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There’s a certain kind of person who shows up in the margins of history books but never quite earns a chapter. THE SECRET LIVES OF BILL BARTELL argues that Bill Bartell wasn’t just in the margins of punk history; he was the one rearranging the page. Directed by David Markey, whose own fingerprints are all over Los Angeles punk documentation dating back to 1991: THE YEAR PUNK BROKE, this documentary isn’t built like a traditional rise-and-fall music biography. Bartell wasn’t a frontman who burned out in a blaze of glory. He was something stranger, more elusive; he was a connection, a provocateur, a label head, a police officer, a rodeo bull rider, a closeted man living life so uncompromising that even his closest collaborators only saw fractions of him.

There’s something undeniably fascinating about watching a performer before they become a legend. Before Inspector Clouseau took over the conversation, before global superstardom calcified him into an icon, Peter Sellers operated within politically charged British comedies that relied less on slapstick and more on character-driven satire. PETER SELLERS EARLY CLASSICS is a time capsule of an actor refining the instincts that would later make him symbolic.

THE FLESH AND BLOOD SHOW sits at a crossroads, not just within British horror, but within Pete Walker’s own career. By 1972, Walker was attempting to pivot away from softcore comedies toward something darker and more enduring. What he delivered here is less a fully formed slasher and more a transitional experiment, offering up part sexploitation relic, part proto-giallo, part whodunit, part generational allegory.

SHE SHOOTS STRAIGHT wastes no time reminding you that Hong Kong action in the early ’90s didn’t do subtle. Directed by Corey Yuen at the height of the Girls-with-Guns cycle, the film mixes melodrama with explosive police shootouts, a blend that feels both disheveled and exhilarating. It’s a revenge-driven cop thriller built around a newly married police inspector, Mina Kao, who marries into a law enforcement dynasty only to find herself fighting both gangsters and in-laws at the same time.

D.E.B.S. never pretends to be anything more than it is, and that’s exactly why it works. Angela Robinson’s 2004 feature debut was created during an era when spy spoofs were everywhere, yet it carved out its own lane by flipping the fantasy inside out. On paper, this is a high-concept experience built for straight male marketing departments, featuring plaid-skirted female super spies trained by a secret government agency. In execution, though, it’s a pastel-colored subversion that places queer romance front and center without apology.

DOUBLE IMPACT doesn’t waste time pretending it’s anything other than an ego trip wrapped in slow-mo roundhouse kicks, and that confidence is exactly why it works. By 1991, Jean-Claude Van Damme wasn’t just a rising martial arts star; he was a brand. BLOODSPORT and LIONHEART had cemented him as “The Muscles from Brussels,” and DOUBLE IMPACT doubles down on that identity in the most literal way possible. Two Van Dammes. Two accents that don’t really make sense. Twice the splits. Twice the smolder. It’s absurd. It’s excessive. It’s peak early ’90s action.

DATE WITH A VAMPIRE doesn’t pretend to be high art, and honestly, that’s part of its appeal. This is a late-era shot-on-video rarity that exists in the overlap between softcore cable erotica and backyard vampire horror, a time capsule from when independent filmmakers could press record on digital video and carve out shelf space at the local video store. Watching it now, especially in Visual Vengeance’s collector’s edition, feels less like revisiting a forgotten masterpiece and more like opening a sealed relic from the Skinemax era and letting it breathe again.

Some artists fade quietly into the ether. Others self-destruct in the public eye. BLUE MOON traps you inside one night when both happen at the same time. Richard Linklater builds the film almost entirely inside Sardi’s (the iconic New York restaurant) on March 31, 1943, as Lorenz Hart waits for the opening night curtain call of OKLAHOMA! His former collaborator, Richard Rodgers, is upstairs making history with Oscar Hammerstein II. Hart is downstairs nursing a glass of bourbon and wrestling with the knowledge that he’s been replaced. That’s the whole movie. And that’s exactly why it works.

ZUMECA approaches one of the most consequential moments in human history from an angle that feels unexpectedly intimate. Instead of presenting the arrival of Europeans in the Americas as some sweeping epic about conquest and exploration, David Maler narrows the focus to the relationship between two individuals trying to understand one another. At the same time, the world around them begins to change forever. The film centers on Miguel, a Spaniard fleeing the ghosts of his past, and Zumeca, a Taíno woman whose connection to her land, community, and spirituality offers him a vision of something he has never known.

There’s nothing decorative about IPHIGENIA. No gold-plated mythmaking. No hero worship. Just sunburnt earth, restless soldiers, and a father being asked to murder his daughter in the name of national pride. From its opening, the film places you in a world where history, politics, and family collapse into a single unbearable decision.

JAPAN’S DON (YAKUZA SENSO: NIHON NO DON) opening sets the tone for the entire trilogy. This isn’t a saga interested in just gunfire or chaotic turf wars. It’s interested in leverage. In favors. In how power migrates from alleyways to boardrooms and back again. Screenwriters Koichi Iiboshi and Koji Takada adapted the themes and focus of the American GODFATHER films to fit Japanese yakuza culture.

ROCKERS is more of an experience than a traditional drama, drifting through Kingston’s streets and studios without pausing to explain itself. It simply exists. From its start, the film establishes a rhythm that feels lived-in rather than constructed, more like time spent inside a place than a story being told about it. Directed by Ted Bafaloukos, the film occupies a space between narrative cinema and documentation of a culture, refusing to prioritize traditional plotting in favor of immersion. That choice defines its power, and it’s why the film has endured far beyond its modest production.

CINDERELLA – IN CONCERT captures a band doing exactly what it was built to do, playing loud and playing like it has something to prove. Filmed during the Heartbreak Station tour in 1991 and later edited into this concert film, the release functions less as a novelty and more as a document of a group operating at full force. This isn’t a behind-the-scenes profile or a career retrospective. It’s a straightforward performance showcase, and that restraint turns out to be one of its biggest strengths.

THE RUNNING MAN arrives with pre-set expectations baked into its DNA. It’s a remake, a Stephen King adaptation, and an Edgar Wright project, three things that almost demand radical reinvention and/or unapologetic excess. Instead, what this version delivers is something more cautious and more conflicted. It wants to modernize the premise, focus on the class commentary, and smooth out the pulp-cult vibes. Yet, it never fully commits to being as vicious, unhinged, or confrontational as its concept allows. The result is an entertaining, often thoughtful, but ultimately restrained dystopian thriller that feels like it’s holding something back.

COREY FELDMAN VS. THE WORLD doesn’t force your hand in deciding who Corey Feldman is and what his legacy ultimately will be. It doesn’t ease you in, doesn’t soften the edges of its focus, and doesn’t check in to see if you’re comfortable. It places you inside a reality and leaves you there long enough for patterns to form on their own. That patience is its most defining quality, and also the reason it hits as hard as it does.

YOUNGBLOOD understands exactly what kind of movie it is. This modern reimagining of the 1986 cult hockey drama reframes the story through a more contemporary lens, placing less emphasis on swagger and more on consequence. Dean Youngblood is still a prodigy, still volatile, still gifted enough to make enemies before he ever earns trust. What’s different is how seriously the film examines the damage that kind of upbringing causes.

IMMUTABLE doesn’t pretend that debate is some offbeat extracurricular. It treats it like what it actually is for the students at its center, a core lifeline. By following participants in the Washington Urban Debate League over multiple seasons, the documentary positions debate not as an academic game but as a survival skill. These students aren’t just learning how to win arguments. They’re learning how to navigate systems that were never designed to work in their favor. From the outset, the film makes it clear that what’s at stake extends far beyond trophies or rankings.

THE HERMIT wastes no time telling you exactly what kind of movie it wants to be. A remote cabin. Teenagers who’d rather be anywhere else. A gigantic cannibal pig farmer who doesn’t just kill, he processes. It’s blunt, stripped-down backwoods horror that leans into its own absurdity without quite tipping into parody. The central hook is obvious and deliberate: Lou Ferrigno stepping into full-on horror-villain territory. Ferrigno’s physical presence has always done most of the heavy lifting for him, and that’s exactly what this film understands. The Hermit isn’t meant to be psychologically complex. He’s meant to feel imposing, inevitable, and almost monstrous in a way that recalls older exploitation-era slashers. Ferrigno doesn’t overplay it. He moves slowly, deliberately, like a man who knows no one on screen can realistically overpower him. That confidence becomes character.

GOD OF FROGS is built around a simple, unpleasant idea: what if an ancient hunger didn’t just survive, but fed on time itself. Instead of anchoring itself in a single era or set of characters, the film spans decades, returning every 25 years to the same creature and the same cursed lineage. IT is an anthology horror film that wants its creature to feel inevitable rather than surprising, less a jump scare than a recurring infection that adapts to its surroundings.

ALL IS FINE IN ’89 opens with a deceivingly comforting idea, one last high school party before the decade closes, before adulthood officially takes hold, before the outside world demands more than swagger and flirting in hallways. It shines with the aesthetics of late ’80s coming-of-age stories, but it doesn’t stay there. This isn’t a movie content to bask in nostalgia or the reassuring familiarity of its genre's classics. It’s a film about transition, about the exact moment when optimism starts to feel dishonest and pretending everything is fine becomes a form of avoidance.

What does power look like when it’s born from hunger rather than wisdom, and what happens when the myth built to sustain it can no longer hold? EXCALIBUR presents a film that isn’t just an adventure but also a warning, and it never fully lets go of that tension. This isn’t a comforting tale of destiny fulfilled. It is a feverish, often abrasive retelling of the Arthurian legend that treats myth as something volatile, unstable, and deeply human.

SIX STARS wastes no time asking your permission. It begins in motion and stays there, operating with the confidence of something that knows exactly what it wants to confront and refuses to soften the blow. At seven minutes, it doesn’t have the luxury of easing you in, and it doesn’t try. Todd Wiseman Jr. builds the film like a controlled detonation, one idea, one trajectory, no exits. The result is a short that doesn’t feel abbreviated so much as compressed, dense with intent and stripped of anything that might dilute its focus.

What happens to make-believe when the safeguards put in place to maintain it suddenly stop working? WESTWORLD begins with luxury and the idea that anything is possible, and then steadily takes each of those things away, to the point where the very idea of being in control starts to seem like an illusion. Michael Crichton’s first time directing a film doesn’t spend any time preparing the audience. Delos is shown as a place for rich people to play, a place where harm has supposedly been done away with. Visitors can drink, kill, have sex, boss people around, or act out fantasies without any trouble, as the robot ‘hosts’ are made to take the harm and just reset. The offer is deliberately appealing, and Crichton knows the film will only work if people first accept the attraction. WESTWORLD doesn’t warn you right away; it invites you to come in.

What does redemption cost when the person you’d need to be forgiven by has every reason not to forgive you? UNDERCARD isn’t interested in handing out simple answers, and it’s this refusal which, in the end, gives the film its strongest moments. The basic idea is one we’ve seen before, with a former boxing champion, now a trainer, and in recovery from alcoholism, goes back into her grown-up son’s life after time away. He’s skilled, but doesn’t apply himself, and is with people who want to make something of his ability, people who’ll take advantage. She thinks this is one final chance, not just to make someone a fighter, but to fix what she broke. But UNDERCARD isn’t, first and foremost, a sports story about someone making a comeback. It’s a story about facing up to what you’ve done, which just happens to be set in and around a boxing gym. This is how the film keeps itself from being a one-dimensional copy of a redemption story.