The Beast of Mossy Bottom

THE BEAST OF MOSSY BOTTOM   ***

Steve Cox and Matthew Walker

2026

IDEA:  When Shaun's invention to quickly regrow his pumpkin patch inadvertently creates a beast in Mossy Bottom, he must use his wits to set things right.

BLURB:  Shaun and his flock are up to more escapades in The Beast of Mossy Bottom, another smart, warm, zippy installment in Aardman’s most cheerfully laconic franchise. Where the previous Farmaggedon used the template of a friendly alien-visitation story, The Beast of Mossy Bottom takes a page from the Wallace & Gromit features to riff on the monster movie. The characters are introduced as if rising from the dead — the sheep even perform some quick “Thriller” moves — and before long, a mad-scientist Shaun is in a shadowy castle lab devising the first of many hilariously convoluted solutions to a very mundane problem. As ever, the gags come at a steady clip, and their cleverness often lies in their elegant simplicity. While there are expected references to horror classics (including a Psycho shower scene with a surprising sound source), the film doesn’t depend on them. The best jokes are unrelated to the genre, such as a frightened hamster trying to run away by spinning in the other direction on its wheel, or a weather vane that’s transformed into a roasted chicken after it’s struck by lightning. The timelessness of the visual comedy is spiked with some sharp jabs at contemporary culture, most evident in a townsperson who never looks up from his phone and another who sees the beast as yet another opportunity for a live-streamed performance. The Beast of Mossy Bottom has real things to say about ignorance and mob mentality, about the monsters we only imagine, and it does so with the hand-crafted Aardman invention that itself looks like a kind of mad science.

La Bola Negra

LA BOLA NEGRA   ***

Javier Calvo and Javier Ambrossi

2026

IDEA:  Across multiple timelines spanning from the years just before the Spanish Civil War to contemporary Spain, the lives of a handful of gay men connect in fortuitous ways.

BLURB:  La Bola Negra names both an unfinished novel from the 1930s and a film from the 2020s that attempts to, if not finish the novel, continue its legacy and redeem it from the erasures of history. In doing so, the film symbolically enacts the very story it tells: the rescue of a lost work through the transhistorical fraternity, tenacity, and collaboration of queer creators across nearly a century. There is a hereditary inheritance here, but La Bola Negra’s braided timelines and character journeys reveal a less linear kind of inheritance, in which experience, memory, and knowledge are transferred between a constellation of gay men, both fictional and real. From Guitarricadelafuente’s gangly, perpetually sad-eyed trumpeter Sebastián, alienated amid the machismo of his Nationalist army brothers (however flagrantly homoerotic their rituals are), to the legendary Federico García Lorca, these men spiritually transcend their fractured times and places. Los Javis and co-screenwriter Alberto Conejero are the other, implicit figures in this intergenerational group of artists, and they take great care to make La Bola Negra an earnest tribute to voices stifled and lives destroyed by unjust regimes. That earnestness sometimes results in stilted, on-the-nose exposition, like when Lorca urges his lover to get his manuscript out into the world so gay people in the future can learn from it. The film is more convincing, and engaging, when it trusts its visuals and music to speak loudest, whether it’s as simple as an overhead shot of a truck crammed with maimed bodies, as ecstatic as a barroom dance captured in a single, pirouetting take, or as operatic (and lightly surreal, à la Lorca) as Carlos climbing out of a bombed-out casino onto majestic snowy slopes. There’s enough of these sequences to make La Bola Negra richer than the didactic project it sometimes feels like, and enough heart to land its idea that if trauma can be passed down through generations, so too can the tools for endurance.

Hope

HOPE   ***

Na Hong-jin

2026

IDEA:  Near the DMZ in South Korea, a destructive alien invasion prompts police and other residents to take up arms.

BLURB:  For the first hour or so of Na Hong-jin’s Hope, the threat facing a small South Korean village is entirely unseen. Police chief Ko Bum-seok wanders trepidatiously through abandoned streets and hollowed-out buildings, rifle always at the ready, while a civilian militia unloads ammunition into the horizon, to no effect. More than a classical withholding of the monster reveal, Na’s strategy of delay and visual obfuscation begins working as a metaphor for the way society turns the unknown into the enemy. When we do get a full look at the aliens, rendered in CGI that ranges from fiercely uncanny to plasticky-silly, Na emphasizes just how much they’re like us, and how little that matters. Risking cliché, it’s humanity that’s the monster, something Hope continually and mordantly underlines as our ragtag group of bellicose protagonists fire a barrage of projectiles at their foe (and sometimes fellow), all while finding ample time to squabble with and insult each other. The action sequences in Hope are exhilarating, brought together through propulsive tracking shots, crisp editing and sound design, and eye-popping stunt work. Na makes up for the sometimes wobbly CGI with an acute sense of the aliens’ physics, their superhuman velocity and strength, the way they sloppily barrel through walls as if sliding through melted butter and fling heavy objects like toothpicks. As indicated by all the signs of abjection (secretions, excretions, foul smells), Hope is concerned with the flimsiness of the symbolic walls we put up to keep out Otherness. If the film is overextended and often repetitive, it jibes pretty well with how unceasingly society keeps fighting that losing battle.

Remake

REMAKE   ***

Ross McElwee

2025

IDEA:  While Hollywood targets his 1986 documentary Sherman's March for a fiction remake, Ross McElwee reflects on the intersection of his filmmaking practice with his relationship with his late son Adrian, who died from an accidental fentanyl overdose in 2016.

BLURB:  The act of recreation, somewhat counterintuitively, typically entails alteration. We can never exactly reproduce the original; something about the way it looked, felt, or meant is unavoidably changed. Ross McElwee’s classic 1986 documentary Sherman’s March is not his only work being remade (however unsuccessfully) in the director’s Remake: so too are his memories, and by extension the decades of footage to which they’re inextricably linked. By meditating on the death of his son Adrian, the famously self-reflexive McElwee simultaneously ruminates on a life organized and revised by moving images, constantly crossing the porous border between reality and representation. The filmmaker’s memories become his filmed scenes (and vice versa), and in piecing them together in non-chronological montage, he considers how they shed their temporal bearings, unfolding completely in the present as the traces of the reality to which they no longer belong. In one of his most poignant musings, he wonders if all that footage of Adrian has retroactively turned his son into a fictional character he now primarily knows through the screen. The ethical implications here, especially related to McElwee’s misgivings about how his constant filming of Adrian might have harmed his son’s mental health, are powerful, if underexplored. But there is never any doubt that Remake is an impassioned, lucid, heartsick elegy from father to son through the medium that structured/s so much of their lives, often mutually. Among other things, it is a testament to how that medium can be a form of therapy, remaking fragmentary, ephemeral, and painful experiences as a narrative we can put our arms around.