- The Real Monsters: How True Crime Has Shaped the Horror TV Genre (October 28, 2025)
“If the devil’s alive, he lived here.” — Quote in the Chicago Tribune, attributed to a worker who was involved in the demolition of John Wayne Gacy’s house.
While working as a news columnist in the 1990s, I had one of the most macabre experiences of my life when I was granted access to the Cook County records facility that housed the evidence against John Wayne Gacy.
A square-shaped piece of lumber that was the hatchway to the crawlspace in Gacy’s house. Gacy’ hand-drawn diagram of the crawlspace, indicating where some of the bodies were buried. A piece of rope Gacy used to strangle one of his victims. Handcuffs and keys. Gacy’s appointment book for 1978-79. The jacket worn by Gacy’s final victim, Rob Piest, and a receipt from the pharmacy where the 15-year-old Piest worked—the receipt that became a crucial piece of evidence in the case against Gacy.
I was just 20 years old when Gacy was arrested in December of 1979, but down the road I wrote a number of columns connected to the case, including an interview with the mother of one of his victims, and over the years I’ve met a number of the real-life investigators and attorneys who are portrayed in the Peacock series “Devil in Disguise: John Wayne Gacy.” It’s not that I claim some special connection to the case, but it’s very real to me. To its credit, “Devil in Disguise” is a somber procedural that focuses at least as much on the victims and their families, and the cops and lawyers, as it does on Gacy. Every episode save the first one ends with news archival photos and film, pictures of some of the real-life figures depicted in the series, courtroom sketches, or snapshots of pieces of evidence. (A photo of Gacy’s crudely drawn map—the map I saw in that evidence room some 30 years ago—is shown at the end of Episode 2.) This particular series resonated with me because there wasn’t a hint of exploitation, nor was Gacy depicted as some kind of mysterious and powerful entity. Of course, he was a monster—but a monster in the form of a wannabe cop, a low-level political operative, a grotesque clown, a crude and grunting predator. He was the rancid embodiment of what the political theorist Hannah Arendt famously called “the banality of evil.”
MURDAUGH: DEATH IN THE FAMILY – “The Kingdom” – The Murdaugh family attends Hampton’s Annual Watermelon Festival where Alex is confronted by the consequences of his behavior. Mandy publishes an article that implicates one of the Murdaugh boys. (Disney/Daniel Delgado Jr.)
JASON CLARKE
Still, while there are standout supporting performances in “Devil in Disguise,” the awards buzz is centered on Michael Chernus and his chillingly effective portrayal of Gacy. When we consider the ever-expanding library of fictional films and streaming series about serial killers, it’s the star turns we remember. Darren Criss won an Emmy for his portrayal of Andrew Cunanan in “The Assassination of Gianni Versace: American Crime Story.” Jeremy Renner was the title character in the 2002 film “Dahmer,” and Evan Peters was nominated for an Emmy and won a Golden Globe for Best Actor for “Monster: The Jeffrey Dahmer Story.” Charlize Theron won an Oscar for playing Aileen Wournos in the feature film “Monster.” John Cusack was menacing and unnerving as Robert Hansen, aka “The Butcher Baker,” in the theatrical release “Frozen Ground.” Just this month, in addition to the Gacy series, the great Jason Clarke underwent a major physical transformation to play Alex Murdaugh in the solid albeit sordid “Murdaugh: Death in the Family,” and the talented Charlie Hunnam was the title character in the execrable “Monster: The Ed Gein Story.” Our appetite for all things true crime is voracious.
At least 10 actors, from Mark Harmon to Chad Michael Murray to Zac Efron, have portrayed Ted Bundy. TEN. The most notorious serial killers of the 20th century have been analyzed, fictionalized, and scrutinized in so many true-crime podcasts, so many documentaries, so many dramatic interpretations, that they have essentially been transformed into modern-day boogeymen that fascinate, terrify and repel us on a visceral level that carries far greater impact than the old urban legends about the “Hook Handed Killer” or the intruder who scribbles “Aren’t You Glad You Didn’t Turn on the Light?” in blood on the bathroom mirror.
Even fictional cinematic constructs are overshadowed by the mythology of the real-life monsters. Sure, Ethan Hawke’s “The Grabber” from “The Black Phone” and Amy Madigan’s Aunt Gladys in “Weapons” are memorable modern monsters—but it’s the long-dead Gacys and Dahmers who carry generational impact in our nightmares, who continue to intrigue us decades after their heinous crime sprees. Michael Myers and Jason and Ghostface have become borderline cartoonish caricatures over the decades, but when we see graphic and blood-soaked depictions of the crimes committed by the likes of Ed Gein and Ted Bundy, it affects us—and yes, fascinates us—on a deeper level. The shocking nature of these crimes are almost too horrible to behold; almost.
Monster: The Ed Gein Story. (L to R) Laurie Metcalf as Augusta Gein, Charlie Hunnam as Ed Gein in episode 307 of Monster: The Ed Gein Story. Cr. Courtesy Of Netflix © 2025
Why are we so obsessed with true-crime entertainment, in all its forms? It’s a kind of psychological combo platter. Many of us are wired to seek out the bleak but undeniable thrill of embracing dread and terror. We love to be frightened, whether it’s riding mega-roller coasters with names such as Hades 360, Full Throttle and Shivering Timbers, or paying to be scared via one of the more than 4,000 haunted house experiences that pop up every fall, or taking the plunge into a binge-worthy limited series about real-life murderers who have become the stuff of legend. We also like to play amateur sleuth when taking a dive deep into unsolved cases such as Zodiac and the Tylenol Killer. And, with the dramatizations of the likes of Manson, Bundy, Dahmer, and Gacy, there’s the satisfaction of seeing them caught, put behind bars—and in some cases, executed.
As one of the millions and millions of fans of the true-crime genre, I don’t usually feel guilty or uncomfortable consuming this material—but when I watched “Monster: The Ed Gein Story,” I did find myself wondering: What are we even doing here? In the final episode, there’s an insanely tasteless musical fantasy number in which Hunnan’s Ed Gein imagines himself taking a victory lap to the sound of “Owner of a Lonely Heart” by Yes, with gyrating nurses and orderlies dancing, and the likes of Richard Speck, Ed Kemper and Charles Manson celebrating him; it plays like a nauseating take on the “Bye Bye Love” climax in “All That Jazz.” By that point, I felt the need to take a deep scrub, to wash off the stink of this cynical and exploitative garbage. Articles such as “What ‘Monster: The Ed Gein Story’ Gets Right and Wrong” (Rolling Stone) and “10 Details ‘Monster: The Ed Gein Story’ Got Wrong” (Entertainment Weekly) seemed to miss the point. The showrunners were never trying to get it right. The fabricated, implausible elements were deliberate—and often offensive. Maybe they thought they were holding up a funhouse mirror to the genre, but it comes across as an insult to the audience, as if we should feel guilty for even watching. Ed Gein aiding investigators in tracking down Ted Bundy, à la Hannibal Lecter helping Clarice Starling, is art imitating art inspired by real life. It’s dizzying—and troubling.
Most of these series do a far better job of empathizing with the victims than “Monster: The Ed Gein Story.” Still, even the best of them, even the ones (like “Devil in Disguise”) that refrain from sensationalizing the story and devote much of the attention to the victims and the investigators, come with an element of exploitation. You can’t tell the story of a monster without giving the devil his due. And we can’t stop watching.
- “Silent Hill f” Sends Gamers to a New Destination in a Terrifying Universe (October 28, 2025)
It takes a beat to recalibrate your expectations when you play a “Silent Hill” game. Wait, I can’t jump? Why can’t I just climb over that fence and run away? There was a point in the new “Silent Hill f” when I was being stalked by a massive, bloated piece of nightmare fuel with a gigantic swinging blade for an arm, and I was on a patio outside the school from which I couldn’t drop down what looked like two feet to the ground below to get away. Really? On the one hand, this is a little insane given the freedom of movement in action games in 2025, but it’s also kind of a throwback to the early games in this franchise, a series that often felt like it was placing unusual restrictions on your protagonist just to make life more difficult. It’s one of many ways that a “Silent Hill” game plays like an actual nightmare in that you don’t ever really feel like you’re in control. And, while it may feel different than the franchise that spawned it in some departments, this frustrating terror ties “Silent Hill f” to the hit games that birthed it.
For gamers of a certain age, the “Silent Hill” franchise is foundational to how we play horror games and even experience horror films. Blending Japanese horror storytelling with a sense of smothering dread that felt in tune with German Gothic horror (there’s a bunch of Dreyer in “Silent Hill”), these games transformed the form, emphasizing limited combat/ammunition and a fun approach to puzzle solving in that it’s hard to use your brain when your heart is racing. Team Silent made the first four games from 1999 to 2004 and it is no exaggeration to say they changed everything, even leading to a film in 2006 (that Roger hated but that I liked so much at another outlet that I’m actually quoted on the DVD case), an awful sequel in 2012, and an upcoming reboot from the 2006 director Christophe Gans called “Return to Silent Hill,” coming in January.
After 2004’s “Silent Hill 4: The Room,” the series went pretty cold. Games like 2008’s “Silent Hill: Homecoming” and 2012’s truly weird “Silent Hill: Downpour” were disappointments, but at least they were keeping the series in the pop culture conversation. And then “P.T.” happened. In 2012, Konami began production on “Silent Hills,” which was to be directed by, get this, gaming legend Hideo Kojima (“Death Stranding”) and none other than Guillermo del Toro. They released a teaser/demo in 2014 called “P.T.” that was so mesmerizing that it even made a few top ten lists for the year, but the game was cancelled after conflicts between Kojima & Konami, and “P.T.” was pulled. (Man, I want to live in the alternate timeline where Kojima/GdT made a “Silent Hill” game.)
“Silent Hill” was essentially shut down with no new games for a decade. Last year, saw the successful remake of “Silent Hill 2,” still the best game in this franchise, and it looked like life was returning to this city of the dead. The same team is remaking the first “Silent Hill” game and something called “Silent Hill: Townfall” is in production. Can’t wait.
Until then, we have the hit “Silent Hill f,” a confident spin-off that incorporates Japanese culture and horror imagery into the “Silent Hill” universe. It stands on its own from the other games narratively and features its own enemies and even mechanics while also incorporating so many of the touchstones of the core series from a city drenched in fog to the way that memory and reality can form something new in our nightmares.
You play Shimizu Hinako, a young girl living in the Japanese village of Ebisugaoka in the 1960s. From the very beginning, materials found in the environment like notes and posters hint at something awful that happened in Ebisugaoka. As Shimizu goes to town to find her friends, the fog builds around the edges of the frame and red lilies dot the ground. As expected, sound design becomes a major player in the “Silent Hill f” experience as an imposing score and the sound of murderous creatures shoot through the silence to really shape the experience.
About those creatures. A bit too much of “Silent Hill f” relies on some pretty clunky combat. While that’s also in keeping with a lot of the franchises, I found it more frustrating here than normal as I inconsistently bashed a lead pipe or baseball bat into a “Ringu”-esque demon. The production design, storytelling, and puzzle design here are all aces, but I have to admit to growing exhausted with how often the game demands you defeat an enemy (and often the same ones over and over) instead of just avoiding it or vanquishing it in another way than swinging around a chunky weapon.
Back to the story. After meeting her friends in the village, Shimizu is basically transported to this game’s version of Silent Hill. As she explores the demon-infested village, trying to find her friends and get to safety, she’s also transported to a place called the Dark Shrine, where a figure known as Fox Mask guides her to the truth. As the story twists between various versions of reality, Hinako is pushed toward a subservient role as the Shiromuku, a bride figure to Fox Mask. Hinako’s past and fears of her future intertwine into an impressively crafted vision of adolescent terror made three-dimensional. As with a lot of games like this, five endings are possible, although only one can be granted on the first playthrough, leading to higher-than-average replay value.
While the aesthetics of “Silent Hill f” are memorable, the gameplay often trips over its own feet, whether it’s in the inconsistent combat or bland inventory & upgrade systems. What’s funny about the experience of this game is that it works despite these foundational issues because of the debt it owes to filmmaking. Whether it’s the artistically conceived cut scenes or the excellent score from “Silent Hill” composer Akira Yamaoka, it often plays out like a great horror film. It may not be the complete return to form that this diehard fan of the early “Silent Hill” games hopes to see, but it feels like it could be ultimately considered a bridge back to the town that shaped what so many of us love about survival horror.
Konami provided a review copy of this title. It is now available.
- CIFF 2025: One Golden Summer, Before the Call, Adult Children, Only Heaven Knows (October 27, 2025)
For the 61st Chicago International Film Festival (CIFF), the programming leaned into what it does best: exhibiting a diverse, compelling variety of films. With the slogan “Find You Genre,” audiences of all niches are welcomed and can access something familiar or dabble in something new. This year, with the curated “City/State” program, CIFF platforms homegrown stories. Each film under the umbrella discusses entirely different themes, yet in true Chicago fashion, they are all true to unearthing the complexity cultivated in this city.
“One Golden Summer” takes us back to simpler times, when Chicago collectively rejoiced around the winning Little League Jackie Robinson West (JRW) team from the South Side of Chicago, the first all-Black team to rally through the end-of-summer tournament. Like any kid, the only narrative I cared about at that time was the batter’s count and runs scored. Despite its overall positive light, we see the shadows more clearly in this production. “One Golden Summer”is not a nostalgic picture; it’s a correction of a national narrative that honors the integrity of children, now grown, and the legacy of a community.
Director Kevin Shaw balances present-day interviews with archival television footage to craft a narrative around what occurred, but then also gives us a peek behind the curtain. The only questionable choice in the retelling is the off-putting AI-generated animations; this decision, luckily brief, feels disjointed to the overall authenticity that the filmmakers are looking to uplift. Nonetheless, with each triumph, with each win that brings us closer to the culminating championship, there’s the lingering knowledge that Black joy is very rarely widely accepted. The documentary’s ability to evoke every high and low makes us feel as if we are reliving that Summer and Fall of 2014.
Shaw succeeds exceptionally at rewriting the script for the teammates of JRW. While he acknowledges their pain and sensitivities that still exist to this day, he also spotlights their growth and resilience. To this day, Josh Houston and his teammates struggle to recount the details of the revocation of their Championship title. Shaw smartly includes an interview with fellow 2014 Little League World Series star Mo’ne Davis; more than 10 years later, even she is in strong defense that the JRW team should have some recognition within the museum and archives. Despite it all, the film leaves us feeling hopeful, feeling that no matter what, Chicagoans will always know the true story, no matter the national negativity spewed our way.
Chicago creator James Choi’s newest film, although short and sweet, is a sentimental snapshot of a soldier’s days leading up to his departure for service. “Before the Call” follows Jinwoo (Andy Koh), a Korean American who returns to Korea to serve in the military amidst a growing political crisis. Despite not being required to enlist in service, Jinwoo seems to harbor some guilt if he did not participate in the cultural norm, something his father also completed.
The film is segmented by letters, a unique way of slowing the viewing experience while also explicitly sharing the inner thoughts of its characters. The more visual moments, which are stunning and breathtaking, are paired with a chilling, soul-shaking sound design; we, too, are made to feel conflicted about the decision Jinwoo is making. This inner conflict between the heart and the mind is complicated further by wanting to honor and fulfill a duty to both the internal and external forces at hand.
As the days roll by and Jinwoo’s deployment encroaches, his time with friends and his father continue to add rocks to each side of the scale. While enjoying a meal with his friend, Minji, she proposes a new popular activity taking over Seoul called “happy dying,” where one attends a version of their own funeral to be reborn, to start over. By introducing this idea of rebirth or a fresh slate, we almost want to grasp onto this concept as some form of closure for Jinwoo’s upcoming journey. Yet, the existentialism lingers; “whose war is it,” really?
“Before the Call” is not about giving us the answers; it’s about the navigation of ambiguity as the world continues to stop making sense. Choi magnificently fires on all cylinders to create a timely, crucial film that is relatable across cultures.
“Adult Children,” a non-traditional family drama, directed by Rich Newey and written by his life partner, Annika Marks, is a multi-thread story told through the eyes of a rising high-school senior. At the onset, “Adult Children” flies a bit too close to cliché as the story’s central character, 17-year-old Morgan (Ella Rubin), cannot come up with anything substantive for her college application essay. After eyerolling at this unoriginality, the complex characters waltz in and each of their unraveling threads are rewoven together through their sibling bonds.
The story picks up when Morgan’s (significantly) older brother Josh (Thomas Sadoski) relapses and needs to return to his mother’s home for interim recovery before heading to a treatment center. This sends the whole family into a frenzy, particularly because of the timing; it’s right when Morgan and her parents are preparing to embark on a long vacation to Europe. As Morgan’s two older sisters, Lisa (Betsy Brandt) and Dahlia (Aya Cash), also return home to support their brother, Morgan’s fear of missing out leads to stay behind to bond with her siblings that she never really grew up with.
With Marks inserting her experiential knowledge into plot points, each awkward encounter and sibling interaction feels raw and real. Despite the script having weak moments, born from trying a little too hard to be funny or deep, the chemistry between characters and standout performances balance out the more cringeworthy moments. Unfortunately, the film’s music parallels the writing, making it particularly corny; each needle drop was as if an out-of-touch stepdad took over the aux while dropping you and your friends off at the mall in 2008.
The heavier thematic thread of what it means to be in proximity to a loved one battling addiction is not at all overshadowed; it saves the story’s purpose while also complementing the other smaller plotlines. Although the film falters on multiple technical elements, I still found myself giggling at its oddities and connecting with the representation of siblings who essentially grew up with different parents due to a significant age gap.
Documentary filmmaker Nurzhamal Karamoldoeva has transformed her lens into envisioning and executing a narrative feature. “Only Heaven Knows” is a Chicago-set slice of life, or perhaps a series of unfortunate events. It’s being dealt a bad hand and going all in, risking it all for a sliver of the sweet life.
The film opens with Eric (Dauren Tashkenbaev), a Kyrgystanian migrant, at the hour of prayer, before cutting to him calling a colleague for a quick loan. With his smug look, it’s clear there’s no intention of paying it back; a sharp juxtaposition to his religious morality. We soon learn of the end that he’s using to justify these means: he is determined to become a citizen and buy a home for his mother, and his wife Mira (Malika Kanatova).
Currently living in such close quarters, there is off-putting tension between the trio. Eric is “working” all the time, taking him away from home; mother think Mira does not do enough. Everyone is seemingly harboring a seismic secret, yet we hold on to hope that the light wins. As Eric takes and takes from one too many people, his family is soon drowning in the wake of his gambling addiction.
“Only Heaven Knows” relentlessly layers one big problem after another, and there is no perfect player. Mira is making a mess of her own, but she, too, is simply searching for a better life in a new place. Both Eric and Mira are absent minded when it comes to considering others. He causes financial strain (that leads to threatened safety); she has an affair within the only sense of community that she has Chicago. Each character is so strongly written and well performed; despite the dual downward spirals, we sort of understand. At the very least, we sympathize.
Karamoldoeva’s vision and direction is so sharp; it’s evident her background has given a strong basis to create nuanced, complex, and caring representations of a real, unique, Chicago demographic. The melancholic score from Ulan Moldousupov looms and lingers; the blue-green hue of dawn, or dusk, fills the air and washes each shot. Poignantly, there is less prayer the more the mess unfolds. Assimilation to being an American certainly, aways, has its significant expenses.
- CIFF 2025: The Book of Sijjin & Illiyyin, The Holy Boy, Anything That Moves (October 27, 2025)
One of the more popular sections of the Chicago International Film Festival each year is the After Dark sidebar, a collection of films from around the world that are just a bit different from the usual fest fare—something a little stranger and wilder and containing plenty of sex, violence and straight-up weirdness to appeal to viewers with somewhat more outré tastes. This year was no exception with a number of films from around the world designed to take viewers on very strange rides via projects ranging from stabs at old-fashioned folk horror to an overt homage to the early works of one of the legendary names in underground cinema.
As the Indonesian gross-out extravaganza “The Book of Sijjin & Illiyyin,” which earned director Hadrah Daeng Ratu the Best Director award at the genre-based Fantasia Fest earlier this year, a bizarre incident in a small village has left a couple dead and their young daughter, Yuli (Firzanah Alya) orphaned. Because the dead man had another family before this, Yuli is placed into the care of his former wife, Ambar (Nazi Djenar Maisa Ayu) and while this new family is certainly a step up on a wholly material basis, the majority of them, particularly Ambar, essentially treat Yuli as a servant and never pass up an opportunity to remind her that she is nothing more than a bastard. When the story picks up 20 years later, Ambar has just passed and her daughter, Laras (Dinda Kanyadewi), has replaced her as matriarch and is perhaps even more cruel and vindictive towards her now-adult half-sister (now played by Yunita Siregar) than her mother.
Having borne all of this nastiness for years, Yuli finally snaps and seeks out a local mystic to help put an all-encompassing curse on both Laras and her entire family, most of whom have not animus towards Yuli but who have done nothing to try to stop the abuse. This, by the way, is no run-of-the-mill, chant-a-few-incantations kind of curse—this is an especially ghastly one that involves digging up Ambar’s recently buried corpse and doing all sorts of gruesome things to it night after night in order for it to work. It definitely works as no one in Laras’s orbit—not even her young son—is spared a bloody demise but there is a hitch. Yuli’s ritual is one that she cannot just stop and if she doesn’t complete it within 40 days, the power she has unleashed will double back on her instead. Meanwhile, Laras’s daughter Tika (Kawai Labiba), a devout Muslim who was always kind and respectful towards Yuli, has to figure out what it is that is befalling her family and end it before it they are all gone.
“The Book of Sijjin & Illiyyin” has been made with a certain amount of skill and style, some of the kills are of a particularly gnarly nature and it is never boring, I suppose. The trouble is that once you get beyond the blood and weirdness, there is not much of anything else there. The film lurches from one gory event to another and spends as little time as possible on anything regarding the story or the characters. This proves to be especially frustrating in the case of Yuli, who we are presumably meant to feel some kind of sympathy for, despite the actions that she takes against Laras and her family, but the leap from put-upon doormat to symbol of vengeance proves to be way too abrupt—imagine if Carrie had simply rained psychic hellfire on her cruel classmates right there in the locker room. Ultimately, the film is not so much bad as it is formulaic—unless you have somehow never seen a horror film before involving a put-upon person wreaking supernatural havoc upon their oppressors before, there is very little here that you haven’t seen before.
Horror with spiritual overtones is also a key factor in “The Holy Boy,” an Italian import from Paolo Strippoli that premiered earlier this year at the Venice Film Festival and which won a couple of prizes at the recent Fantastic Fest. In this one, Michele Riondino stars as Sergio, a judo expert who, haunted by a tragedy in his past, has landed a temporary position as a substitute gym teacher in Remis, a remote town known as “The Valley of Smiles” where everyone seems resoundingly cheerful all the time, a bit strange since the town was also once the sight of a deadly train accident. Needless to say, his moodier demeanor does not quite fit in with the other townspeople and it is at this point that friendly bartender Michela (Romana Maggiora) lets him in on the town’s big secret—a shy 15-year-old boy named Matteo (Giulio Feltri) who, in a weekly ritual, takes away all of the pain and sorrow of those who he embraces and leaves them in a near-blissful state. While the locals assure him that everything is perfectly fine with this, the more cynically-minded Sergio suspects that the arrangement is not nearly as benign as it seems—if nothing else, where does all the pain that Matteo is supposedly absorbing actually go? As he tries to get to the bottom of it all, Sergio befriends Matteo, a move that arouses suspicions among Matteo’s father and the other townspeople, who are worried that he is in the process of ruining what has been a very good thing, at least for them. Before long, both Sergio and Matteo make discoveries about the true nature of the boy and his so-called gift that threaten to have violent repercussions for the entire town.
As opposed to “The Book of Sijjin & Illiyyin,” “The Holy Boy” is more of a slow burn, preferring to spend the first half of its running time gradually building a sense of tension before getting to the bigger shocks that it is building to towards the end. This approach might drive less patient viewers to frustration, wishing that Strippoli would just get on with it already. However, those with a little more patience should appreciate the way in which the film serves as a precise and cutting examination of the perils of trying to offload one’s own personal pain onto someone else without giving any thought to the aftereffects for all involved, no matter how willing they may seem to be to accept it. This is underscored by the central performances from Riondino and Feltri, both of whom are quite good in the ways that they present the strange and often-shifting nature of their relationship. When the more overtly horrific events do evenutally kick in, they are indeed strange and disturbing and ultimately more effective than your usual gore fest. Although not flawless—at over two hours, it does contain a few scenes here and there that run on a little too long for their own good—“The Holy Boy” is an intriguing chiller that is more interested in trying to disturb viewers than in simply grossing them out.
Which brings us to “Anything That Moves,” the latest effort from Chicago filmmaker Alex Phillips, whose previous effort was the decidedly icky body horror/comedy hybrid “All Jacked Up and Full of Worms.” Upon seeing that one, I wrote “Although I found the whole enterprise to be disgusting, pointless, and seemingly endless (despite only running for 72 minutes), I concede that others may find the weird imagery and cheerfully repulsiveness to be entertaining”—outside of adjusting the running time to 80 minutes, that quote more or less stands for this one as well.
Set in Chicago and shot on 16MM, this one centers on Liam (Hal Baum), who, along with his girlfriend Thea (Jiana Nicole), works as a combination delivery person and sex worker for an app that offers customers both erotic satisfaction and tasty sandwiches and is good enough at his job that when his clients, both male and female, achieve climax, it is accompanied by a glowing light not unlike the one emanating from the briefcase in “Pulp Fiction.” However, while Liam is going about bringing pleasure to his clients (including characters played by adult film legends Ginger Lynn Allen and Nina Hartley) and conducting his oddball relationship with Thea—who, in the opening scene, employs him to deflower her younger sister on her 18th birthday as a gift—a serial killer is going around bumping off a number of those he has serviced, gouging holes in their heads and sticking clues inside. Inevitably, a couple of cops (Jack Dunphy and Frank W. Ross) become convinced that Liam is their prime suspect and so he must now try to figure out who is committing the killings while trying to avoid getting murdered himself.
Shot on grainy 16MM, the film is meant to simultaneously evoke the spirit of sleazy low-budget sexploitation film of the 1970s, gory Giallo-style slasher efforts of the same era and the giddily trashy anarchistic spirit of the early pre-“Polyester” efforts of John Waters but even if you happen to be a fan of those particular and admittedly peculiar sub-genres (as I am), this particular mash-up just does not quite click. Although the sexual activity is plentiful, very little of it could be described as genuinely erotic, though perhaps your mileage may vary in this regard. Likewise, while there is plenty of blood and brutality on display as well, none of it is particularly scary or gripping and the whole mystery aspect is more tedious than anything else. As a Waters homage, it misses the mark because while Phillips loads on the outrageousness throughout, he lacks both the droll sense of wit that Waters included in his films alongside the doggie-do snacking and performers as undeniably charismatic as the likes of Divine and Mink Stole—aside from Baum, whose likable dorky take on Liam is unexpectedly charming at times, the actors mostly range from meh to stridently annoying.
To be fair, “Anything That Moves” at least proves itself to be somewhat of a step up for Phillips from his previous feature, at least in terms of coherence. As a filmmaker, he does have enough of a vision—garish as it may be—to suggest that he might one day make a genuinely solid film, even if he has not yet done so as of yet, and at a time when American cinema, despite what dubious opinion polls might suggest, is at a particularly sexless point, the rampant horniness on display throughout is something that deserves to be celebrated. In the end, though, for all of the allegedly shocking material on display, the one moment that truly stands out for me is one where a couple of characters take a break from the mayhem to prepare and eat a couple of Chicago-style hot dogs sans ketchup—in a film that otherwise tries to be as transgressive as can be wherever possible, I was amused to see that at least one taboo was still being upheld.
- CIFF 2025: True North, Pasa Faho, Sun Ra: Do the Impossible (October 27, 2025)
In its 29th year of programming, Chicago International Film Festival’s Black Perspectives category continues to exhibit and uplift stories across the diaspora, adding evidence to the archives that Black folk are far from monolithic. Now, more than ever, taking the time to experience stories outside of our own will conserve our ability to be compassionate neighbors. With 10 feature films and a shorts program included in CIFF’s 61st lineup, Black Perspectives, like the other categories, can serve as a strong source for curating one’s own festival experience.
An archival snippet of activist and organizer Rosie Douglas telling us to “learn [your] history” sets the tone for the story that “True North” seeks to tell. The black and white documentary from director Michèle Stephenson, weaves together soundbites, interviews, and a plethora of historical documentation to recount key events and people of the Civil Rights Era in Canada, and, more specifically, Montreal. Not only does “True North” bring our attention to the historical and present day Black-Canadian experience, but the film also directly confronts how anti-Blackness is built and perpetuated by institutions.
Stephenson strings together a narrative that was once stuck out of sight, a persistent yet unsurprising struggle of the Black experience and Black history. Similar to the foundation of the United States, a majority of the Black population in Canada is due to the transatlantic slave trade and immigration. Anchored in one of the more angsty (and, therefore, inactive) age groups, Stephenson narrows in on college students at Sir George University who are standing up for equal classroom treatment and academic opportunity. As hundreds of students of all races and creed take over the precious college computer lab, the monochromatic scanned photos, peppered with interviews and archival audio illustrate the unnecessary, one-sided violence that quickly gets out of hand and is later taken advantage of within legal context.
All these years later, Brenda Dash, one of the women who was a prevalent player in such protests, states that in some ways her “soul is still colonized.” To no fault of her own, there is so much power in hearing an elder speak truth to the imperfections of combatting and overcoming generational, systemic suffering. In its final moments, “Reach the Sunshine,” a futuristic, psychedelic punk song by rapper Lil Yachty awakens our souls with sounds that fuel us with optimism for our ability to continue correcting such cruel, longstanding corruptions through collective action.
“Pasa Faho,” slang for, or play on, the phrase “parts of a whole,” takes the pieces of our broken hearts and puts them together again. In director and writer Kalu Oji’s feature debut, there is undeniable warmth and understanding of whose story he is trying to tell. Oji, who is Igbo Australian, tells the story of Nigerian shoe-store owner, Azubuike (Okey Bakassi), who slowly endures unexpected hardships right as his tween son Obinna (Tyson Palmer) starts to live with him. The family-drama is also a story of immigrant communities finding their footing in new places, how spirituality can be reshaped amidst such shifts, and how one’s sense of purpose can come into question but persevering through parenthood.
Despite the limited large-scale and landscape shots, each character has a grand presence, framed intimately in close ups that influence the overall perception of what audiences are able to connect to in this story. With exceptional chemistry between the father-son duo, Bakassi and Palmer bring contemplative, complexity to their characters. Even in moments of few words, much is said with their eyes and their physicality.
Over and over the film conveys some iteration of “true love must move along and evolve;” a lesson Azubuike not only reiterates to his son, but one that he, too, is learning and accepting. As the score oscillates between high-vibration afrobeats to more melancholic, classically orchestrated music, each scene is both visually and sonically saturated with emotional queues. “Pasa Faho” is layered and lovely on every level.
At last, the art of Sun Ra, the enigma, the intergalactic sonic savant, is brought to the silver screen. In Christine Turner’s newest documentary, “Sun Ra: Do the Impossible,” we’re flung into his orbit, entranced by his audacious mindset and outlook on life.
The film skims through Sun Ra’s early years and establishes him as a self-proclaimed divine figure from a young age. His beliefs were bigger than the human body can hold; a confidence so courageous and mighty, it was best channeled through making music. Turner transports us to Birmingham, AL in the 1940s, then we’re along for a journey to Chicago, New York, Europe, Africa, and beyond.
Despite the film’s diverse and well stacked line up of sources and interviewees, there is not an explicit, detailed display of Sun Ra’s lasting impact and legacy. Journalists and scholars unanimously agree that Sun Ra and his nature of making was otherworldly. Notably, he’s named “the godfather of Afrofuturism” as the film flashes several artists who embody an offshoot of the aesthetic Sun Ra and his Arkestra brought to the stage. Yet the only musicians included in the documentary are his former bandmates and fellow followers of afro-mythology. Some even admit the almost cult-like mentality the musical troupe underwent to remain in line with Sun Ra’s vision and aspirations.
Although this is a seemingly weak point of the overall film, “Sun Ra: Do the Impossible” has a central thesis of placing its subject within the archive as someone who is larger than life. With deep care and patience, Turner sifts through mountains of archival anecdotes (from letters to albums to found footage) to present just one iota of all Sun Ra was. As the film dances through time, the entirety of the score is composed of sounds created by Sun Ra; before the synthy ’70s, we boogie to the big band of the ’40s. The evidence is in the air while the psychedelic editing enhances our ability to have faith and make believe.
