I finally got around to watching 28 Years Later.

The film is a long-awaited return to the franchise and after finally watching it? “Eh.”

“28 Years Later” is supposedly the triumphant return to Danny Boyle’s vision of Britain overrun by rage-fuelled infected maniacs. What we actually get is two hours of a sulky teenager making decisions so monumentally stupid they’d embarrass a goldfish with severe brain damage.

Remember “28 Days Later”? Remember how it made you genuinely terrified of infected people sprinting at you like caffeinated cheetahs? Well, forget all that, because this film has about as many infected as your average Tesco on a Tuesday afternoon. Which is to say: virtually none, and the few that do show up look like they’re having an off day.

The plot, such as it is, revolves around a family living on an island who’ve managed to survive nearly three decades of apocalypse. Fair enough. Then their teenage son has one argument with his dad and decides the logical response is to burn down a barn and drag his starving mother across infected-infested mainland to find someone who might be a doctor. Or might be completely mental. Or might just murder them for sport.

But here’s the thing that really gets my goat: the film can’t decide what it wants to be. The first half hour is genuinely tense. You’ve got proper infected doing proper infected things – namely, trying to tear people’s faces off with the enthusiasm of a toddler opening Christmas presents. There’s suspense, there’s horror, there’s the kind of relentless dread that made the original films worth watching.

Then, the moment our teenage genius embarks on his poorly thought-out road trip, it’s like someone changed the channel to fucking “Countryfile.” Suddenly we’re watching people trudge through fields having deep conversations about feelings while the apocalypse takes a tea break. The infected apparently got bored and wandered off to find a more interesting film to be in.

There’s an entire subplot with a Swedish soldier, which can be cut out and the film would be no different. Pointless doesn’t even begin to cover it.

On top of this, there’s a moment where the kid almost gets attacked by an infected (no, they’re not zombies, I will die on this hill – zombies don’t run) and it turns out the mother saved him, and again it just… doesn’t go anywhere? You’re forced to ask once more, what was the point of that?

What becomes painfully obvious is that this isn’t really a film at all – it’s an expensive advert for the other two films they’re planning to make. Every scene feels like homework for future instalments rather than something worth experiencing right now. It’s like buying a starter that turns out to be mainly a menu for dishes you might be able to order next year.

Good grief I need to tell someone about that ending.

The film concludes with what can only be described as a parkour demonstration set to a heavy metal version of the Teletubbies theme song. I’m not making this up. People doing backflips while killing infected to the tune of “Tinky Winky had a bag.” It’s so bizarrely inappropriate it makes you wonder if someone spiked the editor’s coffee with industrial-strength hallucinogens.

I wanted to like this. The original “28 Days Later” was brilliant – it made infected people genuinely terrifying again after years of shambling zombies who moved like arthritic pensioners. This sequel takes that legacy and turns it into a meditation on family dysfunction with occasional bursts of half-hearted apocalypse.

If you want proper infected horror, watch the original. If you want family drama, watch literally any other film. If you want to waste two hours of your life wondering when something interesting is going to happen, then by all means, watch “28 Years Later.”

It’s not terrible, exactly. It’s just… eh. Which is somehow worse than being properly shit, because at least properly shit films give you something to get angry about. This just leaves you feeling like you’ve been mildly disappointed by a vending machine that’s eaten your money and given you nothing in return.

I’ve seen worse, but I’ve also seen better.

Right, let me get this straight. Someone at Sony Pictures looked at a video game about teenagers being systematically murdered by supernatural bastards on a snowy mountain and thought: “You know what this needs? More death. Specifically, the same death. Over and over again. Like a horrific breakfast cereal commercial directed by the Marquis de Sade.”

And somehow, against all cosmic logic and basic narrative physics, they’ve gone and made it work.

“Until Dawn” – the film, not the game that spawned it like some digital parasitic twin – is what happens when you cross “Groundhog Day” with “The Descent” and then feed the resulting abomination a steady diet of energy drinks and expired painkillers. It’s a time-loop horror film that functions like a demented slot machine: pull the lever, watch beautiful people die horribly, rinse, repeat, occasionally win a stuffed wendigo.

I will say, right off the bat, I went into it expecting it to be an adaptation of the game, which threw me off at first. But the more I thought about it, the more the film grew on me.

The premise is beautifully, almost pornographically simple. A group of attractive young people – because ugly people apparently don’t get trapped in supernatural time loops, which seems discriminatory but there we are – venture into a remote valley searching for a missing sister. They find themselves in what appears to be a visitor centre designed by someone who clearly studied architecture at the University of Obviously This Is A Trap. Come nightfall, they’re systematically butchered by various threats that change with each reset like a Netflix algorithm that’s developed homicidal tendencies.

One night it’s a masked slasher straight out of central casting’s “Generic Killer” department. The next, it’s wendigos that look like someone fed a deer through a paper shredder and then reassembled it using only spite and terrible life choices. Then there are creatures that emerge from the ground like the world’s worst surprise party, and at one point – and this is genuinely inspired lunacy – the water itself becomes weaponised, turning people into human fireworks displays that would make “Scanners” weep tears of jealous admiration.

Director David F. Sandberg, previously responsible for making us all afraid of light switches in “Lights Out,” has essentially created a horror film that functions like a particularly sadistic choose-your-own-adventure book, except the reader is unconscious and the choices are being made by a committee of psychopaths with a fetish for dramatic irony.

The genius of it – and yes, I’m using the word “genius” about a film where people repeatedly die because they make the sort of decisions that would embarrass a concussed lemming – is that it shouldn’t work. Time-loop films are notoriously difficult to pull off without becoming either insufferably repetitive or so convoluted they require a PhD in theoretical physics to follow. “Until Dawn” sidesteps this by embracing the repetition and making it the point. Each reset isn’t just a do-over; it’s a completely different flavour of nightmare, like a box of chocolates curated by H.P. Lovecraft.

The film gleefully acknowledges its own absurdity. When your protagonists realise they’re trapped in what amounts to a supernatural game of musical chairs where the music is screaming and the chairs are made of teeth, the only sensible response is to lean into the madness. Ella Rubin’s Clover navigates this recursive hellscape with the sort of determined practicality you’d normally associate with someone trying to assemble IKEA furniture whilst being periodically attacked by bears.

The supporting cast – Michael Cimino, Odessa A’zion, Ji-young Yoo, and Belmont Cameli – manage to avoid the typical trap of horror protagonists, namely being so insufferably stupid that you find yourself rooting for the monsters. These characters actually learn from their mistakes, which in a time-loop scenario is like watching evolution in fast-forward, except with more dismemberment.

Peter Stormare returns from the original game, presumably because someone at Sony realised that if you’re going to make a film this aggressively bonkers, you need at least one actor who can deliver exposition about supernatural curses whilst maintaining the sort of gravitas normally reserved for Shakespearean soliloquies about the nature of existence.

The film’s greatest achievement is its gleeful embrace of B-movie sensibilities whilst maintaining enough technical sophistication to prevent it from descending into pure camp. It’s horror comfort food – familiar enough to be satisfying, strange enough to keep you engaged, and just bloody enough to remind you that yes, people are definitely dying here, even if they’ll be back in twenty minutes looking confused and slightly dishevelled.

Critics have complained about the repetitive nature, which is rather like criticising a washing machine for being circular. The repetition IS the point. Each loop reveals new layers of the mythology, new aspects of the threat, new ways for attractive people to meet spectacularly unpleasant ends. It’s like watching someone slowly peel back the layers of an onion, except the onion is made of nightmares and occasionally explodes.

The film’s relationship with its source material is refreshingly pragmatic. Rather than attempting a slavish adaptation that would essentially be a ten-hour game compressed into ninety minutes of confusion, Sandberg and writers Gary Dauberman and Blair Butler have created something that exists in the same universe whilst telling its own story. It’s the difference between a cover version and a remix – technically related, but serving different purposes.

Where the game relied on player choice to drive narrative tension, the film substitutes the random brutality of fate. You can’t save these characters through careful decision-making; you can only watch them adapt, learn, and slowly piece together the rules of their particular corner of hell. It’s oddly liberating, like watching someone else navigate a particularly vindictive video game whilst you eat crisps and shout unhelpful advice.

The wendigos deserve special mention as perhaps the most effectively realised movie monsters in recent memory. They move with the sort of predatory grace that suggests they’ve studied ballet but only the parts involving sudden, violent movement. When they emerge from the shadows – and they do emerge, frequently and enthusiastically – they bring with them a sense of ancient hunger that makes even the jump scares feel earned rather than cheap.

The film’s structure allows for a surprising amount of world-building without resorting to tedious exposition dumps. Each reset reveals new details about the valley’s history, the nature of the curse, and the various supernatural entities that call this place home. It’s environmental storytelling at its most effective – you learn about this world by watching people die in it repeatedly, which is both darkly comic and oddly efficient.

The special effects work is impressively practical, with CGI used to enhance rather than replace physical effects. When people explode – and they do explode, magnificently – it feels appropriately messy and consequential. The various monsters are tactile, weighty things that occupy space convincingly rather than looking like expensive screensavers.

What elevates “Until Dawn” above its B-movie origins is its understanding that repetition, rather than being narrative death, can be narrative rebirth. Each loop functions as both climax and setup, ending and beginning. It’s a film that eats its own tail and somehow manages to grow stronger in the process.

The climax, when it finally arrives, feels genuinely earned rather than arbitrary. The characters have learned enough about their situation to make informed choices, and the audience has seen enough variations to appreciate the significance of their final gambit. It’s like watching someone finally solve a Rubik’s Cube after you’ve seen them fumble with it for ninety minutes, except the cube is cursed and solving it incorrectly results in death by supernatural entities.

“Until Dawn” succeeds by being precisely as complicated as it needs to be and no more. It’s a film that knows exactly what it is – a gleefully violent playground for exploring variations on familiar themes – and executes that vision with the sort of confident craftsmanship that makes even the most ridiculous moments feel oddly plausible.

The film’s greatest magic trick is making you forget you’re watching the same basic scenario repeated with variations. By the third or fourth loop, you’re not thinking about repetition; you’re thinking about possibility. What new horror will tonight bring? How will the characters adapt? Which familiar face will die in an entirely new and creative way?

“Until Dawn” is a film that shouldn’t work, made by people who clearly understand exactly why it shouldn’t work, who then proceed to make it work anyway through sheer bloody-minded commitment to their own demented vision. It’s like watching someone successfully perform surgery with a spoon – technically inadvisable, practically impossible, but undeniably impressive when pulled off with sufficient skill and audacity.

In a landscape of horror films that often prioritise innovation over execution, “Until Dawn” succeeds by taking familiar elements and arranging them in combinations that feel both nostalgic and fresh. It’s a film that respects its audience’s intelligence whilst never forgetting that sometimes the best horror comes from the simplest premise executed with maximum conviction.

The result is a film that works precisely because it embraces its own absurdity without ever winking at the audience. It’s sincere about its own ridiculousness, committed to its own chaos, and confident enough in its own premise to trust that audiences will follow it down whatever rabbit holes it chooses to explore.

“Until Dawn” is proof that sometimes the best way to avoid repeating past mistakes is to repeat them intentionally, with style, until they become something entirely new. It’s a film that transforms repetition from weakness into strength, familiarity into freshness, and death into the beginning of possibility.

In short, it’s bloody brilliant.

I am not happy.

Lilo & Stitch (2025) is the latest victim in Disney’s increasingly joyless remake assembly line, and it’s safe to say: Elvis isn’t the only one rolling in his grave.

This remake isn’t just disappointing—it’s borderline offensive in how it mishandles the original’s emotional core. The 2002 Lilo & Stitch was vibrant, offbeat, tender, and unlike anything else Disney had done at the time. It blended themes of loss, found family, and alien chaos with humour, cultural specificity, and actual personality. The 2025 version, by contrast, feels like it was assembled by a neural network trained exclusively on Disney+ thumbnails.

Let’s start with the changes. You know how the original had a quirky, grounded warmth—characters who felt like real people, despite the extraterrestrials? That’s gone. Now we have a smoothed-over, overly lit, airbrushed version of Hawaii that looks more like a sanitized tourist brochure than a lived-in home. The rough edges that gave the original heart have been sanded down and focus-tested into oblivion.

Lilo no longer rants about how not giving Pudge the fish his weekly peanut butter sandwich will make her an abomination.

Lilo no longer beats the crap out of Myrtle—now she just pushes her off stage.

I have a whole list of these but I’d be sat here for hours typing them out.

Stitch, meanwhile, looks like he escaped from a low-budget Sonic the Hedgehog fan film in 2014 and wandered onto the wrong soundstage.

The physical comedy doesn’t work because Stitch doesn’t have weight. He’s a floating CGI asset dropped into scenes like an afterthought. He might as well have “property of Disney+” watermarked on his forehead.

The film clocks in at around 100 minutes, but somehow still feels longer. And yet, some scenes feel rushed, like the filmmakers were just ticking boxes. It’s like watching an abridged version of a movie you actually liked, directed by someone who skimmed the Wikipedia plot summary the night before shooting.

Let’s pause to remember what made the original Lilo & Stitch special: it was weird. It was messy. It was emotionally honest in ways Disney usually avoids. It had Elvis on the soundtrack, and actual stakes in the relationships.

This version? It’s afraid of weird. It’s terrified of emotional honesty. Everything’s been rounded off, polished up, and stripped of any quirk that might alienate a potential viewer in the Midwest. Even Nani feels reduced—her complex role as a struggling guardian-sister rewritten into Generic Young Woman Who Tries Hard. There’s no edge. No bite. No soul.

Worse, this film treats the original audience like we don’t matter. It gestures toward nostalgia with a few half-hearted references, but mostly screams: “This one’s for the new kids!” But here’s the thing—kids deserve better than this. Kids are smart. Kids loved the original Lilo & Stitch because it was different.

This isn’t different. This is safe, stale, and sanitized.

Now, about the voices.

Let’s start with Jumba. In the original, he was a gloriously bizarre mad scientist with a vaguely Eastern European accent and gleeful menace. In this version, he has—drumroll—an American accent. It’s jarring and takes you right out of the movie. Why American? Who knows. Maybe the studio thought kids couldn’t handle anything foreign-sounding. But it completely flattens the character. He’s no longer chaotic brilliance—he’s just a weird uncle who works in IT and recently discovered protein powder.

And it’s just Zach Galifianakis. Not putting on a voice. Not even attempting an accent. Just… Zach.

Then there’s Pleakley.

They’ve dumbed him down—way down. In the original, he was campy, neurotic, and weirdly endearing. Now? He’s just dumb. Like TikTok-filter dumb. Like “he wears a cowboy hat because he misunderstood the word ‘cowboy’” dumb. (Yes, that’s a real joke in the movie.)

This might have worked as a 15-second YouTube short back in 2010. Here, it’s just another brick in the wall of tonal flatness.

So what are we left with?

A visually flat, emotionally shallow, hyper-sanitized remake that mistakes content for connection. A film that rips out the heart of a classic and replaces it with a plastic replica—perfectly shaped, but utterly lifeless.

Yes, the lead actress is good.

Yes, kids might enjoy it.

Yes, someone on the production team probably had the best of intentions.

But intent doesn’t make a movie good. And this movie?

Is. Not. Good.