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.

Let’s be real: when you hear the name Nosferatu, you expect a certain level of eerie, gothic horror. You expect shadowy alleyways, haunting silence, and the slow, dreadful realization that something ancient and evil is creeping toward you. What you don’t expect is a bloated, overly self-serious art piece that stretches itself so thin you can practically see through it.

And yet, here we are.

Robert Eggers’ Nosferatu is what happens when a filmmaker is so focused on making a “serious” horror masterpiece that they forget to actually make it scary. Or engaging. Or, in some cases, even coherent. Sure, the film hits a few of the familiar beats of Dracula—because at the end of the day, that’s all Nosferatu really is, a bootleg Dracula with the serial numbers filed off—but it stretches itself over such a plodding runtime that it loses any real impact.

The result? A film that thinks it’s profound, but is actually just pretentious.

Let’s start with the title character himself: Count Orlok. Played by Bill Skarsgård, who has proven himself more than capable of being a terrifying horror villain (IT, Barbarian), Orlok in this version isn’t so much terrifying as he is just… weird.

First of all, that damn moustache. Who in the production department thought Nosferatu, one of the most unsettling vampire designs in cinematic history, should have facial hair? This isn’t The Grand Budapest Hotel, and Orlok isn’t some quirky Wes Anderson side character—he’s supposed to be an unholy thing, not the guy running the front desk at an Eastern European hotel in 1912. It’s genuinely baffling, because every time Orlok is on screen, instead of feeling dread, all you can think is, Why does he look like an evil landlord?

Aside from his questionable grooming choices, Orlok just isn’t that scary. He’s certainly grotesque, and Skarsgård does his best to channel something monstrous, but his version of the character often just comes off as a guy standing ominously in doorways. It’s less otherworldly terror and more your socially awkward coworker who doesn’t blink enough.

Then there’s Lily-Rose Depp as Ellen (the film’s stand-in for Mina Harker). Look, Depp is clearly trying here. She’s throwing herself into this role with everything she’s got, but the way the film frames her makes her come across less as a tragic gothic heroine and more like a freak (and not in the fun, Tim Burton way).

The movie can’t seem to decide whether she’s supposed to be innocent, tormented, possessed, or just plain unwell. Sometimes, she’s staring blankly into space like she’s in a perfume ad. Other times, she’s writhing in ways that suggest she might be in a different kind of horror film. If her performance seems confused, it’s because the script does her no favors. A stronger script might have given her more to work with, but as it stands, she spends most of the movie alternating between looking bewildered and looking like she’s trying to seduce Orlok for some reason.

And speaking of terrible character decisions…

Can we, as a society, please stop butchering Mina’s role in Dracula adaptations? Please?

Once again, we get a version of Dracula (Nosferatu, same thing) where Mina—sorry, Ellen—doesn’t get to be the intelligent, determined woman who outwits the vampire. No, no, that would be too much effort. Instead, the writers decide the best way to “empower” her character is to make her sacrifice herself to stop Orlok.

Why? Because horror movies still can’t grasp the idea that women in gothic horror stories don’t always have to die for the sake of emotional weight. The original Nosferatu did this too, so it’s not like this is new, but it’s still bullshit. It was bullshit in 1922, and it’s even more bullshit now.

The worst part? The way the movie frames her death as this grand, tragic moment, as if it’s some kind of profound statement. It’s not. It’s just lazy writing disguised as gothic storytelling.

Willem Dafoe, bless his unhinged little heart, seems to be the only person in this movie who realizes what kind of film he’s in. While the rest of the cast is drowning in self-seriousness, Dafoe is over here treating every line like he’s in a campy stage play, and honestly? It’s the best part of the movie.

Dafoe is always at his best when he’s allowed to lean into the absurd, and here, he takes that opportunity and runs with it. Every moment he’s on screen, you can feel the energy shift—suddenly, the film has life, because he refuses to let it wallow in its own misery. The downside? Every scene without Dafoe feels twice as slow by comparison.

Now, let’s talk about the changes this film makes to the classic Nosferatu/Dracula structure. Some of them could have been interesting, but instead, they feel completely arbitrary.

• Jonathan Harker (or Hutter, or whatever they want to call him in this version) is barely relevant. He exists, sure, but you could remove him entirely, and nothing about the story would change. He’s that pointless.

• Orlok’s motivations are vague at best. Why is he doing what he’s doing? What does he actually want? Unclear. He just sort of exists to be creepy and torment Ellen.

• The pacing is horrendous. The movie stretches itself out like it’s some slow-burn masterpiece, but it never earns that level of indulgence. Every scene lingers too long, every conversation takes twice as long as it should, and by the time anything interesting happens, you’re already mentally checked out.

At the end of the day, Nosferatu (2024) is a film that tries way too hard to be an artistic masterpiece but forgets that Nosferatu is, first and foremost, supposed to be scary. The horror is watered down, the pacing is sluggish, and the performances are a mixed bag of trying too hard and not trying hard enough.

Yes, there are some solid gothic visuals. Yes, Willem Dafoe is fun. But those things don’t make up for a film that’s so self-indulgent that it forgets to be entertaining.

And that damn moustache. I will never forgive them for that damn moustache.

The Substance is a film that promises psychological horror, body horror, and some deep existential musings but instead delivers two hours of confusion, gratuitous nudity, and the kind of storytelling that makes you wonder if even the script knew what it was trying to say.

Let’s get one thing straight—there is a movie buried somewhere in here. There’s an interesting idea at the core: the concept of a woman splitting herself into two—one older (Elisabeth) and one younger (Sue)—in an effort to recapture youth, vitality, and perhaps even a sense of lost self. This premise could have been a fascinating exploration of identity, vanity, and self-destruction. Instead, it feels like a drawn-out, over-sexualized mess that can’t decide whether it wants to be deep, disturbing, or just an excuse to show as many lingering shots of butts as possible.

At its heart, The Substance tries to be a psychological thriller with horror elements, but mostly, it’s just a frustrating exercise in endurance. Elisabeth, a woman at the tail-end of her youth, takes a mysterious substance that allows her to split into a younger, more beautiful version of herself: Sue. Sounds simple enough, right? Well, buckle up, because from here, the movie devolves into a bizarre mess of shifting identities, hazy motivations, and a total lack of clarity regarding what the hell is actually happening.

One of the biggest problems is the relationship between Elisabeth and Sue. Sometimes, it seems like they share the same memories, thoughts, and emotions. Other times, they act like two completely separate people. Is Sue an extension of Elisabeth? Or is she just an entirely new person who’s been given an older woman’s baggage to deal with? The movie never commits to an answer, and not in a thought-provoking, let’s make the audience think! kind of way, but in a frustrating, we-didn’t-bother-to-explain-this kind of way.

And sure, some will argue that that’s the point—that it’s meant to be ambiguous. But here’s the thing: ambiguity works when it’s purposeful, when it enhances the story, not when it makes you feel like the writers lost track of their own plot halfway through production. By the time the third or fourth is Sue actually Elisabeth or is she not? moment rolls around, you start to wonder if even the characters know what’s going on.

Now, I’ll give credit where it’s due: the performances are fine. Not amazing, not terrible, just… fine. The actors do their best with what they’re given, but what they’re given is a convoluted script that seems more focused on looking deep than actually being deep.

Elisabeth’s actress does a solid job portraying a woman torn between her past and present, while Sue’s actress (who is basically treated like an exhibition piece half the time) at least tries to inject some personality into her role. But no amount of acting can save a script that’s fundamentally confused about its own narrative rules.

And let’s talk about the way these characters are presented. I have rarely seen a movie so obsessed with the female body while simultaneously pretending it’s making some grand statement about aging, beauty, and self-worth. There are so many gratuitous shots of Sue’s body that after a while, you start wondering if the director just forgot they were making a horror-thriller and thought they were shooting a perfume commercial.

Now, the hyper-sexualisation.

Yes, this deserves its own section, because The Substance is practically dripping in male-gaze nonsense. The sheer number of lingering shots of Sue’s body is ridiculous to the point of parody. Is it supposed to be artistic? Symbolic? A statement about beauty and objectification? Maybe. But mostly, it just feels unnecessary.

There’s a difference between using sexuality to make a point and using sexuality because the filmmakers didn’t know what else to do. This movie falls hard into the latter category. You could cut half the lingering body shots and lose nothing of value from the story. In fact, the film might actually improve because you wouldn’t constantly be distracted by the feeling that you accidentally wandered into an Elle magazine photoshoot.

And sure, horror films often have elements of sexualisation, especially when dealing with themes of body horror. But The Substance isn’t clever about it—it’s just there, like a director’s personal indulgence masquerading as meaningful commentary.

For a movie that supposedly leans into psychological horror, there is shockingly little horror to be found. Oh sure, there are moments of unease, and a few effectively creepy scenes, but they’re scattered throughout an otherwise meandering story that never fully embraces the genre.

It’s as if the movie wants to be a body horror masterpiece like The Fly or Possessor, but it’s too busy admiring itself in the mirror to commit. There are hints of something disturbing lurking beneath the surface—moments where you think, okay, now we’re getting somewhere!—but then the movie immediately backtracks, drowning in its own pretentiousness before anything truly unsettling can happen.

And the actual horror scenes that do make it into the film? They’re… okay? Some of the set pieces are visually interesting, and there’s an unsettling atmosphere in places, but the lack of clarity surrounding the rules of the substance makes it hard to be truly invested. There’s no clear sense of danger, no real stakes—just a series of vaguely creepy things happening to characters who barely seem to understand what’s going on themselves.

By the time the credits roll, the overwhelming feeling is not one of satisfaction, nor terror, nor even confusion. It’s just emptiness. A kind of cinematic void, where you realize you just spent two hours watching a movie that ultimately goes nowhere.

Did the film make me think? Yes, but only in the why did I bother? sense. Did it leave an impact? Sure—an impact in the way stepping on a rake leaves an impact. It’s just frustrating, and you walk away wishing you had made better life choices.

If you enjoy movies that pretend to be deep but are really just convoluted, overly sexualized, and ultimately meaningless, then The Substance is right up your alley. If you’re looking for a genuinely engaging psychological horror film with a compelling story and well-developed themes… well, keep looking.

The acting is serviceable, some of the visuals are striking, but the film’s obsession with itself—its artistic pretension, its confusing narrative structure, and its relentless, unnecessary sexualization—makes it a frustrating and ultimately forgettable experience.

Verdict: If you want body horror, watch The Fly. If you want existential horror, watch Black Swan. If you want to waste two hours of your life questioning why you’re still watching something that doesn’t make sense… then, by all means, watch The Substance.