Mitch Winkler

Sophie and Bee are a new couple - but not so new that Sophie’s exuberant self-absorption isn’t beginning to take its toll. They’re heading off to ride out a hurricane with Sophie’s old friends at David’s parents’ posh place - and they’re both on edge because Sophie hasn’t been forthcoming about what exactly went down with her old chums that caused them to be out of contact for months. Everybody’s carrying poorly-hidden tension and deeply-hidden agendas. All are aggravating in the worst entitled frat-boy way. And it all comes to a head after a long night of drinking and drugging when Sophie suggests a game of “bodies bodies bodies” - a version of freeze-tag played in the dark where the secret “it” person “kills” victims by tagging them. On discovering a victim, the finder calls out “bodies bodies bodies”, the players all assemble, and the j’accuse begins. It’s no spoiler to say that people start turning up dead, and not in the fun pretend kinda way. It’d be easy to write this off as another derivative riff on the slasher subgenre ala “Scream”, but that’d be doing the film a disservice. This is a dark comedy of manners with horror overtones. The satire is biting and hilarious, and everything that goes wrong tilts chiefly because of the characters’ desperate insecurity. Gen Z takes it on the chin pretty hard here. The whole cast knocks it out of the park, including Gen Z posterboy Pete Davidson. Lee Pace plays a supporting role as a much older boyfriend, and I’m of the opinion that any time spent with Lee Pace onscreen is time well spent. The real monster in this movie is the toxic narcissism of Gen Z and the aftermath sunrise is a barely amped-up version of a real-life post-party dawn where everyone was too indulgent, too impulsive, too needy, and too desperate to avoid the consequences of their actions the night before. If you want to argue this isn’t a real horror movie, I’ll only say that if you’re right then neither was Shaun of the Dead. And even if you are right, I still like them both. On a scale of American Pie to The Breakfast Club ima give it a Better Off Dead. #MitchsMovieReviews

It takes a lot of guts to reskin the werewolf as a metaphor for domestic violence, and ima give full credit to The Beast Within for the attempt. Ima even give extra points for paying homage to what abuse-induced dissociation does to the memory and the psyche. But this is a horror movie that takes far too long to get to the horror. Pacing problems are my biggest complaint - two thirds of the movie is spent as though it’s building dread and suspense for the reveal of the big secret - which might have worked fine if they hadn’t already revealed the big secret IN THE FUCKING PROLOGUE. So the first hour is a suspenseless slog while we wait for the promised fur to start flying. When it does, the empathy that we’ve developed with the characters makes for a horrifying final act - just not quite a proportional return on our investment. Compounding this problem is a subplot in which Waylon briefly abducts Willow in a well-intentioned attempt to get her to safety, and Imogen fights tooth-and-nail to keep Willow in harm’s way. This has the effect of undercutting some of our empathy for Imogen, and further dissipating the payoff when her peril becomes acute. This is not to say I didn’t enjoy the movie. I enjoyed it quite a lot, in particular the artfully-ambiguous ending. And the performances were stellar all around. But the finished product felt clumsy, as though it needed another go in the editing bay. On a scale of The Hudsucker Proxy to Cool Hand Luke ima give it The Verdict. #MitchsMovieReviews

This is the second film by Damian McCarthy (Caveat was his first), and he’s really finding his stride as a talented creator of the intricately-plotted horror story. Oddity is more complicated than Caveat, coheres better, looks better, and works better. But there’s a catch to an intricate plot - it may be fun to watch a Rube Goldberg machine operate, but the setup is so complicated that it’s impossible to conceal where it’s going. Even so it was a lot of fun to watch the machine click away, and I’m looking forward to more of McCarthy’s movies. On a scale of Cannonball Run to What’s Up Doc ima give it a Rat Race. #MitchsMovieReviews

Olga is in a state. When she isn’t in a catatonic stupor, she wanders the unheated rooms of the old home where her father died. She’s also carrying a drumming rabbit toy in front of her like it’s a lantern, crucifix, or some kind of ectoplasmic Geiger counter. And all of this is creeping her Uncle Moe right the fuck out. So he does what any responsible, emotionally aloof upper middle-class Brit would do and hires a casual acquaintance with mental problems of his own to go babysit her. Enter Isaac. Isaac isn’t stupid - he picks up on how shady this gig sounds right from the start. Isaac is, however, an enormous chump. He accepts the gig, and doesn’t back out when he discovers a few last-minute details that should be deal-breakers: * The home is only accessible by boat * Upon arrival, he’ll need to shackle himself into a leather harness with a leash, because Olga gets triggered when people accidentally wander into her room Ima stop my description of the plot right there, because if you’re a horror fan I think this movie is worth your time. It’s atmospheric and gorgeous to look at. It also features the most eerie and suspenseful use of drywall ever achieved in the history of cinema. I admired the originality and execution of the story, but some key plot points strained logic beyond my capacity to suspend disbelief. I liked the film. Did I love it? No. But should it be on your Spooky Season Short List? You bet your sweet little ass it should. On a scale of Waterworld to The Untouchables ima give it a Dances With Wolves. #MitchsMovieReviews

Sister Margaret is a devoted American novitiate who desires nothing more than to be of meaningful service to God - and she’s been selected for a prestigious convent in Rome (which also services an orphanage). But there’s something sinister percolating beneath all the superficial benevolence. The original Omen was made in 1976 and tapped into widespread angst about political corruption and societal decay. This prequel continues those themes, while focusing more narrowly on contemporary intrusions by the faithful on female bodily autonomy. The cast is excellent : Nell Tiger Free, Maria Caballero, Sonia Braga, Ralph Ineson, and the always-superb Bill Nighy as Cardinal Lawrence (who isn’t nearly as benevolent as he seems). But this prequel is contrived and far inferior to the original. For one, Sister Margaret’s character arc makes little sense. Almost all of the women in the original Omen are powerless victims (with the notable exception of Ms. Baylock). Sister Margaret starts off without agency, but late in the film she inexplicably evolves into a fierce self-preservationist, so her awakening is inconsistent - and inconsequential. We already know the evil wrought upon her progresses on through three subsequent films and a staggering body count. I was raised to regard the Book of Revelation as a coded blueprint of the literal future. Though I’m no longer a believer, The Omen (and all religious horror) remains deeply unsettling to me. That’s why The Omen and The Exorcist remain on my short-list of all-time favorites. I don’t think I’m unique here. Americans are very bipolar about religion. We’re the most religiously observant of the modern global superpowers, but religion also creeps us out - especially other people’s religion. That’s why lingering shots of a nun’s investiture in the traditional habit (as we have in this film) can read as oppressive and ominous rather than sacred and beautiful. I appreciate the film’s cutting critique of the “ends justify the means” methods of religious zealots - embodied here in a Catholic sect trying to frighten the world back into the arms of the Church by precipitating the Antichrist’s birth. And though I’m sympathetic with the film’s premise - that zealotry itself is the father of lies and author of damnation - a horror film loses a lot of its juice when human corruption becomes the central villain instead of Satan, whether you believe in Satan or not. On a scale of Monsignor to Spotlight ima give it Agnes of God. #MitchsMovieReviews

I’ve been waiting for twenty years for a proper cinematic treatment of the Wendigo. I’ll have to keep waiting, because that’s not what this movie is. What it is, is a piece of bathroom stall graffiti written with monkey shit. #MitchsMovieReviews

Belinda and Norman are a young educated couple with bougie tastes, a pauper’s budget, and a baby on the way. Belinda’s on edge - her first pregnancy ended in stillbirth, and her decision to abruptly quit her university teaching job when academe turned out not to be an enlightened meritocracy caused the cash crunch they’re in. Norman’s on edge because his estranged father just died, and he’s finally spilled the beans about his traumatic childhood (mainly at the hands of his deranged stepmother Solange). Belinda encourages him to attend the funeral so he can close the book, and at the funeral they’re offered a Faustian bargain - take Solange into their home for her final years, and all their money troubles will be over. Enter Solange (played by the magnificent Katherine Hunter). She isn’t just a manipulative, gaslighting harpy - her fervent faith seems to give her supernatural power. She knows the baby’s sex just by touching Belinda’s belly, and when her creepy prayer group descends on Belinda and lays hands on her, her c-section wound heals within a day. Solange is determined to control everything and everyone, and it isn’t long before she’s trying to supplant Belinda as the baby’s mother. What follows is a pitched battle for dominance between the old and the young. Solange’s weapons are her deranged spite, her money, and her incontinence. Belinda’s weapons are her vigor, her relative sanity, and time. This is another one that could be fairly classified as a pitch-black social comedy, but I saw a legit horror film that’s grappling with some very real issues in a compelling way. Brandy’s performance is excellent, and nobody does creepy old crone like Kathryn Hunter (who seems to be having the most fun of her long career). There are some issues: the setup is a “subtext-as-dialogue” expo dump, they rub our noses in the body horror of aging waaaaay too much, and Solange’s dark religious power is firmly established but never really paid off. There’re also some odd tonal inconsistencies for a movie this dark - the score is a mashup of Psycho string trills and a Munsters synth warble, and Solange’s two-handed crone cane crawl is so over-the-top it’s almost laughable. I’m at risk for bias because I have mad respect for A24s cred with art-house horror, and we’re all prone to seeing roses where there’s shit when it’s coming from a trusted source (Democrats insist Harris isn’t vapid, and Republicans insist Trump isn’t deranged, after all). I’ll say in my defense that while I loved Egger’s The Witch and The Lighthouse, I absolutely hated The Northman. So maybe I’m wrong but I detected a subtle irony in the parallel arcs of the mothers (Solange and Belinda), and methinks Belinda did protest too much when she justified her choices in the coda and the final lingering shot. It felt queasy, and I couldn’t help wondering if the weight of necessary but terrible choices might leave Belinda as warped as Solange was. Why else would the filmmakers have bothered alluding to a time when Solange (as a younger woman) escaped untenable circumstances with controversial choices? I liked this one, and on a scale of The Paper to All The President’s Men ima give it The Post. #MitchsMovieReviews

Stop me if you’ve heard this one - Sister Cecelia is a devoted American novitiate who desires nothing more than to be of meaningful service to God - and she’s been selected for a prestigious convent in Rome (which also services a hospice). But there’s something sinister percolating beneath all the superficial benevolence. The “something sinister” is an insane Catholic cult attempting to “Jurassic Park” Jesus. The film owes a lot to Rosemary’s Baby, right up to the red-garbed secret cult of rapists. But this ain’t no Rosemary’s Baby. The tone’s too erratic, and while the film’s tackling a pressing social issue, it’s doing so too transparently. In this puppet-theater critique of the patriarchy, rape culture, and trad-wifery we can see the strings a little too clearly. I love a lot of things about this one: * I love religious horror. * I love the premise * I love Sydney Sweeney * I love that the scriptwriter Andrew Loebl labored for ten years to see his conception through to birth. But for me it’s a stillbirth - what’s mysterious and terrifying becomes just another Midichlorian Misstep after we discover the head priest used to be a geneticist. And though I’m simpático enough to thoroughly enjoy a heroine turning on her rapey-churchy captors and impregnators in the final act (I may have actually shouted “you go girl!”), having that same heroine give birth during her escape through the woods, bite the umbilical cord with her teeth, and smash the deformed hell-baby’s head with a rock is heavy-handed to the point of hilarity (though I shouted “you go girl!” while I was laughing). On a scale of Baby Boom to Rosemary’s Baby ima give this Three Men and A Baby. #MitchsMovieReviews

Slashers are my least favorite horror subgenre. I got nothing against the psychotic killing machine as horror villain - Psycho, Halloween, and The Silence of the Lambs all employed this device, and they’re true cinema masterpieces by any standard. But there’s a robust market for market for murder-porn, and most slashers don’t even try to be anything else (I’m looking at you, every sequel to Friday the 13th). I don’t disapprove of even these last sorts of films - Stephen King rightly said that horror gore caters to that underground part of us that slows down to look at car crashes, and I agree with King that it’s better to throw the beast in the cellar a little red meat now and then, lest it get hungry enough to come upstairs. I even admire the artistry of the gore, and have mad respect for its great auteurs like Tom Savini and Greg Nicotero. But I feel ill (physically and morally) after watching them, and they aren’t for me. In A Violent Nature embraces the impediments of its genre - even the clumsy, over-sexualized dialogue of the soon-to-be-skewered youths - and carries them uphill with the bravado and rugged competence of an Army ranger. It creatively takes the perspective of the killer for most of the film, and we feel like we’re playing a session of Dead By Daylight with friends (I’m betting that writer/director Chris Nash has logged at least a thousand hours playing it). It’s meta, and original, and well shot and executed. All of the classic tropes are here: the snarky Teller of Scary Tales who’s the first to get it, the Promiscuous Couple Punished for Their Sins, The Last Girl Standing, The Necessary Hobbling Wound Lest We Lose Suspense Too Soon, and the Escape Vehicle. Rather like a Mexican restaurant’s table salsa, a slasher movie is judged by the quality of its practical gore effects - and I don’t think I’ve ever seen better than this. If you’re into gore for gore’s sake, there’s plenty here to please you. The kills are extremely graphic and very realistic (with the exception of the most showy-offy one which I’ll simply describe as “the navel gazer”). Kudos to the effects artists, but I’m damned glad I wasn’t eating when I watched it. I coulda lived without the attempts at the found-footage trope, and though I appreciated the filmmakers trying to bring in higher themes of mortality and nature red-in-tooth-and-claw with the overlong shot of Last Girl Standing gazing at the forest, I think the film got a little too big for its britches by trying. No need to bring existential philosophy into it when the film is already as good as it is. I may never be a fan of slashers (just like I’m never gonna be a fan of romcoms), but I know quality when I see it. And I can see what the critics and fans like about this one. On a scale of 28 Dresses to Silver Linings Playbook ima give this a While You Were Sleeping. #mitchsmoviereviews

It’s not a big movie. It adds nothing to the lore of the series, breaks no new ground in the action pieces (though they’re suspenseful and enjoyable enough). But to its credit, it doesn’t try to. That’s not what this movie’s about. This isn’t another warmed-over dish of depression and futility ala “The Walking Dead” and “The Last of Us” - Krasinski and Sarnoski (the scriptwriters) are too big-hearted for that, and Nyong’O is too soulful an actor. They do not make us care about characters and then torture us with suspense about how and whether they’ll survive. In a brilliant inversion, they give us a main character that’s already doomed, and make the suspense about whether her life will mean anything at all. In so doing, they make Sam a proxy for every one of us - poor doomed creatures, mired in shitty circumstances beyond our control, with inevitable death at the end. It’s a beautiful chamber-piece about grace, dignity, the power of human connection, and hope in the face of oblivion.