Evidence of a shift is clear in the ongoing car-action saga that began with a burst of speed in 2001. It now mirrors the high-octane energy of a renowned spy franchise. The heroes have evolved beyond mere drivers of commercial vehicles, race cars, trucks, or any machine with a steering wheel, brakes, and clutch. Led by the magnetic Dominic Toretto, played by Vin Diesel, a tight-knit family operates from a covert government office and, in their own way, guards national interests. They are not just drivers; they are secret agents and master navigators of the road. Like the latest installment of a familiar blockbuster series, this tenth chapter of the Fast and Furious saga arrives in two parts, leaving fans eager about the universe’s fate. Diesel, his on-screen family, and a wide circle of friends and relatives shape a cinematic journey that feels intimate and expansive at the same time.
One recurring refrain stands out: family matters most. Between stunts and dialogue, the film showcases audacious driving feats. Cars roar through Rome, helicopters surveil a bomb, and wires yank vehicles from the air. Scenes escalate from a burning dam to gravity-defying descents, keeping audiences on the edge of their seats. The familiar ensemble returns — Diesel, Michelle Rodriguez, Charlize Theron, Jason Statham, Helen Mirren, Jordana Brewster, John Cena — as a formidable lineup alongside a villain who channels a comic-book menace. The scale is epic, with the story leaning into the spectacle and the tension that fans expect. The voice credited here underscores the franchise’s appetite for larger-than-life stakes and action that grips from the first frame to the last.
A Good Person by Zach Braff, starring Florence Pugh, Morgan Freeman, and Celeste O’Connor
The film invites audiences to consider the distance between a phenomenon and Braff’s directorial debut Something in Common. Braff, who writes the script for both projects, centers character-driven storytelling over pure plot mechanics. The new film delves into the inner life of a lone and grieving survivor, played by Florence Pugh, as it confronts weighty themes like the opioid crisis in the United States. If Garden State explored the microdynamics of everyday life, this new project tends toward the broader, more intimate examination of consequences and resilience. The narrative threads through personal loss toward a universal reflection on healing and accountability.
Everything in A Good Person feels amplified: the themes, the hardships, the cascading misfortunes, and the fragility of the characters’ fates. The storytelling earns its boldness with truthful performances and a script that brings depth to the struggles, even when the journey grows heavy. The director anchors the film in honest emotion, delivering a finale that lands with impact, though the path there can feel relentless and morally heavy. The result is a cinematic experience that lingers, prompting contemplation about guilt, forgiveness, and what it means to be a good person in trying times.
Sica by Carla Subirana, with Thais García, Núria Prims, Marco Antonio Florido
The film opens with underwater imagery: algae, bubbles, and evanescent light. The teenage heroine Nausica yearns for the sea to return her missing father, a fisherman lost to the water. She tilts at the edge of danger, listening to the sea as if it speaks in an ancient voice. Nearby, a storm-chaser figure offers a promise: in three days, the tide will bring back what the ocean has taken.
Filmmaker Carla Subirana returns after a long break, grounding the narrative in a coastal landscape that is both stark and lyrical. The story follows Sica from the outset, with Thais García delivering a strong debut performance and a sense of youthful defiance. It examines family rivalries, economic pressures facing widows of seafarers, and the intimate, often painful, choices that come with surviving at the edge of the sea. The setting is small and tight-knit, yet the emotional weather is expansive, and the tides of fate prove inexorable. The sea remains both giver and taker, a constant presence in the lives of this community.
Unbelievable but True by Quentin Dupieux, starring Alain Chabat, Léa Drucker, Anaïs Demoustier, and Benoît Magimel
Quentin Dupieux’s cinema thrives on surreal premises that sit between the uncanny and the everyday. Across his body of work, he has played with wildly imaginative ideas — a killer rubber, a coat turning its wearer into a killer, a gigantic bank-robbing fly — and now a domestic tale that threads the extraordinary into a familiar home setting. In this film, a basement tunnel becomes a portal to a three-day rejuvenation while the world outside ages in longer, noisier increments. There is also a subplot about a man coping with sexual anxiety, who discovers a mechanical device that can be controlled by a mobile phone. The blend of whimsy and unease is a Dupieux hallmark, and this latest entry leans into his signature offbeat humor.
Dupieux typically constructs stories with brisk pacing and abrupt third acts. The most memorable moment may be a ten-minute montage with little dialogue, a deliberate break from conventional narrative nodes. Yet Unbelievable but True still maintains a thread of melancholy beneath its absurd surface, using humor to illuminate anxieties about time, mortality, and human folly. Critics note that the film balances eccentricity with a surprisingly grounded emotional core, offering a distinctive voice within contemporary cinema. The overall effect is funny, unsettling, and oddly humane.
The Great Youth by Valeria Bruni-Tedeschi, with Nadia Tereszkiewicz, Sofiane Bennacer, and Louis Garrel
Valeria Bruni-Tedeschi returns to themes drawn from her own life, rooted in the experience of a theater-trained generation. The film unfolds a melodramatic look at a toxic love affair, set against the backdrop of an ambitious director navigating professional and personal boundaries. The drama is anchored in a cast of young performers whose lives collide with the director’s ambitions, exposing the fragility and resonance of youth under pressure.
The ensemble is caught in a web of emotional crises, trauma, addiction, and the weight of expectations. Bruni-Tedeschi’s gaze lingers on the vulnerability and beauty of acting as a craft, while also exposing the cost of pursuing art without losing sight of humanity. The film’s mood nods to nostalgia, yet it remains a sharp, critical portrait of a world where talent and vulnerability collide. The director’s perspective offers insight into the emotional texture of students and artists who live with intense feelings on the surface. The artistic message feels intimate and provocative, inviting audiences to reflect on whether acting elevates or isolates those who devote themselves to it.