- Mike Flanagan Finds New Power in Story of “Carrie” (October 6, 2026)
Three or four episodes into Mike Flanagan’s visceral, searing, and provocative eight-part adaptation of “Carrie,” something occurred to me: I had forgotten to be scared.
Maybe it’s because we’ve seen so many adaptations and updates of Stephen King’s classic 1974 novel, from Brian De Palma’s masterful and terrifying 1976 film to the stage work “Carrie: The Musical” to largely forgotten efforts such as “The Rage: Carrie 2” (1999) and made-for-TV “Carrie” (2002), not to mention Kimberly Peirce’s well-constructed remake in 2013 starring Julianne Moore and Chloë Grace Moretz.
We know what goes down: Carrie’s awakening to her powers, the trauma she endures, the prom, the bucket of blood, etc. Even though Flanagan has successfully interpreted King works such as “Doctor Sleep” and “Gerald’s Game,” even King’s initial reaction to yet another telling of the telekinetic tale was to say, “Let the poor girl rest.” (He wasn’t fully supportive, though he’s since changed his tune.)
So yes, there’s the familiarity with the material. But creator/writer/executive producer Flanagan wisely leans into that element, mirroring the novel’s epistolary framework by starting with a series of 911 calls on the night of the prom as the school is consumed by fire, and then pivoting to a documentary, with survivors trying to piece together the horrifying events of that night.
Prime Video’s take on “Carrie” won’t shock us out of our seats because we, too, know what happened. Sure, the series has its share of effective scare moments, but it’s more impressive as a treatise on religious fanaticism, the pack mentality, repression, social isolation, and how high school cruelty has been exacerbated by the ubiquity and frightening power of anonymous keyboard bullies on social media. It’s not the scariest iteration of “Carrie,” but it’s the most layered.
Far too often, films from decades ago are updated into overlong series that dilute the material. “Fatal Attraction,” “American Gigolo,” “Presumed Innocent.” The latest version of “Carrie” breaks that curse. While the core story is still there, the eight-episode arc allows for deeper explorations into the backstories of more than a half-dozen supporting players, and a larger examination of the long history of women who seemingly had extraordinary gifts, e.g., Joan of Arc, and how those powers created “fear, betrayal [and] oblivion.”
The series has the sheen of a “Twilight” movie, with pitch-perfect, ethereal and suitably haunting needle drops such as “Weightless” by Katie Garfield, “In the Bleak Midwinter” by Wolf Alice and “All of Human Knowledge Made Us Dumb” by Sofia Isella. (Nearly all the songs on the soundtrack feature female lead singers and often accompany Carrie’s point of view.)
The series kicks off with an aftermath scene in which a bruised and shaken Sue Snell (Siena Agudong) tells a documentarian, “There’s one thing no one understands about what happened here in Chamberlain…200 deaths, the destruction of an entire town, it’s so easy to forget we were kids. We were kids. We were kids, just trying to do our best.”
And we know how that worked out.
Flashback to conspiracy-minded prepper Ralph White (Tahmoh Penikett) getting killed in a construction accident, which leads authorities to discover the family almost nobody knew existed: Ralph’s wife Margaret (Samantha Sloyan) and their teen daughter Carrie (Summer H. Howell), who knows nothing of the outside world. In order for Margaret to retain custody of Carrie, she must take a job at a local supermarket, and Carrie has to attend Ewing High School, where she quickly becomes the object of ridicule because she doesn’t have a phone—and then suffers a horrific episode in the girls’ locker room that is filmed by her laughing classmates and posted all over the Internet.
Well, now you’ve started it, Ewing High, Class of, well, many of you aren’t going to make it to graduation.
The “Carrie” cast is loaded with Flanagan regulars, and some welcome newcomers as well. Alison Thornton is a hiss-worthy villain as Chris Hargensen, the alpha Mean Girl who leads the bullying of Carrie. (A subplot about Chris’ crumbling home life lends depth to her story, but she’s so awful that the empathy quickly dwindles.)
Amber Midthunder is terrific as Rita Desjardin, the well-meaning but overwhelmed gym teacher who tries to protect Carrie, while Matthew Lillard is the ineffectual Principal Grayle. Tim Bagley plays arguably the series’ most sympathetic character, Peter Morton’s guidance counselor, who connects with Carrie over their shared love of literature. (The show is not without its dark laughs, as when Morton quotes Mary Shelley’s “Frankenstein,” and Carrie says, “Oh. I don’t do scary.”)
An anonymous Instagram account called “CarrieRed_” is the catalyst for chaos within the hallways of Ewing High, with vicious rumors about students and teachers abounding. For the sake of the plot, the film ignores some real-world realities of social media, as we watch adults behave at least as badly as their children.
“Carrie” hums along on the strengths of the stylish visuals, the black humor, and the universally excellent performances. Summer H. Howell personifies Carrie’s callow nature but is up to the task when the blood hits the fan. Samantha Sloyan’s Margaret White is still an oppressive monster, but it’s a fun twist to see Margaret manipulate the community and become something of an influencer.
This is the “Carrie” reboot we didn’t know we needed, and it leaves us wanting more.
All eight episodes of “Carrie” were screened for review.
- Short Films in Focus: Busy Bodies (with Kate Renshaw-Lewis) (October 6, 2026)
Kate Renshaw-Lewis’ “Busy Bodies” is the kind of film I love to program for a shorts block, but it’s not the easiest to write about. Six minutes long, abstract, and open to interpretation, the film is a compelling, weird delight that I have watched many times and still find something odd and new each time. (Unfortunately, I couldn’t find a spot for it at this year’s festival. That happens, too.)
Using hand-drawn animation combined with “inkjet and screen printing techniques,” “Busy Bodies” is a wordless exploration of machines. At first, we think we might be watching a film about our bodies, specifically, our valves, tubes, and veins we have inside us, doing all this unseen busy work. The film can still be about that, with each new mechanism relying on another to exist. The synopsis suggests it’s about producing rubber gloves.
Could it be both? Or more? Of course. Shorts like this are more about the mood, the texture, the movement and the artist’s sole vision. Renshaw-Lewis’ film remains a compelling watch and feels like a series of paintings that, when looked at together, make a single statement that is completely up to the viewer. There is also something inherently satisfying about what is seen here. Machines are just machines making everything happen, but always at the mercy of bigger hands. The constant flow of work has a kind of soothing, hypnotic quality we can associate with a film like “Koyaanisqatsi.”
Perhaps “Busy Bodies” is about life in balance: every part of a machine working harmoniously together to create and deliver in a timely manner. Like, say, your latest Amazon purchase. Maybe our minds and bodies are so entwined with ordering stuff from Amazon and the like that we forget about what an unforgiving, ominous, indifferent machine goes into making that happen, but we’re all part of it. Maybe this movie is bleaker than I thought. Whatever the case, I enjoy its style, its inventive worldview and, of course, its efficiency.
Q&A with director Kate Renshaw-Lewis
How did this come about?
The film started with an opportunity to pitch a project to Ackzilla Entertainment. At the time, I was working with a local print shop in LA and experimenting with printed animation. The choice of medium, which is a combination of inkjet and silkscreen printing, came first, and I wanted to tell a story that was deeply connected to the very mechanical step-by-step process of printed animation.
My mind immediately went to the hidden mechanisms and production processes behind everyday, mundane items. Things that tend to go by without recognition of how they got there, for example, the abundantly packed and daily stocked aisles of the grocery store. The idea for the film came to me while I was grabbing lunch during my lunch break, and I noticed a small sticker on my pre-packaged tuna wrap that said, “made by hand.” I started wondering: Whose hand? How did they make it? Will I ever know what goes on behind the fluorescently illuminated presentation of the grocery store?
“Busy Bodies” Director Kate Renshaw-Lewis.
You went with hand-drawn animation, inkjet, and screen printing techniques. Can you tell me what went into that decision? Has that always been your preferred style?
Hand-drawn animation is my style of choice; it feels very natural to me and is one of my favorite activities. Printed animation was new to me, and I got into it through experimentation and free access to a print studio. I had experience screen printing still images and items like T-shirts, and I had seen some really lovely printed animations using risograph printing. My first test of printed animation was a quick rotoscope loop of my pet rabbit, Friday, jumping around, which I printed on a risograph printer.
My next test was a short for the screening group I co-run, LA Loft Movie Club, that used screen printing. I loved the specific texture screen printing added, and how much the paper texture was emphasized when I printed very small frames. Initially, Busy Bodies was intended to be fully screen printed, but due to budget and time constraints, I ended up printing the first part of the film on an inkjet printer and the second part with screen printing. This decision added important weight to the narrative. The ending of the film, the deterioration, was also an unexpected result of screen printing.
I’m sure you’ve seen lots of responses and interesting takes for the film. Can you share an overall reaction or one that stands out?
I really love it when someone shares that they also think about the process behind mundane objects. A friend shared that when they take a shower, they spend the entire time thinking about how the water reaches their specific faucet. An interesting response that I wasn’t expecting was the comparison to Dr. Seuss.
I have also heard a few times, and really enjoy hearing, that the film feels like it’s from a different era. One of the first ever screenings of Busy Bodies was at the Philosophical Research Society as part of a vintage animation festival. I was so happy to hear that although Busy Bodies was the only modern film, it felt in place. I’m a big fan of 60s and 70s experimental hand-drawn animation, and I think there’s a softness and whimsy that feels so deeply intertwined with that world of film.
I’m very curious as to why the film thanks the Museum of Jurassic Technology.
I work at the Museum of Jurassic Technology part-time, as well as freelance animation work. The Museum is a truly wonderful place and a deep inspiration. I actually storyboarded the film during downtime while working front-of-house shifts at the museum.
I also would bring the film in at various stages of production to get feedback and thoughts from my friends and coworkers. The Museum has a small theater, which is where I first ever screened the final version of Busy Bodies. If you’re ever in LA, I really recommend visiting it.
And the music (being such a big part of this) was recorded at the Vintage Synthesizer Museum? It’s incredible to me that it exists.
Yes, it’s so incredible! I had heard of the museum, but going to record for Busy Bodies was my first time there. It is such an amazing collection and library of very well-maintained vintage synthesizers. I went with two friends and wonderful musicians, Arius Ziaee and Alex Edgeworth, and we spent 2 straight hours recording a whole library of synthesizer sounds. It got a bit intense because we got so hypnotized that we didn’t take any breaks, and we came out in a complete daze of beeps and boops.
What’s next for you?
I’m currently working on another film with Ackzilla Entertainment. It is a much more ambitious film, so we’re working on a pitch deck right now. It’s a return to hand-drawn and painted multiplane animation. The story is pretty loose, but it’s about someone desperately trying to sleep and the stories my grandparents told me about the overwhelming experience of growing up in small houses with 12 siblings.
- “Star Wars: Galactic Racer” May Not Be Podracing (Mostly), But It’s Pretty Close (October 6, 2026)
One of the joys of the Star Wars universe is that, really, you can imagine yourself being whatever you want to be. The vast galaxy of “Star Wars” games bears that out, especially recently: wannabe Jedi can imagine themselves in the boots of Cal Kestis or Kyle Katarn, blaster-wielding scoundrels have “Star Wars Outlaws” (after some much-needed patches), and amateur space pilots can try their hand at “Star Wars Squadrons.” But for those of us who still wax nostalgic for the “Ben-Hur”-like joys of the podrace from “The Phantom Menace,” Fuse Games has a new-generation game to scratch the itch that “Episode I – Racer” left decades prior: “Star Wars: Galactic Racer.”
“Galactic Racer” is a racing game first and a Star Wars game second, and that’s to its benefit. Sure, the window dressing screams a galaxy far, far away, with familiar-looking planets, a suitably rousing John Williams-ian score by Gordy Haas, and speeders and bikes that have that “used future” feel so central to George Lucas’ vision. But this is also from the minds behind Fuse Games, made of former developers at Criterion Games, who brought us “Burnout” and “Need for Speed”; the emphasis here is on gameplay, fast and furious and the right kind of frustrating.
The loose framework that undergirds the world, and its roguelite single-player campaign, is thus: You play Shade, a mysterious helmeted newbie to the freshly reformed Galactic League, a racing league founded by the gregarious Darius Pax. Pax wants to bring racing back to its pre-Empire glory days, which means hosting a dozen or so expert racers on dangerous, thrilling tracks around the Outer Rim. But Shade is here for more than racing glory—they’ve got a bone to pick with the League’s star player, Kestar Bool, whose past intersects with Shade in ways the campaign will reveal, and hopes to defeat him on the racetrack.
Star Wars: Galactic Racer (Fuse Games)
It’s a simple, straightforward narrative that offers just enough Star Wars flavor to feel like part of the universe, without requiring reams of homework to understand every little thing that’s going on. Sure, some familiar faces show up, including a run-in with an “Episode I” podracer who becomes an erstwhile ally in your quest to defeat Kestar. Some planets will make your nerd senses tingle, too, like “The Force Awakens” starship-graveyard Jakku or the salt-encrusted Crait from “The Last Jedi.” But even the new planets, and your fellow allies and competitors, make surprising impressions, as you form rivalries (and even alliances) with the various racers you’re pitted against.
But enough of the worldbuilding: How does it play? Well, prepare for a steep learning curve, especially if you’re less practiced in racing games: “Galactic Racer” follows the “Burnout” model, throwing you on treacherous tracks with traps, takedowns, and turns that will turn your speeder into scrap if you time them wrong. And crash you will, and often; “Galactic Racer” is a roguelite, whose short gameplay runs are balanced by high difficulty and even higher replayability. Crashing is the name of the game, especially in your first few runs, as you learn the controls, your speeder’s maneuverability, and memorize every hairpin curve the multiple tracks each planet has to offer.
Each time you restart your tour, you can upgrade the base stats on your craft (split between well-balanced landspeeders, speed-heavy speeder bikes that are brutal on turns, and finicky “skim speeders” that feel like the ultimate upgrade… if you can master them), cash in new “favors” that give you certain stat boosts, and pick a racing style that emphasizes everything from longer afterburners to brutal takedowns of your opponents. There are adventure game elements to spice up the campaign in between each sphincter-clenching race, as you figure out what powerups or abilities or aspects of the game you lean toward most, and double down on them. (Fret not, the infamous podracer makes its presence known as well, though mostly in its own separate game mode that doesn’t interact with the other speeders.)
But it’s the nanosecond-to-nanosecond thrills of the racing itself that “Galactic Racer” excels in. Once you get past that initial hump of frustration, and you win (or at least place) in your first race, the game becomes absolutely addictive. In addition to learning how each craft handles, you learn to manage the two different boosts the game gives you: a standard afterburner and a riskier “ramjet” that gives you nearly uncontrollable speed (and the risk of blowing up if you hold it down too much).
Star Wars: Galactic Racer (Fuse Games)
Those, combined with abilities ranging from speed boosts to autopilots to weapons you can use to disable your opponents, create a lot to manage when you’re simply trying to squint through each detailed map you whiz through. Is that junk Star Destroyer engine a shortcut, or something I’ll just smack into and lose crucial progress? That’s the calculus “Galactic Racer” forces you to make, and it’s as exciting as it is expletive-inducing.
The roguelite nature of each run gives you randomized parts to add to your speeder that assist with afterburners, make takedowns tastier, or turn status conditions like burning or cooling into advantages rather than drawbacks. If you bonk into walls too many times, you might damage these parts, which impairs you in other ways, and you have to wait till the next time you saunter past your rare parts dealer to get it fixed.
Outside the single-player campaign, “Galactic Racer” offers some arcade options, plus an online multiplayer element that feels relatively diverting, albeit missing some essential features that might cut down on replayability. (Currently, there’s no way to assemble a large group of friends and play a track together, or—most sinful—an option for split-screen multiplayer.) Granted, the roguelite mode is more than enough fun to be worth the price, but I couldn’t help feeling that “Episode I – Racer” fans will be kicking their heels in frustration at that omission.
Some small caveats aside, “Star Wars: Galactic Racer” is a shockingly addictive addition to the Star Wars games catalog, another winner in a year that already gave us the solid X-COM riff “Zero Company.” Some of the best stories in this universe live on the margins of the Skywalker saga, where the “war” in “Star Wars” thrums in the distant background. There’s no Empire here, no one brandishes a blaster; no one even really dies (at least, in the dozen or so hours I’ve spent on the campaign trail). It’s just “Days of Thunder” in Space, complete with smart-aleck mechanics, shady race sponsors, and a sneer-worthy ’80s bully of a villain you can’t wait to show up on the racetrack. Just look out for those acid lakes; they can get you if you’re not careful.
- 2026 Busan Preview: 10 Films We Can’t Wait to See (October 5, 2026)
The Busan International Film Festival is upon us. The South Korean cinematic celebration, which was founded in 1995, arrives with a new wrinkle this year. A few months ago, the Academy Awards announced that winners from a select few festival competitions would be automatically qualified to compete for Best International Film, even if they were not selected by their respective country. Sundance’s World Cinema and TIFF’s Platform section, Cannes, Venice, and Busan’s main competition were picked as the programs whose winner could be fast-tracked to competing for the Academy Award.
For Busan, the decision is a major step forward. Not that the festival needs validation from a Western awards body, but this is only the second year that Busan’s main competition has existed (Zhang Lü’s “Gloaming in Luomu” won last year). The section’s emergence demonstrates the sturdiness of the festival’s overall programming, one that’s become a tastemaker of Asian cinema and also a destination for some of the fall season’s biggest movies.
This year there are 13 films in competition hailing from Japan, China, Taiwan, Indonesia, Uzbekistan, Iran, and South Korea. In Busan’s Vision-Asia and Vision-Korea sections, which uplifts mostly newer voices, are 24 films. During the festival you can expect several dispatches from myself, which will highlight many of the festival’s talented filmmakers who may be discoveries for you. It’s my first time attending the festival and I’m deeply honored to be doing it on behalf of RogerEbert.com.
In the meantime, below are 10 titles that will probably pop up in our coverage. The first five are from the main competitions. The second half are from the bifurcated Vision program. Come back beginning Friday for our coverage.
(Synopses courtesy of Busan.)
“The First Taste of Loneliness”
The film opens with the death of a father, then moves across the Qiantang River to an old apartment where three generations of women live together. The second scene, filmed in a long take lasting over twenty minutes, meticulously observes the inside of the home the father has left behind, discovering the traces of his presence. The camera quietly captures the lives of the three women as they grieve the loss of the husband, father, and grandfather in their own ways. Their names – Luna, Jiang Yue, and Moon – all evoke the moon, echoing what Yue’s father often said when he was alive: “A moon for every river.” The story of these three women, each carrying a moon in her own river, follows their paths of loneliness and healing. Gu You completes his Landscape trilogy with this film, after Dwelling in the Fuchun Mountain and Dwelling by the West Lake. He layers the characters’ lives across the scenery of rivers, mountains, and cities through fluid and graceful camerawork by cinematographer Mikiya Takimoto, known for his collaborations with Koreeda Hirokazu. Within these landscapes, the delicate and elegant performance of acclaimed Chinese actor Zhou Xun creates an even deeper resonance.
“Hilol”
Hilol quietly counts. She counts while hanging upside down from a window frame, when fear wells up inside, and after realizing for the first time what she wants and does not want. Counting is a way for her to keep her pent-up emotions and desire from erupting, but paradoxically it also allows her to recognize that they are still alive within her. At twenty-three, Hilol has been raised by her father like a son. Her mother died when she was born, and though she was once a Taekwondo champion, she now has little to do other than caring for her father at home. Her older sisters, each struggling with problems of their own, try to arrange marriage for Hilol. Then, she runs into her childhood friend Doniyor by chance, which stirs feelings she does not quite understand. The rough, bold camera follows Hilol as she keeps setting off toward somewhere, only to pull back and capture her standing still as though lost, in an extreme long shot. The interplay between these contrasting shots creates the film’s distinct rhythm. In Uzbekistan, ‘Hilol’ is both a masculine name and a diminutive of the feminine name Hilola, and it also means ‘crescent moon.’ This makes the name a key to understand the film, as well as a metaphor that invites audiences to imagine Hilol’s life after the film ends. Hilol marks the arrival of a notable new voice in Uzbek cinema.
“Ibuku”Sumiati (Christine Hakim) was once a popular Jatilan dancer in her youth, but now she lives alone as a widow. After her husband was ruined by gambling and took his own life, leaving her with nothing but his debts, Sumiati is forced to marry off her only daughter Sri (Ayushita) to help pay them off. But she cannot protect Sri from an abusive, alcoholic son-in-law, and Sri flees the country to become a migrant worker abroad. There, subjected to abuse by her employer, she commits murder and is sentenced to death. When news of her daughter’s tragic fate reaches her, Sumiati makes the desperate decision to go and see her in person, defying the indifference and objections of those around her. Eddie Cahyono’s fourth feature, IBUKU, once again turns to the family narratives of his native Yogyakarta. As in his earlier work, he explores in even greater depth the lives of women living under oppression. The suffering of women forced to endure sacrifice and resistance amid patriarchal and economic collapse unfolds here into a profound psychological journey. The land, parched by relentless drought, becomes both a mirror for the characters’ devastated inner lives and trauma, and a paradoxical refuge from them. For women neglected by society and community alike, trapped with no way out in the snares of their own lives, might what they truly need now be reconciliation and forgiveness? Is this the only way to break this chain of tragedy?
“Midday Meal”
In a parched badland village that looks like the end of the world, Solan is the only teacher. After years of enduring the poorly paid temporary job, he holds one modest dream – to become a full-time teacher and to live in a proper house with his mother. But everything begins to unravel with the death of the benefactor who had funded the school’s meal program. If the meals stop, most of the students will stop coming, and the school’s closure becomes inevitable. The education office offers no real help, only an order to keep the classes running. Desperate, Solan withdraws his rental deposit, moves into the school, and begins a precarious double life as a teacher by day, and oil smuggler by night. And through it all, his mother stays by his side, quietly trusting him. In Midday Meal, Iranian master Majid Majidi shows this world with unflinching rawness, and his direction reveals a gift for capturing layered emotions that resist easy words. His camera runs close to the characters’ emotions, then falls still at key moments, heightening the drama through that very stillness. Do Solan’s ends justify the means? Are choices driven by pure goodwill, or are they nothing more than self-interest masquerading as virtue? Within its own running time, the film can only project a single facet of reality, but how far today’s conscience might take root for generations to come is left to the audience.
“Silver Express”
Following her acclaimed short Ginger Boy, director Tanaka Miki returns with silver express, a quiet and deeply empathetic exploration of modern intimacy. The story follows Chieri (Okamoto Yui), a young woman who has never experienced romantic or sexual attraction. Feeling perpetually out of place in a world obsessed with romance, her isolation finally lifts when she meets Shoya (Kurihara Hayato). Also lacking romantic feelings, Shoya offers Chieri a rare sense of understanding. However, their sanctuary begins to unravel over a fundamental difference: while Chieri is asexual, Shoya is aromantic and experiences physical longing that Chieri cannot reciprocate. Tanaka shines behind the camera, cementing her reputation as a director with a rare visual sincerity. Elevating her strong cast, she captures Chieri’s internal landscape with remarkable delicacy, translating complex emotional states—isolation, relief, and quiet friction—into atmospheric visual poetry. What lingers most is Tanaka’s distinctive directorial ‘touch’—a subtle, sensitive approach to filmmaking that prioritizes mood, character texture, and raw emotional resonance. Driven by Okamoto’s compelling debut and Kurihara’s grounded charisma, silver express is a contemplative character study that offers a uniquely nuanced lens into asexual and aromantic experiences, marking another stylish showcase of Tanaka’s undeniable artistic vision.
“1982”
Vietnamese cinema is riding high. Its films are earning recognition abroad and the box office keeps setting new records. But what does any of that mean to Yen, who hasn’t made a single film in ten years? A mother with dementia, a son treated like a problem child, a sister buried in debt and a brother unable to marry only deepen her financial troubles. Can she keep making films? About ten years after her sensational debut Flapping in the Middle of Nowhere, director Nguyễn Hoang điệp returns with her new film 1982. This metacinematic film lays bare her unfiltered love for cinema itself. In the film, what Yen searches for is not just her missing mother but her own self, worn down after ten years of struggle. The point where life and film slide into each other will linger with audiences who have each sought their own balance in life.
“Beyond Love’s Horizon”
Taeyoung (Park Songyeol) and Jumi (Won Hyangra), a married couple who have closed down their shop, are at a loss. Then, like a miracle, new life arrives. The road through pregnancy, childbirth, childrearing, and caregiving proves far more grueling and arduous than expected. Overwhelmed by extreme physical and mental exhaustion, the couple fumbles, falters, stumbles, and slips again and again. And yet, their child is pure, absolute joy. For Park Songyeol and Won Hyangra, whose lives have always been the wellspring of their creative work, dating and marriage have now led to the momentous event of welcoming a new member into their family. Compared with their previous works, the narrative and form are more relaxed and straightforward, but the variety of visual styles previously unseen in their films, along with the interplay of black-and-white and color, seems to attest to the unfamiliar experiences and sensations brought on by the birth of their child. The film declares with its entire being that childrearing, which demands tremendous energy, is the most urgent question and overwhelming reality in their cinema. However overwhelming, awkward, and difficult it may be, there is no compromise. It is a declaration of self that is built and carried forward through film, a vigorous serenade of love, and a spirited chorus proclaiming, ‘We will keep going.’
“The Birds”
Yeok (Kang Kyunghun), a middle-aged teacher raising a son and a daughter alone, witnesses students fall to their deaths from the rooftop of the school where she works. Discovering that her daughter Hyejeong (Sim Su-bin) was also present at the scene, she presses her for answers, but Hyejeong only repeats the same words: ‘There was a bird in the sky.’ As the strange, unexplained deaths continue, Yeok, together with a reporter covering the case and a streamer who runs a birding channel, head towards the birds’ habitat. In the SF fantasy drama The Birds, falling humans seem helplessly drawn by some overwhelming, inexplicable force, as if intoxicated and entranced by a mysterious substance, plunging of their own accord and drifting listlessly. This astonishing phenomenon is not merely temporary, but a reflection of the merciless and brutal logic of this world – and, at the same time, a fierce assault on it. Strange and sorrowful is a world in which adults and children alike are steeped in melancholy, unable to endure or even be themselves without recourse to fantasy and hallucination.
“Full Moon”
Middle schooler Hyemi (Jung Minju) longs to shine as the center of her school dance team. But when a costume mishap occurs on stage during the Jeongwol Daeboreum (Great Full Moon) festival, cracks begin to spread through Hyemi’s once self-assured world. She grows distant from her close friends, and worse still, the existence of her parents – a secret she has kept to herself, hoping the world would never find out – is now in danger of being exposed to everyone. FULL MOON captures the moment when two opposing impulses within an adolescent girl collide – the desire to turn away from and conceal her most vulnerable self, and the longing to be seen and recognized by the world – opening the first crack in her life. The taste of loss is bitter, and the confusion cruel, but this is not the end. Just as the moon wanes only to wax again, she discovers an unexpected friendship and forms a tender connection with the adult world she once thought she could never understand. Clean, unembellished cinematography and music that feels like an intimate language richly fill out the film.
“There Will Be Snow”The film begins with a striking scene: a world covered in snow and ice, where people are busy cutting and transporting massive blocks of ice, while skyscrapers loom in a haze far behind them. Across the screen comes the depressing news that the construction connecting the ice city Glaceterre to the intelligent city system Fireworks has once again been delayed. When Gu Chen receives a phone call from a dance troupe in the highly automated city of Bright Zone, she is excited by the prospect of finally leaving Glaceterre. Meanwhile, Xu Chu, an engineer who took part in the development of Fireworks, returns to his hometown in search of lost memories. Bathed in bluish light, the film creates a fantastical atmosphere through images of snow, ice, reindeer, and iron bridges, breathing warmth into the ruined city of Glaceterre. Gu Chen’s last dance seems to suggest that as long as memories and love remain, what keeps us going may be the imperfect rhythm of life itself.
- Apple TV’s “Small Prophets” Finds the Magic in Yearning (October 5, 2026)
What’s more human than yearning? Not much, as the prescient British series “Small Prophets” illustrates across its tight six-episode first season.
The premise goes like this: Michael Sleep (a sardonic and kind Pearce Quigley) is waiting for his partner Clea to return. She disappeared Christmas Eve seven years ago, and his life (and house) have been in stasis ever since. His elderly father (Michael Palin) offers him a path out of this heartbreak via an alchemy recipe that conjures “homunculi”–in this case, humanoid prophets born and nurtured in jars. With the help of his new work-friend Kasey (a delightful Lauren Patel) and despite the interference of several disparate groups of people, he gets the magic going, but what will he find out about Clea?
The magic here is wondrous–with the homunculi an other-worldly stop-motion animation. Their strangeness inspires wonder and a bit of fear, as clearly their power and presence is not of this world. While Michael’s day-to-day is realistic and recognizable. He works at the “DIY shop,” what we in the States would recognize as a Home Depot or Lowe’s. There, he misdirects customers who ask inane questions and runs circles around his meddling, try-hard boss (Mackenzie Crook, who also created the show).
That wry juxtaposition allows the show to critique our modern age while still focusing on timeless aspects of the human condition: love, loss, and yearning.
Part of what makes “Small Prophets” so affirming is that it accepts Michael for who he is. We never find out about any professional ambitions of his–he’s not a struggling artist stuck working in retail, for example. He’s just a smart, funny, good man who misses his partner. In fact, his love–for her, for his aging father who he cares for–is his defining characteristic. So while he may crack jokes at the DIY customer’s expense (there’s a hilarious bit where he explains to one that the store doesn’t carry buckets anymore because they’re outdated), he is not animated by meanness or cruelty. He’s just passing the time and making a living so he can get on to the more important stuff.
Michael is decent in what should be an ordinary way, but feels extraordinary in a TV protagonist these days, stuck as we are in the post-anti-hero age. And his decency powers the show, giving it a believable warmth. Michael is old enough to be Kasey’s father, as he explains in one interjection, but that doesn’t stop a lot of side characters from assuming she is his girlfriend. It’s a misperception the two dispel more than once, and their rejection of it is completely believable because of how these two show up across “Small Prophets”: as people uninterested in hierarchy and real friends. But their need to say so is reflection of the corrupted society we live in.
The two friends create a cocoon of sorts in Michael’s shed. They make it a place where magic happens, where these two coworkers can find answers and acceptance, where they can face their fears together. It’s quite a contrast to the world outside, which is filled with judgmental obstacles like a scene where Michael comes across a group of kids robbing an armored vehicle (really), and the kids threaten to accuse Michael of exposing himself if he calls the police.
It’s worth noticing that Michael’s tried to build this cocoon before. Clea had once told him about a perfect memory and he’s painstakingly recreated it from a Polaroid of hers, complete with antique toys and furniture from the time. But Clea never got to see it, disappearing before Michael could show it to her. He tried to cast an enchantment in the form of a time capsule, but it didn’t work. The divine is not so easily conjured.
The look and sound of “Small Prophets” likewise mixes the ordinary with the extraordinary. Michael’s overgrown garden and red-doored home is both common today and something out of a fairytale. The music is timeless, calling not to our present moment or putting out-of-time references into a given scene (as has become fashionable over at Netflix).
Now, there are some British TV trappings here. Michael’s neighbors (Jon Pointing and Sophie Willan) antagonize him with their meddling and judgment, mugging for the camera as they go about their spying. Clea’s brother Roy (Paul Kaye) is positively bizarre in a terrible wig that telegraphs his role as the show’s erstwhile villain. Michael’s coworker antagonist (a delightful Ed Kear) is better done but still silly as he both teases and admires the other man.
Still, on balance, this is a deeply human show revealing what it means to care for each other in the face of our biggest doubts. It brings warmth, wry humor, and a dose of magic to the job, creating a delightful set of characters in an equally fascinating world. With these elements, “Small Prophets” works as both a reflection and an antidote to our current society, arguing that a little decency goes a long way.
Whole season screened for review. Premieres on Apple TV+ on October 7, 2026.
