What if you took a folk figure or a popular comic-book character—someone beloved enough to be the star of, say, a Disney cartoon—and made a film that cast them in a dark, even antiheroic light? Call it the “grim and gritty” take, or perhaps the “untold true story”; it’s the kind of reimagining that has befallen several storybook figures on-screen, such as Peter Pan and Hansel and Gretel.
The World War II drama has been a hearty staple of the film industry’s diet for more than 80 years—even as Hollywood has turned away from the kind of meat-and-potatoes offering that the genre represents. And after so many decades, directors somehow still keep finding new narrative nooks and crannies to explore.
Vladimir Putin does not appear for the first 45 minutes of The Wizard of the Kremlin, an odd choice for a satirical film entirely about him. His presence looms in the background—the future Russian premier is jokingly referred to as “the Tsar” by the narrators—yet the director, Olivier Assayas, seems more interested in explaining the strange country Putin inherited, at least initially.
What if I told you that a new Star Wars movie is in theaters this week? One directed by Jon Favreau, the steady hand at the tiller who helped launch the Marvel Cinematic Universe with Iron Man and the current stretch of Disney live-action remakes with The Jungle Book?
The best way to sneak a comedy into theaters these days, it seems, is to make it a crime drama. Over Your Dead Body is billed as the latest effort from the director Jorma Taccone—a surprising name to be attached, considering his filmography. His previous features are Popstar: Never Stop Never Stopping and MacGruber, two of the better comedies released in the 2010s (back when such things still regularly appeared in cinemas).
Mother Mary begins with a straightforward problem: The titular character, a pop star played by Anne Hathaway, is looking for a showstopper of a dress. But the complications quickly stack up. Mary needs it made over the weekend; she needs it to serve as the centerpiece of her career relaunch after a long and mysterious absence from the public eye; most crucially, she needs it designed by her former collaborator Sam Anselm (played by Michaela Coel), from whom she’s been estranged for years.
Julian Sklar spends most of his workday performing on camera. Not for anyone important; the cantankerous artist (played by Ian McKellen), the protagonist of Steven Soderbergh’s new movie, The Christophers, is recording jokey Cameos for eager fans. Facing a ring-lit iPhone, he rambles about his fading career with chipper bumptiousness.
The drama of The Drama isn’t a total secret—if you’re looking to spoil the button-pushing premise for yourself, a quick Google search will do the trick. But the writer-director Kristoffer Borgli’s new film hinges on the viewer’s reaction to one character’s shocking revelation. The film doesn’t linger on its provocation, however; instead it sits with the moment’s ramifications in ways both darkly funny and sneakily challenging.
It probably won’t shock you to learn that the best-selling game of 2026 thus far is not about the mundane activity of running a video store. Yet for me, it might as well be: Retro Rewind, an indie exercise in retail management, has captured my attention as much as the real global chart-topper, Resident Evil Requiem. That latest entry in the smash-hit horror franchise is exceptionally sleek, with gory action and a discomfiting atmosphere.
My daughter is now of the age where she will go see any new animated film in a theater, which means that again and again, I encounter a very specific utopian vision from the world of children’s entertainment: Wouldn’t it be nice if all of the animals lived together in harmony? The theme is certainly a knock-on effect from Zootopia, the 2016 smash hit whose sequel was the highest-grossing American film of 2025.
Here’s how you know Project Hail Mary is a work of science fiction: It’s about the disparate nations of Earth pooling together their resources and intelligence to confront an apocalyptic problem—in this case, the pending death of the sun, due to a mysterious alien substance.
The narrative of this year’s Oscars was: how to pick? Between Sinners and One Battle After Another, voters put two majorly successful, critically beloved, star-driven studio releases at the top of the nominations pile. While One Battle After Another had seemed like the odds-on Best Picture favorite for months, Sinners was collecting enough trophies, and getting so much love at precursor ceremonies, that it felt impossible to fully count out.
The run-up to the Academy Awards is a fun, ridiculous, and loopy monthslong stretch. It also encourages something vital to Hollywood’s artistic ecosystem: Movie studios, in the hopes of achieving Oscar glory, put money toward more stylistically challenging projects, rather than consistently aiming for the broadest common box-office denominator.
Look at a list of the highest-grossing actors of all time, and you’ll see a lot of familiar names. The group includes franchise-hopping performers such as Scarlett Johansson, Samuel L. Jackson, and Zoe Saldaña; legacy A-listers such as Tom Cruise and Tom Hanks; and one 74-year-old Swede who has built a bustling, storied career doing a little bit of everything.
Monster movies come in strange bunches. Vampires dominated the screen in the 2010s, as gritty zombie hordes had the decade before that. Lately, we’re awash in Frankensteins, each adding stylized flavor to Mary Shelley’s novel: Zelda Williams’s goofy high-school version, Lisa Frankenstein; Yorgos Lanthimos’s steampunk reimagining, Poor Things; and Guillermo Del Toro’s faithful-to-a-fault take, currently up for nine Oscars.
When the news broke yesterday that Netflix had dropped out of the monthslong bidding war to control Warner Bros. Discovery—including its massive film library, range of TV networks, and news empire—the streamer’s stock immediately jumped. It was a curious market reaction, but one that seemed to reflect the deep mistrust that Netflix’s investors, and much of the media industry at large, had about the proposed deal.
Robert Duvall didn’t speak a word in his first film performance. When he was cast as Boo Radley in To Kill a Mockingbird, he was but an up-and-coming theater actor, and his role as the silent, mysterious neighbor to the heroine Scout Finch was small but pivotal.
At the box office earlier this month, four out of the five top-grossing movies were not from big companies. There was Solo Mio, an inspirational romantic drama starring Kevin James from the faith-based distributor Angel Studios; a filmed concert from the K-pop group Stray Kids; and a French adaptation of Dracula from the director Luc Besson that had already made big money overseas.
Wuthering Heights, the writer-director Emerald Fennell’s new adaptation of Emily Brontë’s groundbreaking Gothic novel, is her best film to date—a heaving, rip-snortingly carnal good time at the cinema. It is also a gooey, grimy mess. The camera lingers on dripping egg yolks and squishy, bubbling dough; the protagonist, Cathy Earnshaw (played by Margot Robbie), must wade through pig’s blood on her way to the moors near her home, leaving a trim of viscera on her gorgeously anachronistic dress.
The first question to confront when considering The Pete Davidson Show, a new Netflix series that the streamer is calling a “video podcast,” is: What is a podcast? The term can be a little difficult to pin down; what initially referred to downloadable audio files you ported onto your iPod is today used for most online radio. Now the notion of a podcast is transforming again to include filmed entertainment.
Sam Raimi is one of Hollywood’s finest purveyors of junk. I say this with love and reverence, and with full acknowledgment that he’s the man behind such masterpieces as Evil Dead II and A Simple Plan. But the director has spent decades digging for gold amid pulpier genres, turning out oddball horror, thriller, and comic-book movies.
Timothée Chalamet’s promotional campaign for his new film Marty Supreme has been a little unconventional thus far. Staged Zoom sessions. Promotional blimp work. A lot of chatter about a jacket nobody can buy. When Chalamet did The Tonight Show with Jimmy Fallon, he was flanked by an entourage of people with giant orange ping-pongs for heads.
For someone best known as an actor, Bradley Cooper’s core interest as a filmmaker is perhaps unsurprising. Thus far, he has been entirely consumed by examinations of performance—first digging into a pop musician’s stratospheric career climb in A Star Is Born, then wrestling with Leonard Bernstein’s desire to reimagine classical music in Maestro. Both movies were hefty pieces of entertainment, filled with love, death, and grand human experiences.
Marty Mauser cannot stop the hustle. In Marty Supreme’s electrifying opening moments, the audience is introduced to the wiry 20-something (played by Timothée Chalamet) in 1950s New York. He’s working as a shoe salesman, talking a fussy older customer into buying a fancier brand with easy confidence. Almost immediately thereafter, we learn that his boss (who happens to be his uncle) wants to make him the store manager. But Marty, a working-class Jewish kid, won’t hear of it.
When Mad Men arrived on HBO Max earlier this week, after years languishing on the less-subscribed-to AMC+ service, the streamer’s parent company, Warner Bros., heralded it as a triumph. Finally, the much-acclaimed Emmy magnet would be available to watch in glorious 4K resolution; viewers would now have “the opportunity to enjoy the series in a fresh way,” as the WB executive Royce Battleman trumpeted.
Agnes Hathaway, the elusive heroine of the director Chloé Zhao’s new film, Hamnet, seems happiest when in nature: retreating to the woods as often as she can, collecting mushrooms, tucking into tree hollows to sleep. She spends so much time outdoors that rumor spreads across her English village about her mother being a witch. It’s a believable claim; Agnes, as played by the actress Jessie Buckley, is raw, brooding, and fundamentally enigmatic.
Jeremy Strong has, of late, been prone to transformation on-screen. In last year’s The Apprentice, he became a late-in-life Roy Cohn, the venomous mentor to Donald Trump—all bluster with a thick Bronx accent and short temper. He earned plaudits for his dedication to sinking into the role, and his first Oscar nomination. Next year, he’ll play Mark Zuckerberg—older and cannier—in Aaron Sorkin’s sequel to The Social Network.
“On some levels, I understand that this is like a breakup.” So said Marc Maron on his podcast last week, monologuing in his garage for a final time. WTF With Marc Maron wrapped its 16-year run yesterday; the comedian interviewed Barack Obama, a conversation recorded in Obama’s office. The chat was something of a victory lap for Maron, who made headlines for interviewing the then-president 10 years prior. (Back then, the pair met on the host’s home turf.
No franchise in Disney’s deep corporate Rolodex is more odd and misshapen than Tron. The original 1982 film was for years a pop-culture bookend: The tale of a video-game developer who gets zapped into his own software, it was the first movie to significantly use CGI in its production. As visually groundbreaking as it was, Tron is also narratively puzzling—built on an internal logic of digital life that required lots of exposition.
The Upper West Side deli where I meet Benny Safdie is filled with a particular kind of grumpy old-school Manhattanite. They’re the type of figure who has tended to populate the filmmaker’s movies: many of them neurotic, and more concerned with finding a means to their own ends than placating the people around them. With his brother, Josh, Benny has built a career on his fascination with these occasionally surly characters, often men on the downswing.