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In 2003, Platinum Dunes, the studio newly founded by Michael Bay, took a gamble: remaking Tobe Hooper’s 1974 horror landmark THE TEXAS CHAINSAW MASSACRE. At the time, the decision sparked anger among purists who believed the original should remain untouched. What followed was a grisly, unapologetic reimagining from director Marcus Nispel and screenwriter Scott Kosar. It would not only become a massive box office success but also ignite a wave of horror remakes throughout the 2000s (for better or worse). Two decades later, the film remains as divisive as it was at release — but it’s hard to deny the impact it left.

When Platinum Dunes rebooted THE TEXAS CHAINSAW MASSACRE in 2003, the film split audiences but proved the franchise still had teeth at the box office. Only three years later, the studio doubled down with THE TEXAS CHAINSAW MASSACRE: THE BEGINNING, a prequel meant to show how Leatherface and the Hewitt family’s reign of terror began. Directed by Jonathan Liebesman and written by Sheldon Turner and David J. Schow, the result is a relentlessly grim entry that aims to be the nastiest of the Chainsaw films yet. Whether that approach works depends entirely on what you want from this series.

THE INNKEEPERS is a horror film that refuses to chase the easy scares, instead embracing atmosphere, character depth, and long stretches of unease before unleashing its most frightening moments. Directed and written by Ti West, this 2011 indie film has slowly grown into a cult favorite, largely due to its commitment to being a slow-burning ghost story. Now, with its 2025 release by Second Sight Films, the film has a chance to reach a new generation of viewers who may not have experienced its subtle yet lasting impact upon its initial release.

When Jess Franco took the director’s chair for THE VENGEANCE OF DR. MABUSE in 1972, he wasn’t interested in adoration. This is no faithful continuation of Fritz Lang’s hypnotic criminal mastermind, nor even a straight adaptation of Norbert Jacques’ novels. Instead, it’s a rebranding — a “Mabuse” in name only — that allowed Franco to indulge his pulp obsessions: exotic assassins, seedy nightclubs, grotesque henchmen, and half-serious sci-fi conspiracies. The result is a brisk, 76-minute cocktail that feels like a collision between a Euro-crime programmer and a feverish jazz improvisation.

From its opening moments, LILLY LIVES ALONE presents itself as more than just a haunted house story. Martin Melnick’s debut feature blends small-town paranoia, generational trauma, and surreal horror into a fevered spiral where certainty becomes impossible. This isn’t a film that divides the natural from the supernatural. Instead, it traps the viewer inside the same disorienting headspace as its protagonist, where the only constant is unease.

BRUTE 1976 drags the viewer back to an era when horror didn’t wear a polished facade. It was hot, sticky, bloody, and dangerous—cinemas that smelled like sweat and gasoline. Marcel Walz taps into that grime-soaked decade with a vision that’s both homage and rebellion, creating a film that feels like it crawled out of a barn in the middle of nowhere and refuses to let you look away. This isn’t just a throwback; it’s a statement that horror still has the power to be feral and utterly unforgettable. With one of the most jaw-dropping lines ever spat on screen—“Killing makes me so wet?”—BRUTE 1976 makes it clear that its goal isn’t comfort, it’s infamy.

It begins with a familiar setup: a college student, on the brink of expulsion, decides to shrug off the threat of tomorrow in favor of one last adventure. In POOLS, that adventure is a summer night of pool-hopping through the manicured backyards of an affluent college town. It’s a premise ripe for energy, yet Sam Hayes’ debut feature has more on its mind than fleeting thrills. Beneath the glow and the adrenaline rush is a story about grief, identity, and the ways we navigate life after a personal loss, which redraws the map entirely. Honestly, the film is all over the place, but that’s not a bad thing; here, it works to the advantage of the story.

THROUGH AND THROUGH is not the kind of film that eases you into its world. It drags you there and locks the door. From the opening moments, Grzegorz Królikiewicz makes it clear this is a story that will not pander to expectations or offer easy emotional beats. Instead, it’s an exercise in immersion — in how poverty, shame, and isolation can strip people down until all that’s left is survival instinct.

Radiance Films continues its deep dive into the world of Iga ninja with SHINOBI VOL. 2, a meticulously presented box set that picks up right where the first volume left off. This three-film collection—SIEGE, RETURN OF MIST SAIZO, and THE LAST IGA SPY—retains the series’ mix of historical drama, espionage, and martial arts, while subtly shifting its focus toward political maneuvering and personal vendettas.

PERPETRATOR wastes no time establishing itself as something strange. Jennifer Reeder’s latest is a horror film wrapped in a feminist coming-of-age story, dipped in surrealism, and splattered with blood. It’s as ambitious as it is uneven — a movie with moments of real intrigue, flashes of brilliance, and an energy that refuses to stay in one lane, even when a little restraint might have made all the difference.

Few films manage to combine intimacy and brutality with the confidence of TROUBLE EVERY DAY. Claire Denis’ first engagement with genre cinema is as much a meditation on the human body as it is a horror story — a slow, measured plunge into lust, hunger, and the territory where those instincts become indistinguishable. More than two decades after its controversial debut, the film has lost none of its ability to unsettle, disturb, and haunt. Think of a fusion of RAW, BYZANTIUM, and POSSESSION, with the lingering sting of IN MY SKIN.

This film aims to blend found footage, on-screen storytelling, and a documentary-like curiosity into one unsettling journey. From the very start, it’s clear there’s an emotional spark behind the camera — a genuine desire to build a story with layers of mystery, isolation, and creeping dread. The early sections manage to pull the viewer in, offering a premise that feels both personal and expansive: a central figure embarks on a video-based project. It gradually becomes drawn into an investigation with unnerving implications.

There’s a certain appeal to the “friends in a remote cabin” setup — it’s practically baked into horror’s DNA. Done right, it’s a playground for tension, supernatural chaos, and blood-soaked fun. FEAR CABIN clearly understands the formula, but instead of using it as a springboard for something new, it settles for familiar strides and a patchwork of cliches that never gel into a cohesive or engaging whole. If you don’t follow my socials (which you should), I define a 1.5-star film as “An experience that was hard to get through but not beyond some redemption.” And this is the definition of a film like that. It wasn’t so much “bad” as it was something we’ve seen before, on a budget, with a lot of experimentation.

HIS MOTORBIKE, HER ISLAND is a film that explores the story like a half-remembered dream — one that lingers not because of its plot, but because of how it makes you feel. Directed by Nobuhiko Obayashi, best known internationally for the wild genre-bending of HOUSE (1977), this 1986 romance trades chaos for something gentler, more reflective. It’s a story of fleeting youth, personal freedom, and the delicate push-and-pull between two people drawn together by the hum of an engine and the lure of the open road.

MISS FREELANCE compresses a week of a woman’s life into nineteen minutes, yet the film’s impact extends well beyond that running time. Matthew Kyle Levine writes, directs, shoots, and edits with a prudence that never feels rushed. The story follows Carly, played by Maddy Murphy, as she moves through a series of meetings with men across New York City. The nature of these interactions isn’t a mystery—Levine isn’t coy about the transactional element—but the focus is on what each encounter reveals about Carly’s life.

This limited-edition collection arrives with a simple promise: three features that capture a studio at full tilt and a filmmaker defining his lane just before the tidal wave of Bruce Lee reshaped the market. MARTIAL LAW: LO WEI’S WUXIA WORLD isn’t pitched as a greatest-hits reel; it’s a snapshot of a style. You get the moral chess of classic wuxia, the immaculate storytelling of Shaw Brothers productions, and a trio of heroines and heroes whose choices are drawn with confident precision. The restoration and supplements make the case that these are not just archival curiosities—they’re genuinely entertaining films that still play well all these years later.

There’s a depth to stories like BAU, ARTIST AT WAR that goes beyond the mechanics of filmmaking. Sean McNamara’s dramatization of Joseph Bau’s life doesn’t just retell history—it actively engages with the question of how love and art can endure when surrounded by cruelty. The film’s premise alone places it alongside some of the most emotionally charged narratives in the war drama genre. But what keeps it from being swallowed by the familiar tropes of Holocaust cinema is the specificity of its subject: a man who turned creativity into resistance.

Long before Baz Luhrmann’s visual fireworks or Robert Redford’s sun-drenched elegance, Elliott Nugent’s 1949 take on THE GREAT GATSBY brought F. Scott Fitzgerald’s Jazz Age novel to life, filtered through the sensibilities of postwar Hollywood. With the Production Code still in force, this adaptation inevitably softens some of the source material’s sharper edges. Yet, it remains a compelling, character-focused take on one of America’s most enduring stories — and now, restored from a new scan for Kino Lorber’s 2025 Blu-ray release, it’s easier than ever to appreciate its strengths.

Olivier Assayas’ SUSPENDED TIME is as much a diary entry as it is a feature film, built from the in-between moments of pandemic life and anchored by a deeply personal connection to its setting. In the spring of 2020, as lockdown reshaped daily life worldwide, Paul Berger (Vincent Macaigne), a filmmaker not far removed from Assayas himself, retreats to his childhood home in the Chevreuse Valley. He’s joined by his partner, Carole (Nora Hamzawi), his brother Etienne (Micha Lescot), and Etienne’s new girlfriend Morgan (Nine d’Urso). The arrangement quickly turns into a personal, sometimes claustrophobic microcosm of the broader uncertainties outside their walls.

THE DIABOLIK TRILOGY from the Manetti Brothers is a bold, three-film return to one of Italy’s most enduring pop culture icons, adapting the long-running comic created by sisters Angela and Luciana Giussani. Spanning three years and two actors in the title role, this Kino Lorber collection brings together DIABOLIK (2021) and DIABOLIK: GINKO ATTACKS! (2022), and DIABOLIK: WHO ARE YOU? (2023) in a single package that embraces the source material’s style while testing the patience of audiences expecting modern comic-book pacing. It’s a set that’s at its best when it leans into its sleek production design and the magnetic presence of Miriam Leone’s Eva Kant, but not every chapter delivers with the same precision.

Some home video releases arrive and serve as simple preservation projects; others feel like a chance to step into a time capsule. Kino Lorber’s Pre-Code Classics [CONFESSIONS OF A CO-ED | LADIES OF THE BIG HOUSE] is firmly in the latter category, resurrecting two early-1930s Paramount melodramas with all the forbidden allure of pre-Code Hollywood. Both star a radiant, still-rising Sylvia Sidney and showcase just how far studio storytellers could push the boundaries before the Production Code began tightening its grip. Viewed together, they not only highlight Sidney’s remarkable screen presence but also reveal two sides of the same coin — scandal in collegiate halls and desperation behind prison bars.

REPUTATION didn’t need a sprawling city or a sprawling runtime to make an impact. Set in a small Lancashire town still scarred by tragedy and soaked in tension, Martin Law’s 83-minute feature debut delivers a brutal yet empathetic look at male identity, loyalty, and the illusion of escape. For all the familiar elements—drug deals, toxic friendships, and spiraling violence—there’s a freshness here rooted in direction, confident performances, and a deep understanding of working-class lives.

There’s no anchor in FINIS TERRAE—not in plot, nor pacing. And that’s the point. Jean Epstein’s 1929 maritime drama refuses the comforts of traditional storytelling, choosing instead to let its visuals breathe like the salt-soaked winds off Brittany’s coast. Nearly a century after its release, this newly restored version—presented by Eureka Entertainment’s Masters of Cinema series—feels more like an elemental experience than a narrative one. Less concerned with dialogue (silent, of course) or structure, Epstein’s film locks us into a stark and immersive meditation on survival, isolation, and the subtle violence of suspicion.

There’s a reassurance in the chaos of a slasher film that knows exactly what it wants to be. DIE’CED: RELOADED doesn’t try to be the definitive genre title—it simply leans into what works: blood, retro vibes, exaggerated villains, and a final girl worth rooting for. Set in 1987 Seattle but filtered through a fog of modern horror, this reimagined expansion of Jeremy Rudd’s viral short film DIE’CED plays like a lovingly demented mixtape of every scarecrow-stalking, asylum-escapee, neon-soaked nightmare that haunted the late VHS era.

Some horror films seek to get you through tension and jump scares. Others aim to disturb, to burrow under your skin and sit there. NO TEARS IN HELL does the latter—unflinchingly. Writer/director Michael Caissie’s dramatization of Russian serial killer Alexander Spesivtsev’s crimes is as brutal as it is cold. This isn’t a stylized slasher. It’s a grim, deliberately paced nightmare that swaps sensationalism for discomfort, inviting viewers into a world where evil isn’t theatrical—it’s mundane and methodical.