettling sense of complicity. Rubio’s growth as a performer is evident, and her scenes frequently carry the film.

New cast members—such as Mckenna Grace in a memorable supporting role—strengthen the ensemble. The performances across the board are grounded, giving weight to material that could easily become too campy or chaotic.

Visually, Five Nights at Freddy’s 2 is a leap forward. Tammi and cinematographer Lyn Moncrief bring a sharper, moodier look to this sequel, with lighting and color choices that enhance both tension and nostalgia. The film frequently indulges in dreamlike stylization: flickering hallways, backlit silhouettes of animatronics, and eerie, music-box-infused sequences that evoke the feel of the games.

The animatronics, once again crafted by the Jim Henson Creature Shop, come alive with an impressive balance of tangibility and menace. Their movements remain slightly uncanny—controlled, slow, and unpredictable—which contributes heavily to the film’s suspense. Even when the film isn’t delivering full-on scares, its atmosphere remains immersive.

The sound design, too, is richly layered. Mechanical whirrs, faint giggles, sudden gear shifts, and music-box cues enhance the unnerving environment without resorting to cheap jumps. This technical proficiency helps elevate scenes that could otherwise feel familiar or predictable.

For fans invested in the game series, Five Nights at Freddy’s 2 will feel like a treasure trove. The film introduces new animatronics, expands on the mythology of the Marionette, incorporates the “Toy” line of characters, and delves into the origins of Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza. These additions feel authentic rather than forced, reflecting Cawthon’s involvement in the screenplay.

The narrative broadens the scope of the franchise by branching beyond one location and integrating new threats, mysteries, and revelations. Despite juggling a larger mythos, the film maintains clarity, giving viewers enough information to follow the increasingly complex supernatural machinery at play. It’s the rare game adaptation that respects its source material not just through references but through tone, character, and world-building.

However, Five Nights at Freddy’s 2 doesn’t fully avoid the issues that held back the first installment. The first act takes its time—sometimes too much time—establishing new characters, teasing lore, and setting up the supernatural mechanics. While this buildup pays off later, viewers may feel impatience early on, especially during dialogue-heavy scenes that sometimes feel stilted or overly expository.

Another drawback is its restraint with on-screen violence. Though the film implies grisly outcomes and maintains a sinister tone, many kills happen off-screen. While this may appeal to a broader audience, it limits the horror’s impact and reduces some sequences to tension without true payoff. Fans seeking a darker, more visceral sequel may find themselves wishing the film took bigger risks.

The scares themselves, though occasionally effective, never quite reach the intensity of the game series or rival genre contemporaries. Suspenseful moments exist—especially those involving dim lighting, toy animatronics, or slow-burn set pieces—but the film often prioritizes mystery and mythology over pure terror. For a franchise built on high-stress survival-horror experiences, that might leave some viewers wanting more.

Despite these issues, Five Nights at Freddy’s 2 succeeds as a continuation of the first film and a bridge toward bigger things. Its commitment to expanding character relationships, fleshing out lore, and conjuring a moody, dreamlike atmosphere gives it a personality distinct from other horror sequels. Tammi directs with confidence and clear affection for the material, and the script—though occasionally clunky—builds a compelling narrative that avoids repeating the first film beat-for-beat.

What emerges is a film that’s more ambitious, more complex, and more emotionally resonant than expected. Even with its milder scares and occasionally slow pacing, it remains engaging thanks to its strong performances, its commitment to world-building, and its reverence for the games’ aesthetics and mythology.

Five Nights at Freddy’s 2 may not be the scariest horror sequel of the year, but it stands as a thoughtful, stylish, and lore-rich addition to the franchise. With standout performances—especially from Hutcherson, Lail, and Rubio—gorgeous cinematography, and a dedication to expanding the mythology in meaningful ways, it offers fans plenty to enjoy. While the slow opening, some clunky dialogue, off-screen kills, and its somewhat muted scare factor prevent it from reaching its full potential, the film remains a satisfying and atmospheric journey deeper into the unsettling world of Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza.

For those invested in the story and the game universe, this sequel is a rewarding and eerie continuation—one that hints at an even darker, more ambitious chapter still to come.

Sisu: Road To Revenge – Another Review.

Sisu: Road to Revenge arrives with the difficult task of following one of the most ferociously stylized action breakouts of recent years. The original Sisu became a cult sensation thanks to its near-mythic simplicity, savage physicality, and its indestructible antihero Aatami Korpi. Rather than merely repeating that formula, writer-director Jalmari Helander widens the scale, pushes the absurdity further into pulp territory, and injects the sequel with heavier emotional stakes tied to national trauma and personal grief. The result is a louder, bloodier, more elaborate spectacle that delivers plenty of brutal satisfaction—even if some of the original’s lean magic is inevitably diluted in the process.

Set against the geopolitical fallout of World War II, the story finds Finland forced to cede Karelia to the Soviet Union, a historical wound that quietly shapes the film’s emotional landscape. Two years after Aatami’s legendary survival through Nazi territory, he ventures into hostile land with a singular mission tied to his destroyed past. Without leaning into dialogue-heavy explanation, the film frames his journey as both a physical odyssey and a symbolic act of reclamation. Helander retains his fondness for visual storytelling, allowing long stretches to play with minimal speech, where snowfields, forests, steel machinery, and bodies in motion communicate far more than words ever could.

Once again, Jorma Tommila proves himself one of the most compelling silent action figures in modern genre cinema. His Aatami remains a man seemingly carved from granite—emotionally restrained, terrifyingly efficient, yet finally more vulnerable than he was in the first film. What distinguishes his performance here is the subtle shift in purpose. In the original, he was defined by survival and revenge as elemental instincts. In the sequel, his actions feel more haunted, driven by memory, loss, and a stubborn refusal to let history erase him. Tommila’s ability to convey internal torment with little more than a stare, a clenched jaw, or labored breathing continues to be the franchise’s greatest asset.

The introduction of Stephen Lang as Igor Draganov is an inspired piece of casting. Lang leans into his weathered gravitas and trademark menace to create a villain who feels cut from the same cloth as Aatami, only shaped by twisted loyalties and war-hardened cynicism. Rather than a cartoonish antagonist, Draganov is presented as a ruthless survivor of another ideological machine, making their collision less about good versus evil and more about two war-forged relics smashing into one another. Richard Brake adds further texture as a sardonic KGB officer, injecting the proceedings with a chillier, more bureaucratic form of cruelty that contrasts with the raw brutality on display elsewhere.

From a technical standpoint, Road to Revenge is a significant escalation. The action design is larger, more elaborate, and frequently more outrageous than anything in the original. Helander clearly had a bigger budget at his disposal, and he spends it on helicopters, armored vehicles, explosive set pieces, and audacious practical stunts that flirt with grindhouse excess. The film frequently pushes into heightened, almost comic-book exaggeration, yet it remains grounded by its tactile violence. Bodies break, bones snap, and impacts feel painfully physical. Even when the scenarios verge on the implausible, they rarely feel weightless.

Cinematographically, the frozen landscapes of Karelia and the surrounding borderlands are rendered with stark, cold beauty. The whiteness of the snow, the rusted military machinery, and the deep blacks of shadowed interiors reinforce the film’s constant visual contrast between emptiness and brutality. The imagery remains one of the franchise’s strongest components—these are not anonymous backdrops, but hostile environments that actively shape the action. Helander uses wide compositions to emphasize isolation and tight, claustrophobic framing during combat to heighten tension and physical threat.

Tonally, however, the sequel walks a trickier line than its predecessor. The original Sisu thrived on its near-mythic simplicity, presenting Aatami as a force of nature colliding with increasingly desperate Nazis. Road to Revenge adopts a richer narrative framework that includes political forces, military hierarchies, and ideological motivations. This added complexity lends the sequel greater thematic weight, particularly in its exploration of post-war displacement and vengeance that never truly ends. At the same time, it slightly softens the primal purity that made the first film such a visceral shock.

The pacing reflects this shift. Whereas the original felt like a relentless sprint, the sequel allows itself more breathing room for buildup, travel, and character positioning. Some viewers will welcome this added narrative density, while others may find that it occasionally slows the adrenaline rush they expect from a Sisu film. The middle stretch, in particular, focuses heavily on pursuit mechanics and logistical obstacles, which, while impressively staged, lack the same mythic novelty as the original’s escalating gauntlet of Nazi foes.

Violence remains front and center, and Helander once again orchestrates action with an appreciation for clarity and cause-and-effect physics that many modern action films neglect. A punch lands with consequence. A gunshot is not just a noise but a decisive shift in momentum. Yet the sequel also indulges in moments of deliberate excess—spectacle that pushes into near-operatic destruction. These choices will likely divide audiences: some will revel in the audacity, while others may feel the film occasionally crosses from visceral into indulgent.

One of the most notable differences from the first film lies in its emotional undercurrent. The sequel places greater emphasis on the cost of Aatami’s survival, on what it means to keep moving forward after everything familiar has been burned away. Without drifting into melodrama, the film quietly interrogates whether vengeance truly grants peace or simply prolongs a state of perpetual war within the self. These ideas surface not through speeches, but through repetition of hardship, exhaustion, and the physical toll etched into Tommila’s performance.

The supporting cast, though often secondary to Aatami’s near-mythic presence, adds welcome texture. Soviet officers, soldiers, and bureaucrats are not depicted as a single faceless enemy mass, but as individuals shaped by fear, ambition, and survival instincts of their own. This gives the antagonistic forces greater dimensionality than the overtly villainous Nazis of the original film, reinforcing the idea that the cycle of violence has simply changed flags rather than ended.

Musically, the score once again leans on pounding rhythms and mournful undertones, alternating between propulsive energy during combat and somber minimalism during quieter stretches. It complements the visual brutality without overpowering it, and it reinforces the film’s sense of forward momentum even when dialogue recedes into silence.

If Road to Revenge stumbles, it is primarily due to escalation fatigue. The film frequently attempts to outdo its predecessor in sheer audacity, sometimes at the expense of the raw, elemental feel that made the original so distinctive. Bigger is not always better, and a few of the most bombastic sequences risk pulling the viewer out of the grounded savagery that initially defined Aatami as an unforgettable figure. The sequel’s mythology grows louder, but not always deeper.

Still, Helander deserves credit for not simply repeating himself. He expands the world thoughtfully, deepens his protagonist without sacrificing his mystique, and reframes the franchise from a gonzo revenge thriller into something closer to a post-war action myth about borders, identity, and unkillable will. The film retains its brutal sense of fun while layering in quiet reflections on loss and persistence.

Sisu: Road to Revenge stands as a strong, if slightly overstuffed, continuation of a cult action saga. It delivers ferocity, striking visuals, punishing combat, and a magnetically stoic lead performance that anchors even the most outrageous moments. While it does not fully recapture the stark, almost perfect simplicity of its predecessor, it succeeds in pushing Aatami’s story into darker, more complex emotional terrain.

For fans of the original, this sequel offers everything they could reasonably want: more carnage, more endurance-defying survival, and a hero who remains terrifying in his quiet resolve. For newcomers, it works as an intense piece of war-inflected action cinema that stands confidently on its own. With its mix of operatic violence, historical bitterness, and mythic perseverance, Sisu: Road to Revenge earns its merit as a bold, bruising sequel that may not be as pure as the first strike—but still hits with undeniable force.

Rental Family: Review

Directed by Hikari and co-written with Stephen Blahut, Rental Family is a quietly profound comedy-drama that balances tender human connection with sharp cultural observation. Anchored by an emotionally rich performance from Brendan Fraser, the film explores loneliness, chosen identity, and performance in both the literal and emotional sense. It is a gentle, thoughtful work that sneaks up on the viewer with its sincerity, occasionally uneven but deeply affecting in its best moments.

Set in contemporary Japan, the story follows Phillip Vandarploeug, an American actor stranded in professional purgatory after the fleeting success of a toothpaste commercial. With real acting opportunities scarce, Phillip accepts work at a peculiar agency that supplies clients with “rent-a-families” and fabricated social relationships for deeply personal reasons. The premise is inherently strange, yet the film treats it with careful restraint. Rather than exploiting the concept for broad satire or cheap laughs, Hikari approaches it as a fragile emotional ecosystem—one where longing, shame, hope, and desperation quietly coexist.

Brendan Fraser delivers one of his most understated and humane performances in years. Gone is the bombast of his earlier action-hero persona; in its place is a soft-spoken, emotionally available presence that feels perfectly calibrated for this story. Phillip is not portrayed as a savior figure or a wide-eyed foreigner amazed by Japanese culture. Instead, he feels like a man stalled in life, living on borrowed time and borrowed identities, trying to reconnect with purpose through the roles he plays both on and off the stage.

Opposite him, Takehiro Hira brings quiet authority and moral ambiguity to Shinji, the owner of the Rental Family agency. Hira’s performance is intentionally restrained—his expressions rarely flashy, his motivations allowed to remain partially opaque. Shinji is neither villain nor saint; he embodies the film’s central tension between emotional utility and emotional exploitation. His calm professionalism contrasts beautifully with Phillip’s growing internal conflict over what “authenticity” even means in a fabricated relationship.

Mari Yamamoto delivers one of the film’s most quietly powerful performances as Aiko, a fellow rental actor whose professional obligations increasingly clash with her personal sense of dignity. Yamamoto conveys immense emotional weight through small gestures and careful line readings, making her character’s moral struggle one of the film’s most haunting undercurrents. Meanwhile, veteran actor Akira Emoto gives Kikuo a poignant fragility—his gentle confusion, flickering memory, and buried regret rendered with heartbreaking subtlety.

Young Shannon Mahina Gorman is remarkably natural as Mia, a child navigating disappointment, guarded hope, and emotional vulnerability with realism that never feels forced. Her evolving dynamic with Phillip forms the emotional spine of the film and provides many of its most quietly devastating moments.

Hikari’s direction is deceptively simple but deeply intentional. Scenes are often allowed to breathe, with long quiet pauses that invite the viewer to sit inside the emotional discomfort of the characters. The film resists melodrama, favoring restraint over overt sentimentality. This minimalism enhances the emotional payoff when conflict finally surfaces—not through explosive confrontations, but through soft, painful realizations.

Thematically, Rental Family explores what it means to perform intimacy in a society that increasingly compartmentalizes emotional labor. The idea of “renting” human connection is treated not as science-fiction dystopia, but as a logical extension of modern isolation. The film asks difficult questions without heavy-handed answers: If comfort feels real, does its origin matter? Is a performed relationship automatically dishonest, or is emotional care still genuine regardless of its contractual foundation?

Phillip’s arc reflects these questions beautifully. He begins seeing his work as a temporary financial lifeline, but gradually experiences emotional fulfillment he has lacked in his real life. His struggle is not about rejecting the artificiality of his job outright, but about learning where performance ends and responsibility begins. The script never reduces him to a moral mouthpiece; instead, it lets his contradictions remain unresolved in ways that feel authentically human.

Visually, the film maintains a subdued, naturalistic aesthetic. Urban Japan is depicted with subdued realism rather than glossy tourism appeal. Apartment interiors feel lived-in and slightly claustrophobic, reinforcing the emotional confinement many characters experience. In contrast, moments of quiet reflection and travel are shot with soft natural light and careful framing, emphasizing impermanence, memory, and quiet beauty.

The camera often lingers at a respectful distance rather than intruding into moments of emotional vulnerability. This observational style reinforces the thematic idea that the audience, much like Phillip himself, is often a witness to constructed intimacy rather than fully authentic connection. The film’s pacing may feel deliberate to the point of slowness for some viewers, but that patience is crucial to the emotional accumulation that defines its final act.

The screenplay by Hikari and Stephen Blahut is strongest when focusing on interpersonal nuance rather than plot mechanics. Dialogue is understated, often elliptical, allowing emotional truths to emerge through implication rather than exposition. The script wisely avoids overexplaining the ethics of the rental family industry, letting the audience gradually assemble its own moral framework through observation.

What truly elevates the writing is its willingness to live in moral gray areas. No character is demonized for needing connection, and no solution is framed as universally correct. Even moments of conflict arise less from villainy than from incompatible emotional needs. This refusal to simplify emotional complexity gives the film its lingering resonance.

However, the script occasionally struggles with balance. With multiple client storylines unfolding simultaneously, some arcs feel more fully realized than others. A few secondary narratives hint at deeper psychological territory than the film has time to fully explore. While this fragmented structure mirrors the episodic nature of the rental business, it occasionally dilutes the narrative focus.

One of the film’s greatest achievements is its cultural sensitivity. Phillip’s status as a foreigner in Japan is never played for cheap comedy. Instead, it becomes a lens through which themes of displacement, identity, and emotional translation are examined. Hikari avoids exoticizing Japanese culture and instead portrays it as richly textured, modern, and internally complex.

The film also avoids presenting Western emotional authenticity as inherently superior. Phillip is not positioned as someone bringing emotional truth to a supposedly emotionally repressed society. Rather, he is shown learning from the emotional frameworks already in place, even as he wrestles with their ethical implications.

The score is sparse and unobtrusive, relying heavily on ambient sound and quiet piano motifs. Music is used not to manipulate emotions, but to underscore moments of reflection and transition. Silence, in many scenes, is more powerful than sound—allowing the weight of unspoken emotion to settle without distraction. This restraint suits the film’s meditative tone and reinforces its focus on internal rather than external drama.

Rental Family is a deeply humane film that explores modern loneliness with empathy, restraint, and emotional intelligence. Brendan Fraser’s quietly luminous performance anchors a story that could have easily slipped into sentimentality or conceptual gimmickry but instead finds authenticity in stillness, ambiguity, and moral tension. Hikari’s direction favors emotional accumulation over dramatic spectacle, rewarding patient viewers with moments of aching beauty and bittersweet reflection.

The film is not without its minor flaws—its pacing may test some audiences, and a few narrative threads feel underdeveloped—but these issues never overwhelm its emotional clarity or thematic richness. What lingers most is not a plot twist or grand statement, but a persistent emotional residue: the sense that connection, even when leased or performed, still leaves a lasting imprint on those who give and receive it.

In the end, Rental Family stands as a thoughtful meditation on what it means to belong, to pretend, and to care in a world where intimacy can be commodified but never fully controlled. It is a quiet triumph—modest in scale, generous in spirit, and deeply resonant long after the final scene fades.

Now You See Me: Now You Don’t – The BRWC Review

Nearly a decade after the last entry, Now You See Me: Now You Don’t arrives as both a continuation and a revival—an ambitious third chapter that leans confidently back into the series’ signature blend of grand-scale illusion, glossy heist spectacle, and twisting narrative design. With Ruben Fleischer taking over directing duties and a screenplay powered by Michael Lesslie, Paul Wernick, Rhett Reese, and Seth Grahame-Smith, the film positions itself as both an evolution and an homage: a story about the legacy of the Horsemen, the allure of trickery, and the cost of pursuing justice with smoke and mirrors.

Returning cast members Jesse Eisenberg, Woody Harrelson, Dave Franco, Isla Fisher, Lizzy Caplan, and Morgan Freeman reunite with surprising energy, but the film’s biggest spark comes from its trio of newcomers—Justice Smith, Dominic Sessa, and especially Ariana Greenblatt—who play the next generation of magicians thrust into the Horsemen’s orbit. Their dynamic injects vitality into a franchise that previously risked feeling tapped out.

Fleischer’s direction is perhaps the film’s greatest immediate asset. Unlike the sometimes scattershot visual energy of the second installment, Now You See Me: Now You Don’t feels more controlled and confident. The magic sequences—always the franchise’s selling point—are choreographed with showmanship and surprising intimacy. The camera doesn’t just sweep; it lingers, letting the audience admire the mechanics of sleight of hand before the inevitable flourish.

The film excels when blending physical illusions with digital-age trickery. Holograms, deepfakes, and technologically sophisticated misdirection elevate the narrative in ways that feel logical for a 2025 installment rather than a retread of past tricks. Fleischer uses these elements to craft sequences that are often funny, occasionally tense, and consistently enjoyable. It’s the closest the series has come to recapturing the freshness of the 2013 original.

The screenplay, meanwhile, is dense with moving parts—sometimes to its benefit, sometimes not. With multiple characters, shifting allegiances, a new antagonist, and a multi-stage heist involving “The Heart,” the world’s largest diamond, the story often veers toward overcomplication. But the writers anchor the narrative in momentum, ensuring the film always feels like it’s progressing toward a larger reveal even when the plot feels over-packed.

Jesse Eisenberg once again plays J. Daniel Atlas with his trademark jittery ego and sharp comedic timing. The film gives him less emotional weight than in previous entries, but it does allow him to evolve into a reluctant mentor figure, an enjoyable dynamic—especially opposite Justice Smith, who brings understated charisma as Charlie, a gifted young illusionist whose intellect and attitude make him instantly compelling.

Woody Harrelson delivers the franchise’s broadest humor as Merritt McKinney, refining a character who could easily skew cartoonish but remains grounded through Harrelson’s impeccable timing. Dave Franco and Isla Fisher comfortably fall back into their roles, and seeing Fisher return after her absence in the second film lends the ensemble a welcome sense of continuity. Lizzy Caplan also remains an irreverent delight, even if the script gives her fewer standout comedic beats this time.

Morgan Freeman’s presence lends the film a gravitas it doesn’t always earn, though his character is used more sparingly and more meaningfully than before. Without Michael Caine, whose retirement leaves a noticeable absence, the film pivots Freeman into a connective tissue between eras of the franchise, and it’s a surprisingly elegant choice.

Among the newcomers, however, one performance truly leaps out: Ariana Greenblatt. As June, the youngest of the new magicians, Greenblatt radiates quick wit, confidence, and emotional grounding. Even amid chaotic set pieces and a large ensemble, she commands attention. There’s a thrill in watching her character think through illusions in real time, and she brings a layered vulnerability that enriches the film far more than expected. It’s a breakout turn in a cast full of charismatic veterans.

Dominic Sessa is also strong, offering a dry, moody contrast to Smith and Greenblatt, though his role feels slightly underwritten in comparison. Still, the chemistry among the three newcomers hints at franchise longevity if Lionsgate chooses to continue.

The Now You See Me films have always been built around narrative misdirection, and this one is no different. The heist in Antwerp, the illusions inside the mansion in France, and the high-tension climax in Abu Dhabi form the backbone of the story, and each is executed with showmanship. Yet the film sometimes feels almost too eager to outsmart itself. For viewers who relish puzzle-box plotting, the structure will feel rewarding; for those looking for a more emotionally cohesive throughline, the constant pivots may dilute investment.

That said, the film does a strong job of making the audience feel involved. Fleischer’s direction favors sequences where characters verbalize their planning in tandem with visual demonstrations. This allows the viewer to appreciate how the illusions work without feeling talked down to. It’s a balancing act the second film struggled with, and it’s gratifying to see it corrected here.

Some narrative beats are weaker, particularly the villain setup. Rosamund Pike brings polished menace to Veronika, but the script never gives her enough dimensionality to match the charisma of the protagonists. Her motivations feel generic, and the film could have benefited from exploring her psychology with more nuance.

The emotional stakes also lack cohesion. There are hints of grief, betrayal, and moral ambiguity, but these threads never fully develop. Instead, the movie relies on kinetic energy and charismatic performers to carry it along—and for the most part, they succeed.

The production design is sleek, leaning into glowing neon palettes, elaborate sets, and optical illusions that feel tactile and exciting. The editing is crisp but not hyperactive, allowing the audience to appreciate the choreography of both magic and movement. The score blends playful mischief with propulsive beats, complementing the film’s showman-like spirit.

One of the strongest elements is the film’s commitment to practical effects. While CGI assists in executing futuristic illusions, Fleischer emphasizes physical trickery wherever possible. This gives the film a texture that the second installment lacked and helps bridge the gap between old-school magic and modern movie spectacle.

By the time the credits roll, Now You See Me: Now You Don’t has successfully reasserted the franchise’s identity: fun, stylish, twist-heavy entertainment propelled by personality and performance. It doesn’t aim for thematic depth or emotional resonance, and its plot can feel overextended, but it delivers engaging, inventive escapism.

Most significantly, it introduces a new ensemble capable of carrying the story forward. Justice Smith, Dominic Sessa, and Ariana Greenblatt—whose electric presence is the film’s standout component—give the series a youthful jolt that may define its future.