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There’s a difference between a movie that pushes boundaries and one that joyfully kicks them down with a grin and a syringe full of glowing serum. That’s the energy this film brings. It’s brash, unfiltered, and so deeply committed to its bizarre blend of horror and comedy that it oscillates with genre defiance. And now, with its 40th anniversary release from Ignite Films, newly restored in 4K UHD and approved by Brian Yuzna himself, this cult oddity isn’t just preserved—it’s reborn.

What happens when a film shows us inner turmoil rather than spell it out? DEATH DOES NOT EXIST takes that gamble and leans into a style that embraces uncertainty, challenging its audience to engage without a clear roadmap. Rather than presenting a story with traditional arcs and easily labeled motives, this animated feature opts for a structure built on contradiction, metaphor, and transformation, both literal and emotional. The result is a project that’s as introspective as it is ambitious, walking a fine line between originality and occasionally opacity.

Moody, meditative, and stubbornly opaque, this eerie descent into rural isolation starts with a whisper and never quite raises its voice—but that’s part of the tension. It’s less about startling the viewer and more about creating a slow, creeping discomfort. This isn’t a horror story filled with grand reveals or scream-worthy moments; instead, it lives in a space where questions matter more than answers. That’s both its secret weapon and its biggest gamble. It’s also been a little since I put my 2.5-star rating into context; this is a perfect example of a film I didn’t love but didn’t hate. It wasn’t for me, but that doesn’t mean it's bad. Some people will adore the experience!

There’s something deeply unnerving about a thriller that insists on treating its audience like part of the control room. Instead of explosions or space battles, this story leans hard into observation and deduction, trusting you to keep up as it moves from mystery to scientific breakdown. It doesn’t go for adrenaline. It prefers tension built from detail and a fear of what happens when systems fail. Set within the walls of a classified facility and wrapped in methodical procedures, the film strips away the usual noise of the genre, leaving behind a story that’s all business—and strangely captivating because of it.

There’s a unique kind of tension when a film builds its story around characters who don’t trust each other, stuck in a place too quiet to ignore what’s simmering beneath the surface. DEAD ON THE VINE finds its footing in that discomfort, using a simple scenario—a roadside stop gone awry—and turning it into a slow unraveling of secrets, suspicions, and forced civility. It's not the kind of thriller that chases big reveals; instead, it thrives on watching tension bubble in real time, daring the audience to figure out who’s bluffing and who’s dangerous.

Something is daring about a music documentary that chooses memory over marketing, focusing on the people rather than the identity. That’s the heart of HUNG UP ON A DREAM: THE ZOMBIES DOCUMENTARY. This film doesn’t inflate the band’s legacy with flashy superlatives or overly sentimental narration, but instead gives space for the story to speak through the people who lived it. What begins as a story of youthful ambition and unexpected success eventually unfolds into a deeply personal reflection on creative endurance, showing what happens after the applause fades and real life sets in.

Mid-20th-century science fiction was something special—its boldness, theatrics, and obsession with man’s ability (and tendency) to push nature too far. CRACK IN THE WORLD from 1965 is a shining example of that era's grand-scale paranoia, reimagined through speculative science and volcanic tension. In this special edition Blu-ray from Kino Lorber, the film reclaims its spot in the disaster-thriller pantheon, even if time hasn’t been entirely kind to every part of the film.

It started with a kid, a peculiar device, and a haywire summer vacation. But what BEN 10 became over time was nothing short of a storytelling evolution—one that dared to grow up alongside its audience without losing its imagination, energy, or heart. Across four distinct series, the franchise transformed from monster-of-the-week antics into a sprawling universe of intergalactic politics, emotional stakes, and personal identity. Watching them all back-to-back is like witnessing a character age in real time, and the new Complete Series release offers that experience in full form.

There’s something about a short film that invites you into its world without trying to amaze, instead relying on tension, performance, and atmosphere to pull you in. That’s the quiet power behind SISYPHUS UNBOUND, a brisk character piece that unfolds like a pressure cooker mid-boil. This project focuses more on emotional undercurrents than narrative. It doesn’t aim to reinvent storytelling, but it does lean hard into the discomfort of seeking approval from someone who’s already decided you don’t deserve it.

There is something undeniably intriguing about a story that invites its audience to question who’s pulling the strings, not through chaos or spectacle, but by quietly pressing on ideas we don’t always want to confront. That’s the draw here. It's a concept built on introspection, where the pen becomes more powerful than the writer using it expects, and the question of authorship takes on a whole new meaning. As much as it’s about imagination, it’s equally about the weight of grief, and how creativity doesn’t always lead to freedom—it can also backfire when we’re not careful.

What begins as a search for a missing sister quickly spirals into a chaotic tale of horror where the very fabric of reality unravels in unexpected ways. PROTANOPIA is a project that doesn’t just ask for your attention—it demands your surrender. Director Matthew Mahler crafts an experience that favors mood over clarity and experimentation over convention. While that may satisfy viewers who enjoy films that challenge their perceptions, it may alienate those seeking a clearer path.

When fiction and reality collide, the result isn’t always tidy, but with Jean Rouch behind the camera, it's always worth watching. The latest release from Icarus Films packages two of Rouch’s most thought-provoking works, THE HUMAN PYRAMID and THE PUNISHMENT, into one revealing and uneven but undeniably fascinating experience. These films don’t follow traditional narratives or structure. Instead, they act more like open experiments, inviting their subjects—and viewers—into a space where identity, perception, and power are up for debate.

PETE WALKER CRIME COLLECTION doesn’t just introduce you to four crime stories—it drops you straight into an underworld where morality is negotiable and violence lingers. This set from Kino Lorber uncovers a lesser-discussed chapter in Pete Walker’s career, veering away from the horror that would later define him, and instead spotlighting a filmmaker unafraid to get tangled up in London’s unseen side, exploitation-laced melodrama, and low-budget noir grit.

THE BEAST HAND walks, or maybe staggers, as it wrestles with body horror, underworld crime, and a doomed love story. It doesn’t always balance its many ambitions, but a raw, volatile energy at play earns attention, even if it doesn’t always earn admiration.

There’s something strangely captivating about a movie that doesn’t care whether or not you’re following along. ROCK BOTTOM doesn’t throw the audience a lifeline—it invites them to drift through someone else’s landscape and make peace with not having all the pieces. It’s a project shaped less by storytelling than sensation, a cinematic echo chamber where mood overrides logic and emotion becomes the only true compass.

Taking on one of the most universally recognized stories is a tall order—reinvention runs the risk of either redundancy or overreach. JULIET & ROMEO reshuffles the foundation, relocating the source material’s roots and infusing the narrative with a pulse of modern music. Positioned at the twilight of the medieval era, this adaptation swaps iambic verse for pop vocals and trades theatrical tradition for emotional spectacle. It’s a bold fusion of historical backdrop and contemporary flair, driven more by concept than cohesion.

How do you keep a slasher franchise fresh after nine films, multiple fake-out finales, and a killer who's already been to hell and back? Easy—you strap a hockey mask on your villain, shoot him into orbit, and let chaos take the controls. There’s something undeniably absurd about the moment a horror series sets course for space, but that’s exactly what makes this chapter such a deliriously bold swing. It doesn’t just break rules—it vaporizes them in zero gravity, gleefully swapping the woods for steel corridors. What could’ve been a last gasp is one of the wildest—and weirdly most enjoyable—entries in the entire saga.

When a horror franchise burns the rulebook as part of a sacrifice to the genre gods, it can go one of two ways: a total trainwreck or something so gleefully chaotic that it circles back to brilliance. This entry leans hard into the latter. It’s wild, it’s messy, and it’s undeniably a blast. Long misunderstood and often ridiculed, it’s finally getting the recognition it’s always deserved—and as someone who grew up with this era of horror, I couldn’t be happier to see it rise from the dirt Jason was pulled down into.

There’s something perfect about a nature documentary that opens with Tracy Morgan telling you why octopuses might be the coolest thing on Earth. OCTOPUS! throws away the rules of the genre, leaning into a wild blend of science, humor, and heart. What could’ve been a familiar swim through marine biology becomes something sharper, stranger, and more human, without losing sight of its eight-armed star.

Now and then, a project comes along that doesn’t try to win you over with extravaganza—it simply asks you to consider the possibility of the unknown. WATCH THE SKIES taps into the enduring curiosity surrounding unexplained phenomena, but its real strength lies in its character-driven storytelling. It doesn’t lean heavily on special effects or genre tropes to make its case; instead, it puts human connection, memory, and belief at the forefront of its narrative. The result is a film that feels personal, sometimes clumsy, but undeniably sincere.

There’s ambition behind the camera, no doubt about that. This is one of those projects that dares to layer psychological disorientation with genre panache, wrapping its questions in cryptic symbolism and unsettling imagery. But what begins as a mysterious plunge into one woman's fractured identity quickly turns into a tangled knot of missed potential. There's creativity lurking in the shadows here—unfortunately, it's surrounded by a narrative that often seems lost in its fog.

The intentions might be grand—poke fun at media, hold a mirror to pop culture—but it doesn’t take long for the cracks to show when the punchlines land with a thud. TUNNEL VISION tries at that high-wire balancing act, proposing a chaotic near-future where unfiltered television dominates and offends in equal measure. And while the setup teases provocations, what unfolds is more exhausting than enlightening.

There’s something strangely comforting about revisiting the VHS-era comedies that once lined the shelves of every neighborhood rental store. They weren’t perfect. They weren’t prestigious. But they had a brazen honesty: they knew exactly what they were selling and didn’t try to mask it. MVD Entertainment’s release of THE BIKINI CARWASH COMPANY and its equally chaotic sequel captures this retro spirit with an unapologetic embrace of skin, suds, and soft-core silliness, bundled together in a double feature that proudly leans into its absurdity.

When a story waits decades to be told, it rarely arrives in a straight line. That’s the terrain explored in JIMMY IN SAIGON, a documentary that avoids dramatics in favor of something more personal. The film quietly circles loss, identity, and the burden of unanswered questions passed down through silence. Rather than solving a mystery, it reflects on what it means to live in its shadow.

Not every thriller needs explosions or sweeping landscapes to land a punch. Sometimes, the tight, quiet spaces where your choices echo louder than your words leave the biggest impression. That’s exactly the kind of storytelling this offers. It strips away the noise and pushes focus onto the question that matters most: how far can one person be gone before they stop recognizing themselves?