2025 Vibe Check
An assortment of takes on the contemporary cinema
Mission: Impossible - The Final Reckoning
As a devout supporter of this franchise (and the only one I care about immensely, even if I’m ambivalent toward its lore), it brings me no pleasure to report that this mission was merely a tepid success. Compared to the adrenaline rush this series has given me for years, Mission: Impossible - The Final Reckoning was a major letdown, but on its own, you could do plenty worse. The eighth and final(?) entry provides all the operatic and mythical vibes that became a permanent staple under the direction of Christopher McQuarrie, and the aching sincerity evoked by Tom Cruise as Ethan Hunt is perhaps as glorious as the awe-inspiring set pieces that everyone is raving about.
As alluded to earlier, I don’t really care about adhering to any semblance of lore or a logistical storyline, but holy hell, this movie needed to take a breather. I can forgive messiness, especially if it’s the kind of sloppiness that indicates unbridled artistic freedom, but a noisy action blockbuster should not be this misshapen and aimless. While I dug the heightened, if not stilted, exposition-filled dialogue in Dead Reckoning, the first hour of Final Reckoning was joyless, a series of montages that, to quote Walk Hard, show Ethan Hunt thinking about his entire life before accepting the mission. I wish I could’ve appreciated the submarine number more, but I was still reeling from the onslaught of drab office conversations. By the time the biplane chase sequence soared into action, I forgave all its sins—at least temporarily.
More than the audacious stunts, the primary source of my fondness towards Mission: Impossible is the spy elements and set pieces, especially when they crib from Alfred Hitchcock. The pickpocketing in the airport in Dead Reckoning, the Vienna opera in Rogue Nation, the Kremlin break-in in Ghost Protocol, and every frame of the Brian De Palma original film cause me to hoot and holler. The relative lack of espionage and trickery in Fallout is why I’m slightly less enthusiastic about it than the rest of the world. The Final Reckoning, however, is completely bereft of spy goodness. I guess deception is hard when you’re star wants to strip down in his briefs and show off his hand-to-hand combat in a submarine.
Look, it’s still pretty good. Not the ideal send-off, but what are you gonna do? I trust that Cruise will finally let himself age and make his version of The Verdict or Unforgiven.
Eephus
In the late winter and early spring, I’m always lured back into being an ardent baseball consumer. It brings me no joy in reporting that I’ve fallen out of die-hard sports consumption in the last five years. Trust me, I wish I could find anything to take me off of incessantly clearing off 60-year-old movies on my watchlist, but my need for cinematic completionism overrides everything, even though I’ll likely never have a deep conversation about Michael Haneke’s Caché with anyone (a quality picture, I’ll say). I try not to make any bold blanket statements regarding the decreasing quality of professional sports as a product. It’s definitely me who is the problem—I would just like to know why I suddenly stopped sincerely caring about the outcome of a Red Sox game.
Right as I was getting lured by the prospect of baseball—the soothing broadcast, the summer aura, the crack of the bat, every cliche in the book—Eephus, which premiered at the festival circuit in 2024 to critical acclaim, was opening in limited release. Written and directed by Carson Lund, this endearing, soulful, and poignant film gives the Goodbye, Dragon Inn treatment to a small-town baseball field. On the field’s last day before a new school is built on top of the land, a men’s recreational league plays one final game. The entire story is a swan song, depicting a poetic game of baseball that serves as an elegy for America’s fading pastime.
Eephus upends the traditional beats of “dudes rock” cinema by presenting its characters, while wholly relatable and filled with quippy baseball aphorisms, as bitter towards this unfortunate event. Even though it’s a brand new school being built, which hopes to educate countless generations of kids, they’re selfish enough to think their game and all its mythical power should supersede all. As the interminable game continues in the pitch black, they don’t even seem that invested or excited in the game, but no one ever seriously considers forfeiting, because baseball demands its proper respect. Lund gives the game its spiritual wonder without glorifying these irreverent figures. The players imbue the meaning of this respective game and the sport itself with the fleeting optimism of their lives, which is neither meant to be an endorsement nor an indictment of their characters.
The vibes of this film were immaculate. I could’ve watched every pitch of this game. I especially adored how it existed in a vacuum, as its time period and location are left ambiguous. After exiting the theater, I was convinced I’d be regularly putting on NESN to watch the Red Sox. But as always, once we’re a month into the season, I have become oblivious as to when the Sox have a day game. They could be playing right now as I type (2:00 in the afternoon) for all I know.
Anyway, Eephus is a gem, and perhaps my favorite of the year.
Mickey 17
2025 is the year I stop giving out participation trophies to auteur visionaries who managed to sneak something bizarre and uncompromising past a major studio increasingly less interested in producing engaging and polemic art.
I saw Mickey 17 with a friend, a longtime Bong Joon-ho fan, on its opening weekend. As we departed an IMAX screening on the cusp of midnight, we haphazardly tried to convince ourselves it was a daring and probing study of the Military-Industrial complex, fascism, and every other problematic “-ism’ in the book being practiced by, shall we say, current regimes. We wholeheartedly agreed it was a mess, but that adds to its charm, right? The only resolute praise I could give the film was that it was the clearest example of a blank check film cashed in by a director red hot off a Best Picture win and a global phenomenon in Parasite. Bong got to make this original film (book adaptations count as original in 2025, let’s be honest) with big stars and an even bigger budget. So, ultimately, hoo-ray.
The more I thought about the movie, the more gripes surfaced. For all its farce, Mickey 17 only offered the mildest chuckles, even with Robert Pattinson’s (overused adjective warning) committed performance. As socially and politically conscious as its text is, the narrative’s amorphous structure and bombastically broad caricatures made the film toothless. It’s by no means a disaster, but I never once felt that Mickey 17 was firing on all cylinders. While it has its fair share of compelling sequences and emotionally understated character beats, I kept insisting that the film was a success just because Bong was allowed to make it in his fullest form.
In an age where creativity at the major studio level is decaying by the second, I’ve become hesitant to publicly criticize any non-franchise/IP film, especially ones made by revered masters like Bong. If people dismiss Mickey 17, that leaves the room for the likes of Captain America: Brave New World and Minecraft. Of course, my reasoning is illogical, as Hollywood’s business model isn’t that simple, and it’s certainly not affected by my star rating on Letterboxd.
Now that months have passed and I’ve enjoyed a handful of auteur-driven studio and independent films, I’m comfortable chalking up Mickey 17 as a noble miss on Bong’s part. Have no fear—he hasn’t lost his fastball. In all likelihood, he’ll return to South Korea, away from any potential studio interference, and make another brilliant drama or crime thriller.
Captain America: Brave New World
Speaking of free-wheeling creative expression within the studio system…
I actively avoided this in the theaters. Not only am I resistant to contributing to Marvel’s box office receipts (another one of my completely irrational thoughts), but I can’t fall prey to watching something out of obligation, even if this new entry in the MCU is a noisy folly. In order to make the movies I genuinely want to see more worthwhile, I’ve been cutting back on watching movies I have little interest in, even when there’s relatively nothing playing on a given weekend. February 2025, per usual, was a rough slate, but I resisted partaking in a hate watch. I’ll punt this shit to Disney+.
I booted up Captain America: Brave New World (which I will forever just call Red Hulk). After 30 minutes of clunky action direction and lifelessness, I said…
No thanks. I need to catch up on The Rehearsal.
Since we’re on a Marvel note, I have no qualms about admitting my lukewarm approval of Thunderbolts*. It’s totally fine, conveying enough emotional sincerity that I could be tricked into thinking it’s something substantial. Compared to the company’s recent slate, it might as well be Yasujirō Ozu.
The Shrouds
I’m a sucker for late-period auteurism—old masters, preferably ones of the septuagenarian and octogenerian variety, who have proven everything and, thanks to developing enough cachet with the remaining old guards in the studio system who care about quality art, are able to make something so bizarre that they could’ve only been made by someone thinking about mortality and the absurdities of life. This unique subgenre of films don’t abide by traditional storytelling arcs or even familiar emotional beats. Think of Martin Scorsese’s last decade or Steven Spielberg’s The Fabelmans—somber, haunted films that reckon with the director’s past work.
Of course, the proper late-period works are the ones dismissed by critics and the public. We’re talking about Megalopolis, Here, and now, The Shrouds, David Cronenberg’s meditation on grief, advanced technology, and, like any Cronenberg joint, our uncanny relationship to our bodies. Being so psychologically distant and meandering like many canonical late-period works, the film’s tepid reception out of Cannes and in theatrical release was unsurprising. Minus a few bumps in the road, I found The Shrouds quite moving, despite its perplexing existence, from the digital sheen and alien-like line deliveries by its cast, which includes Vincent Cassel, Diane Kruger, and Guy Pearce (mounting a case as one of my all-time favorites), all giving some of their finest work.
Cronenberg doesn’t have any answers regarding the ongoing quagmire of Artificial Intelligence in society, nor does he condone or condemn the peculiar grieving practices of Cassel’s Karsh, an obvious avatar for the director, whose wife recently died after a long battle with cancer. The Shrouds is eternally probing, all while being soulful and perversely humorous. Because I’m a sicko, I’m probably going to find this comforting to re-watch every year.
Sinners
Now here’s a real hot dose of filmmaking, right here. Or, as Ryan Coogler often cited it as, a full meal. I’ve always been slightly resistant to the claim of Coogler being one of our signature under-40 auteurs. This was nothing against his evident talent and virtuosity behind the camera and page, but considering 3/4 of his filmography was based on pre-existing franchise material, I thought we had to slow our horses.
Beyond it being a marvelous amalgamation of popcorn entertainment and deeply nuanced thematic exercises, Sinners is such a blessing, as it undoubtedly confirmed Coogler as one of the key directors of our time. He’s now reached that rarefied pantheon of directors who have a genuine event aura. Best case scenario, we get something as personal and rollicking as Sinners every three years. Worst case scenario, he’s lured back into the Kevin Feige empire. My cynicism leads me to believe that the latter is more likely.
I agree with every overwhelmingly positive sentiment about the film. While I was particularly more blown away by the methodical character building and mythos creation of the first half, I was fully on board when it delved into gonzo vampire-hunting mode. What else can I say? I had a full meal, and I felt especially satiated when that aspect ratio filled up the IMAX screen.
The Life of Chuck
This take is coming out hot off the presses with The Life of Chuck still fresh in my mind, roughly an hour after stepping out of the theater. Aha, I can see why this won the audience award at TIFF.
Mike Flanagan’s (an admitted blind spot) foray into non-horror is something I probably should soundly reject. As someone who thinks critically about movies even as a hobby, this adaptation of a Stephen King story that is based on a hacky, if not pea-brained, premise that evokes the sentiment of “isn’t life profound, man?”, is something I should be tearing to shreds. Like King’s golden age adaptation, it strikes an impressive balance of being accessible and just sophisticated enough to appeal to middlebrow sensibilities, but I should be wise to see through its superficiality, especially when Flanagan makes his points by bashing you on the head.
However, I walked out feeling delighted. I wouldn’t go as far as to say I was moved, but The Life of Chuck is so immersed in one’s doubts, insecurities, and general apprehension of the world that it forced me to reckon with our most lofty desires and fears. You know what? I’ll take it, despite how maudlin this thing got. What helps is that the performances are exceptional across the board, although I was truly stunned by how little screentime its supposed lead, Tom Hiddleston, received.
I don’t think this is me giving a participation trophy to Life of Chuck just because it had grand textual components and emotional sincerity. I was tracking the accomplished direction (Mike Flanagan, should you be directing a new Step Up?) and brisk energy in real time. It’s good, but perhaps it’s a disappointment because it aspires for something audacious.
The rest of 2025 has plenty to look forward to, from big-swing auteur films with 10/10 levels of hype, such as Highest 2 Lowest and One Battle After Another, to blockbusters that have sizably more promise than usual, notably Superman. Not far behind Spike Lee and Paul Thomas Anderson’s films is the Safdie Brothers double-billing of The Smashing Machine (The pressure’s on big time, The Rock) and Marty Supreme. Oh yeah, and James Cameron is back with another Avatar.