Closing the circle of a saga like Karate Kid seemed almost impossible, but this new installment finds a way to do it without betraying its roots. The idea of bringing together two generations —the original from the 80s and the reboot in China— could have been a disaster, but the chemistry between Ralph Macchio and Jackie Chan carries the film from the very beginning. Seeing them together works as the perfect bridge between past and present. The movie doesn’t hide that its structure is the same as always: naïve student, demanding mentor, tough training, and the final showdown. But that’s exactly where its strength lies. This formula, repeated endlessly, still works because it taps into a universal emotion: personal growth. You may see every step coming, but what matters is how it’s told and the energy it gives off. Macchio and Chan make for a curious and endearing duo. Each brings his own style and legacy, turning nostalgia from a burden into a driving force that pushes the story forward. The nod to Cobra Kai is there, but the film finds its own tone, closer to classic family cinema than to the twist-heavy drama of the series. The new protagonist delivers, bringing freshness and emotion to a story that, while predictable, works thanks to its brisk pace and straightforward focus. It doesn’t try to reinvent anything, but it updates just enough to hook new generations without them needing to have seen everything that came before. Visually, it doesn’t reinvent the wheel, but the staging is clean and effective. The fights carry the right intensity, avoiding excess and gimmicks, and the emotional side, even if a bit heavy-handed, keeps the heart of the story intact. There are no groundbreaking moments, but it doesn’t need them: the audience knows what they came for, and here they’ll find it. In the end, Karate Kid: Legends doesn’t try to revolutionize the saga, but to celebrate it. It brings back the classic values, pairs two icons that work well together, and delivers a dose of simple, effective emotion. It’s a reminder that sometimes, sticking to the formula is the best thing you can do.

Ending a saga like Mission Impossible after nearly thirty years is no easy task. Dead Reckoning arrives with that challenge and, although there were doubts about whether it would live up to expectations, the truth is that the farewell has bite. There’s epic scale, there’s emotion, and above all, sequences that more than justify the nearly three-hour runtime, even if at times the film feels a bit longer than necessary. The opening leans into intrigue and espionage, reminiscent of the franchise’s early days. Conspiracies, betrayals, constant suspicion… all wrapped in that atmosphere where nothing is what it seems. It’s true that the pace slows down in places and one feels the story could have been told with fewer detours, but that calm eventually pays off: it sets the stage so that when the action erupts, the spectacle is overwhelming. And then comes Tom Cruise, once again proving he’s still Hollywood’s last true action hero. He runs, jumps, clings to anything he can, and does it with a conviction that’s contagious. At over sixty, he’s still determined to make the audience hold their breath with every stunt. More than a spy, his Ethan Hunt has become a symbol of resilience, someone who never gives up even when everything is against him. The supporting cast delivers, though it’s true that some secondary characters feel underused. The nods to the past and nostalgic cameos will make longtime fans smile, but certain roles deserved more room to shine. Still, whenever the camera focuses back on Cruise, the film regains all its magnetism. The climax is pure spectacle. Underwater scenes, impossible chases, and aerial sequences that feel out of this world. McQuarrie shows he knows how to orchestrate chaos like few others, keeping the tension and excitement alive until the very last second. The story may not hold many surprises, but when the action burns with this kind of intensity, little else matters. In the end, Dead Reckoning doesn’t reinvent the formula, but it does manage to say goodbye with dignity. It’s a closing chapter that honors the saga, blending nostalgia with pure spectacle and making it clear that Ethan Hunt leaves the stage at the very top. For those who watched the first mission back in July 1996, it’s impossible not to leave the theater with the feeling of having been part of a journey as excessive as it was unforgettable.

There are roles that mark a before and after in an actor’s career, and Christian Bale’s work here is on another level. Long before donning the Batman suit, he underwent a brutal physical transformation to play Trevor Reznik, a machinist who hasn’t slept in a year and whose life has spiraled into paranoia and guilt. He’s so emaciated it’s hard to look at him, but what truly hits you is the way he conveys the mental and emotional exhaustion of someone pushed to the brink. Brad Anderson crafts a psychological thriller that draws you in slowly, with a cold, oppressive atmosphere that makes you feel trapped with no escape. The muted, desaturated cinematography only deepens the constant question: is this really happening, or is it all inside Trevor’s head? The story builds at its own pace, letting the tension rise until a finale that fits perfectly without resorting to cheap tricks or overblown twists. Jennifer Jason Leigh and Aitana Sánchez-Gijón bring humanity to the film from two very different angles: one more physical and direct, the other warmer and more luminous. John Sharian, as the unsettling Ivan, keeps that lingering discomfort alive. This isn’t about easy scares or frantic pacing. Here, the unease seeps in slowly until you realize you’ve been tense for a while. Bale delivers a performance that goes far beyond physical transformation, getting under your skin. The Machinist is an uncomfortable descent into a broken mind, a journey that stays with you long after the screen fades to black.

X is exactly what you hope for in a well-crafted slasher—and these days, that’s already saying a lot. Ti West revives the 1970s essence of the genre, with its gritty texture, deliberate pacing, and that mix of sex, violence, and tension so many recent attempts have forgotten. There’s no fear of splattering the screen with blood, but also no hesitation in adding dark humor and building characters who, while rooted in archetypes, feel more engaging than usual. The atmosphere is spot-on: period music, grindhouse aesthetics, and a steadily rising tension that turns downright uncomfortable. West knows how to play with suspense, alternating moments of deceptively calm pauses with bursts of graphic violence that jolt the viewer. The gore is well-judged—enough to shock without feeling gratuitous—and the camerawork conveys both the sensuality and the danger surrounding the story. The cast shines, with a magnetic Mia Goth owning the film and an ensemble that fully grasps the project’s tone. Each performer adds something to the game of seduction and death set up by the script. And while it doesn’t reinvent the genre, X reminds us why slasher became a classic in the first place: when done right, it entertains, scares, and leaves an unsettling aftertaste long after the credits roll. In short, it’s a bloody, stylish feast—an homage that doesn’t just copy, but revives the energy of an era and channels it into horror that feels alive. A gift for anyone who thought slasher had nothing left to offer.

My Oxford Year tries to sell itself as an emotional romantic drama set in a postcard-perfect setting, but neither its scenery nor its attractive cast can hide the obvious: this is a flat, prefabricated, soulless film. The story leans on every young adult romance cliché—improbable love, culture clashes, personal discovery—but does so with such lack of energy that it becomes frustrating. The chemistry between the leads is almost nonexistent, turning every supposedly emotional moment into a weightless formality. Even the supporting cast, with seasoned actors who could add gravitas, seem trapped in a script that gives them nothing interesting to say or do. Visually, it delivers, with Oxford and other British locations looking like a tourist brochure, but the pretty packaging can’t make up for the narrative emptiness. The film tries hard to feel moving, but everything comes off as artificial and forced, as if it were trying to force tears without earning them. Ironically, one of its most memorable moments has nothing to do with the plot, but with the appearance of Coldplay’s Yellow, which at least stirs something amid the boredom. Beyond that, what remains is a forgettable exercise that doesn’t even qualify as a “guilty pleasure”—it’s simply dull.