Trap is Shyamalan in pure form: entertaining, tense, and with that mix of suspense and absurdity only he can pull off. The story starts strong, placing us in an apparently ordinary setting that soon turns into a cat-and-mouse game full of suspicion and double-crosses. The tension holds steady during the first hour, and while the twists often border on the implausible, they’re part of the unspoken pact the director makes with the audience from the start. Josh Hartnett carries much of the film’s weight with a restrained yet intense performance, conveying fear and uncertainty without losing his composure. His role, trapped in a dead-end situation, brings the right balance for the story to shift between tension and touches of dark humor without losing its pace. Shyamalan takes full advantage of the setting and atmospheric tension, tightening the rope bit by bit until breaking it with sudden moments that jolt the viewer and force them to reconsider what they’re watching. This alternation between calm and bursts of energy keeps the story engaging and prevents it from stalling. It’s not his most polished or ingenious work, but it’s a film that keeps its rhythm and manages to hold the intrigue until the very end. For those who enjoy his style, it’s a reminder that, with all his strengths and flaws, Shyamalan remains a filmmaker capable of surprising and turning suspense into something unmistakably his own.

Bring Her Back is one of those films that unsettles more by what it suggests than by what it shows—though here, what it shows doesn’t hold back either. The Philippou brothers return after Talk to Me with a story that preserves their talent for crafting dense, suffocating atmospheres, playing with themes of pain, loss, and the limits of the supernatural. From the first minute, there’s a sickly air hanging over everything, as if the story were soaked in a sticky sadness that never lets go. Sally Hawkins owns the screen as a foster mother as disturbing as she is fascinating, able to shift from quiet menace to utter madness in seconds. Alongside her, the young performers bring a vulnerability that makes every twist more uncomfortable to witness. The tension simmers slowly, with bursts of violence that hit hard for their rawness and for how little they dwell on the effect. Narratively, the film isn’t perfect: there are moments where the logic falters and the central metaphor doesn’t fully evolve. But it works thanks to a steady hand and direction that knows when to tighten and when to let the audience breathe. The result is horror that’s more emotional than flashy, where the threat lies as much in what lurks outside as in what rots within. Though not flawless, it’s memorable and holds you until the end, leaving an uneasy feeling that’s hard to shake. It may not match the surprise of its predecessor, but it confirms that the Philippous know how to unnerve—and they do it with surgical precision.

Few things are as disappointing as revisiting a saga that once left a mark on you, only to find that nothing remains of what made it special. Rings tries to bring back the myth of Samara by adapting it to today’s codes, but the result is a film that never truly finds its own identity. The fear that permeated The Ring here dissolves into predictable jump scares, forced twists, and characters who seem to move out of obligation rather than logic or instinct. The script wavers between repeating worn-out formulas and adding “new” ideas that, far from enriching the story, make it confused and disjointed. There’s no leading role with the dramatic weight Naomi Watts brought to the original, and the threat of the cursed tape loses its edge by being wrapped in a teen package that lacks real tension. Visually, the film delivers without impressing: dark photography, a closed-in atmosphere… but everything feels too calculated, without the genuine discomfort a story like this needs. The suspense is weak, and the few scenes that aim to shock stand alone, without a build-up to support them. Perhaps the most frustrating thing is that Rings fails to justify its existence. It adds nothing new to the universe it borrows from and, in its attempt to “modernize” the tale, forgets what made it a phenomenon: that creeping sense of imminent terror that stayed with you long after turning off the TV. Here, the only thing that lingers at the end is indifference.

Some films, beyond their story, capture you through the atmosphere they create from the very first frame. Robert Eggers’ new version of Nosferatu is exactly that: a total immersion into a world of shadows, dampness, and superstitions, where fear is not shouted but breathed. There’s no rush here; every shot is crafted with meticulous care, with cinematography that feels painted in candlelight and staging that forces you to notice every detail, even when you’d rather look away. Eggers doesn’t just pay tribute to Murnau’s classic—he wraps it in an aesthetic that is both sickly and elegant, feeling as old as it is new. Bill Skarsgård embodies a disturbing, viscous, almost hypnotic Count Orlok, while Lily-Rose Depp brings a counterpoint of fragility and strength that elevates the narrative. This is not the typical Dracula story we’ve seen countless times; here, horror blends with a subtext of power, corruption, and desire that creeps in like a heavy fog. The setting is flawless: villages steeped in superstition, endless corridors, and a foul atmosphere that recalls the most primitive terrors of cinema. The music and sound design play a crucial role, reinforcing that sense of constant threat. There are no cheap scares; fear grows gradually, as if the film were quietly closing the door behind you without you noticing. Some may find it too respectful of the source material and not daring enough at times, but its strength doesn’t lie in reinventing the story—it’s in making it feel alive again. This is a journey that doesn’t rely on the fast-paced rhythms of modern horror but on the patient construction of a mood that pins you to your seat. In a landscape oversaturated with modern reinterpretations and prefab scares, this Nosferatu feels like an act of resistance: artisanal horror cinema, designed to be both admired and feared. By the time the final shot arrives, with its blend of beauty and repulsion, it’s clear Eggers hasn’t made a simple remake—he’s woven a nightmare that, like the vampire himself, clings to your skin long after it’s over.

Leigh Whannell achieves something that seemed difficult: taking a horror classic and giving it a contemporary meaning that feels unsettling for today’s audience. He doesn’t just update H.G. Wells’ story with modern technology; he builds a narrative that breathes unease from the very first scene. The threat is not only fantastic, but deeply human, making the fear much more tangible. The camerawork is key. Wide shots that leave empty spaces in the frame make you scan the scene, searching for something that may not be there… or perhaps is there, just unseen. This silent tension is one of the film’s greatest strengths. Whannell plays with space and the idea that danger might be watching at any moment, turning absence into a constant presence. Elisabeth Moss delivers an absorbing performance, full of nuance. She conveys fear and exhaustion, but also a growing determination as the story progresses. The camera follows her closely, and much of the film’s emotional impact rests on her ability to express vulnerability and strength almost simultaneously. This approach makes the film more than just a suspense exercise; it becomes a portrait of resilience in the face of abuse. The mix of genres works better than expected. There’s psychological horror, well-measured science fiction, and bursts of action that shatter the calm. While some twists may be anticipated, the tension rarely fades, and the pacing keeps you hooked. Whannell proves he doesn’t need an excess of effects to create memorable scenes; suggestion and implication often work best. Beyond its entertainment value, the film lingers because it speaks to something real: the persistent fear of someone who has controlled and manipulated you, even when they seem to be gone. This social layer, tied to gender violence and emotional abuse, gives the story a relevance that goes beyond its thriller packaging. In short, The Invisible Man is a prime example of how to revitalize a myth without betraying its essence. A tightly crafted exercise in tension, with a lead performance that owns every frame and direction that understands that sometimes the scariest thing is what you can’t see.