Steven Soderbergh once again proves he can reinvent a genre with just a few well-placed elements. Presence is not a conventional horror film; it’s more of an exercise in unsettling observation, with the camera adopting the point of view of a ghost silently roaming the house—patient, quiet, and oddly curious. From the very first shot, it’s clear that the tension won’t come from cheap jump scares, but from the feeling of invading a private space. What’s most fascinating is how the story, without big twists, gradually fills with a growing unease. The measured camera movements and clever use of off-screen space make every room feel like it’s hiding something. As intruders, viewers begin to sense that what’s haunting the house isn’t just supernatural—it’s also made up of grudges, secrets, and unspoken guilt lingering in the air. Soderbergh crafts a tale that takes its time, which may frustrate those expecting a scare-fest. Yet this very patience gives weight to the most intense moments, when a glance or a prolonged silence says more than any line of dialogue. It’s a kind of horror that slips in quietly but lingers afterward. The performances are solid, though some characters could have used more depth so their fates hit harder. Still, the cast captures the simmering tension that runs through the story, keeping the audience engaged even during the quieter passages. Not everything works perfectly. A couple of scenes reach too far for symbolism and slightly upset the balance, and while the climax is unsettling, it may leave some wishing for a sharper final blow. Yet the film’s hypnotic pull more than makes up for it. Presence ultimately offers a different take on ghost stories—less about scares, more about atmosphere and the way the unseen can disrupt the everyday. Soderbergh delivers a film that doesn’t so much frighten as it lingers in your mind like a silent presence you’re not sure you want to leave.

Some films don’t pretend to be anything else, and this is one of them. Black Friday (originally Thanksgiving) is a straightforward slasher: bloody, sarcastic, and completely unashamed. Eli Roth returns to his mischievous roots, and you can tell he's having fun — even when the plot wobbles or the characters feel like walking clichés. The movie opens with a brilliant first scene: wild, over-the-top, and hilarious — a statement of intent that sets a high bar. From there, the pace is uneven, but it never becomes dull. There are inspired moments, creative kills, and a constant mockery of consumerism and the hollow traditions of American holidays. Patrick Dempsey is a pleasant surprise, playing a role that suits him perfectly — part charming, part threatening. The script isn’t subtle, but the mix of black humor, gore, and classic slasher nods works better than expected. It doesn’t aim to be deep or original, but it does aim to entertain — and it does. It’s one of those films you’ll probably forget quickly, but while you’re watching, it absolutely delivers. Perfect for horror fans with a strong stomach and a taste for bloody fun.

It’s hard to look at Everest without thinking of epic triumph. But this film isn’t aiming for tribute or glory—it throws itself into the storm to reveal the brutal cost of obsession. From the very beginning, the director makes it clear: there are no heroes here, just people determined to challenge the unchallengeable, paying a steep price. What remains is more like mourning than adventure. And it works. It really does. The pacing might feel cold, like the mountain itself. But that’s exactly the point. Kormákur doesn’t try to sweeten the pain or dress up the despair. Some scenes feel almost documentary-like, and certain shots overwhelm with their stillness. Beyond the visual spectacle—and it is spectacular—what hits the hardest is the steady accumulation of small decisions that lead these people to the edge. At times it’s hard to follow so many characters, and a few could’ve had more emotional weight. But maybe that speaks to the real confusion of extreme situations. At 8,000 meters, your world shrinks to the breath you don’t have, the step you can’t take. The film captures that suffocating tension with admirable clarity. What’s most disturbing is the absence of a villain. There’s no monster, no external threat—just people who had it all and risked everything to stand at the summit for a single minute. And that minute became their last. When the snow settles and silence takes over, it’s hard not to question that drive to prove something no one asked you to prove. Everest doesn’t move you with speeches, but with emptiness. It doesn’t stir with music, but with the weight of missing air. It’s one of those films you remember not for one specific scene, but for the feeling it leaves in your gut. A strange blend of awe and grief—like realizing not everything great is beautiful.

It doesn’t try to fool anyone—and it doesn’t have to. The new Final Destination knows exactly what it is: a parade of imaginative deaths, buckets of blood, some dark humor, and characters who exist solely to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. But within that formula, Bloodlines works surprisingly well. Right from the start, with an opening sequence that’s already among the best in the franchise, the film makes it clear it’s going all in. There’s tension, spectacle, and a pace that rarely drops. Directors Adam Stein and Zach Lipovsky take their job seriously, even knowing they’re staging a twisted joke. And it shows in the precision of many set pieces. One of this installment’s strengths is not taking itself too seriously, while avoiding full-on parody. There are nods for longtime fans, visual cues referencing earlier films, and a sense that—for once—the characters aren’t entirely clueless about what it means to be trapped in this curse. The family tree concept adds an intriguing layer, though it could’ve been explored more deeply. Visually, the movie is solid. Shot with large screens in mind, it offers wide shots, more polished cinematography than usual, and staging that aims for impact without losing clarity. The kills are brutal, yes, but also creative, with that playful sadism that has always defined the franchise. Does it have flaws? Of course. Some dialogues are flat, the characters stick to cliché roles, and the film occasionally flirts with unintentional parody. But overall, the balance between dark comedy, suspense, tension, and gore makes it a surprisingly enjoyable chapter—even for those who thought the saga had nothing left to say. It reinvents nothing, but it does prove that with a bit of genre love, you can still make entertaining entries in a franchise that seemed spent. If you liked the previous ones, this is a safe bet. And if you never bought into the game, at least it’ll make you look twice before crossing the street.

Some films manage to unsettle you without ever raising their voice. Heretic does just that from the very first frame. It’s a tense, slow-burning thriller where every pause feels deliberate, every line carefully chosen. Almost everything takes place in a single location, but the atmosphere it builds is dense and claustrophobic. And at the center of it all: Hugh Grant. His performance is mesmerizing. He doesn’t force the fear—he suggests it. The way he looks, smiles, speaks just a bit too slowly—it’s all deeply disturbing. I haven’t seen him this sharp in years, and here he’s far from the charming romantic type people usually associate with him. This time, he’s something else: charisma turned into menace. The script plays with religious themes without preaching. There are clever lines, uncomfortable questions, and moments where you don’t know whether to laugh or tense up. It often feels like a chamber play, where everything rests on the actors and their subtle choices—and all three leads are outstanding. Visually, it’s not flashy, but it uses darkness and confined spaces to trap you with the characters. It’s small-scale filmmaking that dares to tackle big themes: faith, guilt, manipulation, power. Not everything lands—perhaps the ending lacks the punch of the opening—but the ride is worth it. Heretic doesn’t reinvent horror, but it twists it in clever ways. It’s elegant, uncomfortable, and full of shadows. And above all, it reminds us that true horror doesn’t always scream—it whispers.