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WERK treats the modern marketing agency like a pressure cooker disguised as a break room. Shot with the looseness of a doc crew embedded among “creatives,” the series leans into the chaos that happens when deadlines, egos, client briefs, and clashing generations try to share the same room. The hook is simple: a small crew follows The Digital Creative Group across meetings, mishaps, and minor revolutions. The pleasure comes from how quickly the veneer of office shine scrapes away and how precisely this team’s shared illusion of control collapses under the camera’s attention.

#SHAKESPEARES SHITSTORM is not a movie that asks to be loved; it dares you to walk out, then tries to win you back by being so committed to its own rancid aesthetic that resistance turns into a weird kind of admiration. Another creation from Lloyd Kaufman’s Tromaville is a gleefully disgusting riff on The Tempest. As with so much of Troma’s history, the boundary isn’t the line you cross—it’s the runway you run down headfirst. The film’s new 4K release provides the perfect excuse to revisit an entry that doubles as a manifesto: cinema as an inside joke, protest, and plumbing emergency.

In an industry obsessed with sequels, reboots, and déjà vu properties, GLITCHED feels refreshingly original — a small film that dares to merge virtual reality, haunted castles, and comedy without losing sight of its heart. Director Zoe Quist combines humor, tech, and the supernatural into a story that’s as much about human connection as it is about CGI ghosts. The result is an adventure that shines brightest when it leans into its charm rather than its chaos.

The morning after has rarely looked this bad. Jill wakes up to a pounding headache, a dead body beside her, and a closet that may or may not be holding another surprise. That’s the setup, but Ian Kimble’s DEAD GIVEAWAY doesn’t play it straight. It moves with the chaotic tempo of a hangover you can’t shake, turning guilt and panic into a twisted comedy of errors where every decision makes things worse in just the right way. The result is a film that thrives on the energy of its cast, the bite of its writing, and the realization that sometimes the funniest thing about horror is how easily it mirrors bad life choices.

Horror anthologies often promise variety but deliver inconsistency. THREE / THREE… EXTREMES is the rare exception that proves how powerful the format can be when guided by vision rather than gimmicks. Across six segments and two feature-length films, this Arrow Video release captures the full scope of early-2000s pan-Asian horror — its atmosphere, its lawless spirit, and its willingness to confront fear as something deeply personal. This is not an anthology of jump scares and clichés; it’s a study in discomfort, obsession, and the ways cultural anxieties manifest through storytelling.

FURIOUS SWORDS AND FANTASTIC WARRIORS is less a collection than a statement—a towering monument to one of Hong Kong cinema’s most defining storytellers. Spanning over fifteen hours across ten films, this five-disc limited edition release from Eureka Entertainment celebrates Chang Cheh’s unique command of action, heroism, and mythology. It’s the cinematic equivalent of stepping into a time capsule, a comprehensive look at a director whose fingerprints shaped an entire genre.

WILLOW AND WU begins where most workplace comedies end—with exhaustion, heartbreak, and a desperate need for space. Kathy Meng’s short film captures that fragile space between personal and professional identity through a simple, disarming premise: a recently dumped assistant, Willow, finally earns a day off only to be tasked with helping her boss’ husband with an unusual errand. What follows is a tender, awkward, and transformative encounter that says more about human connection than grand declarations ever could.

RADIOLAND MURDERS sets its metronome to “fever pitch” and mostly never touches the dial again. Set during the launch night of Chicago station WBN in 1939, it’s a love letter to the golden age of live radio wrapped inside a slapstick whodunit. The premise is tailor-made for manic parody: as programs, commercials, musical numbers, and sound-effects bits tumble out on schedule, bodies start hitting the floor off-mic. The writers scramble, the director panics, the cops do what they do, and the broadcast must keep rolling because dead air is unforgivable—even when people are dying. It’s a knowingly silly conceit, and the film embraces it with gusto.

DON’T BE LATE, MYRA is on the screen for just fifteen minutes, but its impact stays with you long after the credits fade. Writer-director Afia Nathaniel crafts a taut and devastating short that captures the everyday terror faced by girls navigating unsafe worlds, turning a single missed school bus into a microcosm of society's failure. It’s a small film with enormous weight, balancing tension and empathy with precision and purpose.

Russell Whaley’s feature, CALAMARI, is a sharp, twisted, and surprisingly funny psychological horror film about ageism, desperation, and what it means to sell yourself just to stay alive—sometimes literally. What begins as a grounded commentary on workplace exploitation, featuring Jerry Gureghian in an incredibly powerful role, turns into a darkly comic descent into horror and psychological collapse. It blends the offbeat tone of dark comedy with the unease of a nightmare that never stops tightening its grip.

OTHER begins with unease: this isn’t just a haunted house story—it’s a story about the rules that outlive the person who made them. After her mother’s death, Alice returns to a home that still feels organized by someone else’s hand. Its order is oppressive, its quiet too deliberate, its memories arranged like evidence. What follows isn’t about ghosts or monsters; it’s about inheritance—the kind that teaches you what to fear, how to behave, and when to stay silent.

DEVIL IN DISGUISE: JOHN WAYNE GACY makes an early promise—it’s not here to mythologize a murderer. It’s here to look at the people left behind, the ones who refused to stop asking questions. Instead of another “monster study,” the series reframes the story through victims’ families, determined investigators, and a city that failed to see what was in plain sight. It’s a patient, unsensationalized retelling that trades spectacle for consequence, and in doing so, finds a rare kind of power: empathy without indulgence. (There’s still plenty of Gacy for the diehards out there, and I would argue this was one of the most chilling portrayals put to screen.)

DELIVERY RUN doesn’t try to reinvent the survival thriller, but it understands what makes the genre work: desperation, isolation, and one terrible night that refuses to end. Set across icy backroads and dimly lit stretches of nowhere, it follows a man with nowhere left to go and too much debt to turn back. Alexander Arnold plays Lee, a delivery driver whose gambling habit and bad decisions have caught up to him. After a night of risky bets and half-formed lies, one small act of defiance sets off a chain reaction — and somewhere out in the dark, a snowplow starts following him. What begins as an inconvenience turns into a pursuit, and what starts as a chase becomes a reckoning.

There’s something unsettlingly honest about CANDY APPLE, the kind of film that doesn’t just try to entertain but also expose those moments that matter. Set in New York City’s chaotic streets, it’s a dark comic portrait of failure, art, and the reality of living on the fringes of society. Dean Dempsey writes, directs, and stars alongside his real-life father, Texas Trash—a casting choice that turns what could’ve been a mere character study into something raw and personal. This isn’t a film that hides behind metaphor or clean descriptions; it stares directly into dysfunction and asks you to sit with it.

THE WEEDHACKER MASSACRE aims to be a slasher parody — a scrappy meta-horror that tries to outwit its own limitations by acknowledging them. It’s the kind of production that lives somewhere between homage and chaos, where enthusiasm often outweighs precision. There’s a certain charm to that balance when it works; when it doesn’t, the cracks show fast. This one sits somewhere in between — funny in moments, frustrating in others, but undeniably sincere about its love for the genre it’s poking at.