Movies

When it comes to teen icons and Hollywood royalty there are few that surpass Lindsay Lohan and Jamie Lee Curtis respectively. Together in the early 2000s, they made what my generation would call cinematic gold in Freaky Friday. Co-starring in the 2025 sequel Freakier Friday, they’ve mined somewhat of a diamond in the rough, full of messy and sparkly moments in equal measure, but no less dazzling.

I might be biased in saying I enjoyed Freakier Friday immensely considering I grew up on a steady diet of early 2000s teen movies, but who am I to rebuke a reboot and miss out on reliving the angsty, digital nostalgia of my childhood? It doesn’t quite live up to its 2003 counterpart, but that doesn’t mean it’s not a bit of fun.

What Freakier Friday does best is bring itself into 2025 without losing the charm it had in 2003. Incorporating current pop culture and ideas, it rehashes the teen daughter-young mum dynamic without seeming like an outdated trope thanks to director Nisha Ganatra. Plus, the script is flipped this time: Anna (Lohan) and her mum Tess (Curtis) get along beautifully in adulthood; it’s with her own daughter Harper (Julia Butters) and stepdaughter Lily (Sophia Hammons) that she doesn’t always see eye to eye. The best part about Freaky Friday was seeing a kid enjoy the freedoms (and responsibilities) of being an adult, and this remains true as we watch Lohan and Curtis galivant across the screen as ‘teenagers’. Their performances are formidable and relatable. Their enjoyment is palpable, as is costume designer Natalie O’Brien’s, but the outfits just aren’t quite as iconic as they were in 2003 – the soundtrack, however, is just as banging.

Where Freakier Friday misses the mark is in the story. With more characters comes more complications. It’s fun and it’s silly, with several callbacks to the original, but there are moments that seem random, unnecessary, rushed, and overall a bit weak.

That being said: “I haven’t watched a fun movie like that in a long time. It’s put me in such a silly mood,” my friend said before we scurried off down the road chanting Take Me Away at the top of our lungs. And I couldn’t agree more.

Docking half a star for the ending! Look, I’m a sucker for the type of unresolved conclusion that makes most people angrily shake their fist at the sky. Exhibit A: La La Land – perfect movie, no notes. Exhibit B: Inception – it’s the way it had to be. I love when you invest hours of your time and become emotionally attached to characters only to find that, like in life, the ending is not tied up in a pretty little bow like you’d hoped for. But Riviera Revenge? That cut deep, and if you can’t tell, I’m slightly mad about it.

Up until the final three minutes, this film was everything I had hoped for in a French summer rom-com. Scandal, slapstick, scenery, and, most importantly, strong female characters who take no slack from men. We love a stylish, self-assured queen in her seventies. What more could you ask for?

Written and directed by Ivan Calbérac, Riviera Revenge follows the story of Annie (Sabine Azéma) and François Marsault (André Dussollier), a former military general. After being happily married for 50 years, François discovers 40-year-old letters in his attic revealing his wife’s torrid affair with their Niçoise friend Boris Pelleray (Thierry Lhermitte). Resolved to avenge the deed to the dismay of his wife and their three adult children, he goes hunting for the culprit on the Côte-d’Azur.

With no shortage of scenic shots and saturated in the essence of a summer spent along the European Riviera, Philippe Guilbert’s cinematography alone would have won me over in the cold depths of our New Zealand winter. Add perfectly timed editing from Reynald Bertrand, a suitably stylish French wardrobe from costume designer Rebecca Renault, and expertly fashioned sub-plots stitched into the story, and you’ve concocted the perfect recipe for a rom-com à la francaise. Not to mention the kind of finely tuned, subtle acting you get only from veteran performers at the peak of their power.

Light-hearted, cheeky, and suitably silly with just the right amount of sass and sauce, saunter to Riviera Revenge in cinemas, but be warned: N’avoue jamais or never admit – the original title – is perhaps a better indicator of what to expect!

It’s been a long time since I have left the cinema with such a big smile on my face. Whether you want to attribute it to the heartwarming story, the irresistible charm of an exceptionally cute dragon named Toothless, or the fact that I have watched both this new live-action iteration and the original animated feature sat next to my mum in the cinema is your call. Regardless, I would bet that How to Train Your Dragon will make you smile as much as it did us.

If you, like me, recall staring starry eyed up at the screen when the animated movie How to Train Your Dragon was released in cinemas in 2010, then you’re in luck, because the live-action version is essentially a shot-for-shot remake. For those who didn’t grow up with the franchise, the first film in the series takes place in a Viking settlement that battles with dragon attacks daily. Descended from the best fighters of all the Viking tribes, the inhabitants of the Isle of Berk have been tasked with one job: kill all dragons. To chief Stoick the Vast’s (Gerard Butler) dismay, his son Hiccup (Mason Thames) either didn’t inherit the dragon-slayer gene or perhaps just sees the world a bit differently. When Hiccup befriends a dragon named Toothless, he never would have guessed that together they would turn the world upside down.

Written and directed by series creator Dean DeBlois, the live-action film sees Nick Frost in the teacherly role of Gobber the Belch, New Zealand’s own Julian Dennison as Hiccup’s classmate Fishlegs Ingerman, and Nico Parker of The Last of Us fame as Hiccup’s crush Astrid Hofferson alongside relative newcomer Thames and Butler reprising his original role. Together, they deliver a performance that captures the same charm and high-adrenaline spirit of the original cartoon without seeming over the top. The story and world are believable, and incredibly beautiful thanks to cinematographer Bill Pope’s sweeping shots of the Irish coast. The CGI has copped some criticism for not blending in well with its surroundings, but it looked seamless to my untrained eye. With excellent production design (Dominic Watkins), costumes (Lindsay Pugh), and dynamic editing (Wyatt Smith), How to Train Your Dragon is as joyful, adventurous, and fun as I remembered it so many moons ago.

By the time Anatole Zsa-Zsa Korda’s sixth assassination attempt is underway, Wes Anderson’s orderly, well-balanced world has been blown to smithereens… quite literally. As for Korda (Benicio del Toro), he seems more annoyed than afraid.

We soon learn that this is nothing out of the ordinary for ‘Mr Five Percent’. The world’s most elusive businessman seems to profit from dubious dealings – hence the routine assassination attempts. Except this time, something has changed. After his latest plane crash, Korda had a vision: a Biblical, black and white cut scene in which he appears to be on trial for his life. Perhaps he died for a moment this time. Regardless, it won’t be his last vision or death

He decides to appoint his only daughter, Liesl (Mia Threapleton), a nun, as sole heir to his estate. Thus begins The Phoenician Scheme, setting Korda, Liesl, and Norwegian entomologist tutor-turned-administrative secretary Bjorn (Michael Cera) on a madcap venture to revolutionise the area formerly known as Phoenicia.

Written by director Anderson and Roman Coppola, The Phoenician Scheme, like any Anderson film, is distinctively his in every aspect. From sets to sound, dialogue to dramatics, the master of arthouse filmmaking has done it again. His latest is isolating yet intimate, microscopic yet monolithic, a perfectly choreographed two-step where moments of high-stakes intellect waltz onto the screen only to be replaced by a lindy hop of unhinged absurdity.  

Adam Stockhausen’s sets look as flimsy and fabricated as Korda’s grand scheme, while Bruno Delbonnel’s cinematography makes everything seem toy-like and distant yet still utterly personal and aesthetic as in true Anderson fashion. The score, crafted meticulously by Alexandre Desplat, is incessant. Like a dripping tap, it accompanies every breath, every argument, every drop of every pin. As messy as Korda’s world, it eats away at your sanity as the story devolves into chaos and uncertainty.

Add flat lays, extreme long shots for exposition, and hyper-detailed closeups overflowing with props and the result is a reality that seems both utterly fabricated and inherently real, chaotic and choreographed, impossible and familiar. Despite its orderly appearance and general dreaminess, The Phoenician Scheme is a world of inconsistencies, opposites, coincidences, tragedies, and miracles. Like every Wes Anderson film, it’s a bit like life itself.

Cheese.

That’s all anyone had to say to get me seated in front of Holy Cow, a coming-of-age dramedy screening as part of French Film Festival Aotearoa. But it was not simply the promise of comté that filled my tummy with warm fuzzies – rather a certain je ne sais quoi only a sun-soaked, nostalgic French summer story can conjure that nourished my soul.

Holy Cow comes to Aotearoa hot on the heels of two wins at this year’s César Awards, over one million admissions in France, and an official Festival de Cannes Youth Award. The debut feature film from part-time farmer Louise Courvoisier curdles around 18-year-old Totone (Clément Faveau). He lives in the picturesque Jura region in south-eastern France – an area renowned for its dairy farms, agricultural festivals, and award-winning comté cheese – but he just wants to have fun with his friends, get drunk, and chase mademoiselles. However, after a devastating tragedy, he must grow up quick to care for his seven-year-old sister Claire (Luna Garret).

His solution to their dwindling funds? Follow in his family’s cheesemaking footsteps and win the €30,000 Comté Prize. The only problem is, Totone has never made cheese in his life.

At once delicate and coarse, Holy Cow’s hardened exterior gives way to a soft, gooey centre, a distinctive flavour oozing forth in morsels of cheeky charm as tender relationships form between Totone and his sister, friends, and Marie-Lise (Maïwene Barthelemy), a local dairy farmer. The young cast shine in a blunt, honest, and raw portrayal of character. Their authenticity shines through, appearing as comfortable on screen as at a summer fête and delivering a performance both fragile and complex. The long cuts (editor Sarah Grosset) between scenes allow the characters to live in each moment and for the audience to join them in their musings and mishaps.  

With what I can only describe as a banging summer soundtrack full of vigour and vivacity composed by Linda and Charles Courvoisier and hazy albeit saturated cinematography (Elio Balezeaux) that captures the intensity of the teenage experience, Holy Cow serves up the perfect bite of freshness, fun, fervour, and fromage.

On the night of May the 19^th, 2010, five paintings were stolen from the Musée d’Art Moderne de Paris. The loot included a Braque, a Picasso, a Léger, a Modigliani, and a Matisse valued at more than 100 million euros. While the paintings, to this day, have never been recovered, The French Job tells a frenetic and fictional tale of what may have happened to these famous works.

Opening to grimy streets on a dank, dark evening, it’s certainly not the Paris of our dreams that Jo (Steve Tientcheu) cooly makes his way through after looting an apartment block of valuables. Meanwhile, Eric (Sofiane Zermani), a smooth-talking con artist, promises a Léger he doesn’t own to a rich fellow that he then tasks Jo with finding. The following day, Eric’s chance meeting with the perpetually anxious watch expert Yonathan Cobb (Melvil Poupaud) seems like providence as he convinces the hapless tinkerer to sell his client’s timepieces for profit rather than repairing them. The trio’s lives however are flipped upside down when Jo robs the Paris Museum of Modern Art. With the heist highly publicised, the madness begins as Jo, Eric, and Cobb must decide what to do with the paintings.

Directed by Dominique Baumard, The French Job took home the L’Alpe d’Huez International Comedy Film Festival 2025 Special Jury Prize for good reason. Not only is the script, adapted by Baumard and Benjamin Charbit from Olivier Bouchara’s original idea, clever and captivating with plenty of room for physical comedy, but the entire production is as slick and tight as a high-profile heist. Sitting on the edge of my seat, I revelled in the Ocean’s 11-esque character introductions, squealing with delight as the story took a sharp turn towards Italian Job antics. Perfectly punctuated by Lionel Limiñana and David Menke’s playful score, Julien Poupard’s cinematography is equal parts thoughtful and intrusive, artistic and functional, exploring character, place, and atmosphere with deft sleight of hand.

Steal into your local cinema for The French Job and let it whisk you away.

An opulent, saturated world oozes out from the screen as Grand Tour flickers to life. The footage may be mostly black and white, but somehow each scene is vivid and bursting with sultry, seductive temptation. Earning director Miguel Gomes the prize for best director at Festival de Cannes, this romantic, extravagant, and comic epic makes a pitstop in cinemas across Aotearoa in March.

In 1917, British civil servant Edward (Gonçalo Waddington) loiters on the docks in Rangoon awaiting his fiancée Molly Singleton (Crista Alfaiate). It’s been seven years since they’ve been engaged and as time passes, Edward gets increasingly panicked about the prospect of marriage. Impulsively, he hops aboard the steamer heading to Singapore. As he luxuriates in the bar of the Raffles Hotel, he receives a telegram from Molly reporting that she is inbound. Thus begins the couples’ grand tour as Edward flees across Asia pursued by his betrothed, zigzagging through Thailand, the Philippines, Vietnam, Japan, and China, but also through time and space.

Unlike Edward and Molly, the marriage between cinematography (Guo Liang, Sayombhu Mukdeeprom, and Rui Poças) and editing (Telmo Churro and Pedro Filipe Marques) is a match made in heaven. Grand Tour features a docu-realist approach as the black and white narrative scenes are juxtaposed against modern-day documentary clips from each location Edward visits. The voiceover is in the language of whatever destination is currently in focus, narrating the action over the present-day clips rather than showing it. This interesting technique draws attention to the passage of time and its relationship with place as the story progresses. Meanwhile, the second half, in which Molly’s story becomes the focus, is almost entirely narrative-based. A headstrong, formidable woman focused on her future with her fiancé, she contrasts the melancholy Edward who is always chasing past delights.

Grand Tour does not end as we would like it to. With a spoonful of self-awareness at its conclusion, it instead makes a poignant comment on time. As Edward fixates on the past and Molly on the future, their dreams come to nothing, their present moment wasting away into oblivion.

Tinā received not just one, but two standing ovations at its Wellington premiere on the 18^th of February. Due for release on the 27^th of February, I highly recommend you bring a tissue (or two) with you to the cinema.

The feature directorial debut from Samoan-born Wellington-bred filmmaker Miki Magasiva is equal parts funny and tear-jerking, tender and tough-loving, presenting a beautiful ode to Samoan culture and a touching tribute to mothers everywhere.

Meaning mother in Samoan, Tinā follows the story of Mareta Percival (Anapela Polataivao) who is grieving the death of her daughter in the Christchurch earthquakes. Unexpectedly becoming a substitute teacher at a rich, private school, Mareta finds the students in desperate need of guidance and care, prompting her to provide inspiration and support in the way she knows best: through choir and song.

Carried by the force of nature that is Polataivao, the cast of Tinā shines in both the humorous and heartbreaking moments, with Antonia Robinson perfectly capturing Sophie’s inner turmoil and healing journey and Wellingtonian Jamie Irvine in top form as deputy principal Peter Wadsworth, a character equal parts odious and cringey… but in the best, most hilarious way.

Magasiva’s script is carefully woven together with Sébastien Pan’s thoughtfully curated score of Kiwi classics and Samoan traditional. The result is a patchwork tapestry of song as tightly and lovingly bound as an ie toga (Samoan fine mat). Costume designer Sacha Young and production designer Ana Miskell come together to craft a cohesive world of sombre greys at the private school to juxtapose the vibrant and floral environment inhabited by Mareta, creating a very physical manifestation of our protagonist’s positive influence.

My favourite aspect of Tinā was how the story drew us in. Like a mother, it welcomed us into its world and included us without reservation, cheered us through the joys of life and cradled us safely through the difficult times. A movie so tender and powerful is rare; treasure Tinā like you would your own mum.

Like a dripping tap, Flow starts off slowly and steadily until suddenly you are immersed in a world of beauty and danger that is overflowing with emotional depth and thematic vision, awash beneath a flood both literal and metaphorical.

From inky waves and crystal pools, the bright orange eyes of a little black cat meet our gaze, reflecting our own complex thoughts and emotions back at us. Cat scampers and hunts in the tangled undergrowth of a forest, his home a dwelling abandoned by humans, who are absent throughout this animated dreamscape from visionary Latvian filmmaker Gints Zilbalodis despite their influence being acutely felt. When a flood of biblical proportions submerges the world, Cat must adapt. Cat jumps onboard a passing sailboat, joining a ragtag crew of creatures comprising a capybara, ring-tailed lemur, golden retriever, and secretary bird. Together, they embark on a picaresque adventure through paintbrush landscapes (created by designer Zilbalodis and animation director Léo Silly Pélissier), each episode more charmingly heart-wrenching than the last.

Zilbalodis, Matīss Kaža, and Ron Dyens’ script is devoid of dialogue yet not of expression. The characters are not anthropomorphic in the slightest, their movements hyper-realistic and their sounds recorded from real life creatures, and yet they are sprinkled with a touch of magical realism that administers us with enough suspended disbelief to become utterly entranced in the story. Each character has its typical animalistic quirk – I picture Cat who knocks Lemur’s trinket off the shelf just because – yet they possess enough humanness to make them emotionally capable of exploring relatable themes of loss, bonding, and camaraderie. Flow is a tale about a wary creature learning to trust and depend on others as it learns about the intrinsic interconnected nature of the world.

In this way, Zilbalodis’ cinematography places us directly into the action from Cat’s point of view, his editing fast-paced to build tension but allowing breathing room in between to give way to more gentle moments. Combined, they give Flow a game-like lens, teaching the audience through visual details. Meanwhile, Zilbalodis and Rihards Zalupe’s score carries us through moments of peril and playfulness with music tailored perfectly to the ebb and flow of the narrative. In Flow you are not a spectator, but a passenger both on the lifeboat and within this devastatingly beautiful world we call home.

Through plenty of eeks, amid lots of squeals, and with more time than I’d like to admit spent hiding under my sweatshirt, I made it through Nosferatu. Though I’m not a horror fan, I wasn’t going in completely unbiased to this new release of the classic vampire tale. I own a beautiful copy of Bram Stoker’s Dracula – a groundbreaking piece of literature that’s very dear to me. That being said… though this new treatment is aesthetically appetising and suitably scary, for me, it didn’t come close to the original.

Arthouse filmmaker Robert Eggers’ Nosferatu is the plot of Werner Herzog’s Nosferatu the Vampyre (1979), which is the plot of F.W. Murnau’s Nosferatu: A Symphony of Horror (1922) – itself Stoker’s novel with some name changes and minor tweaks to skirt copyright law. Herzog’s is an undeniable classic. Murnau’s is the pinnacle of German expressionist cinema. Eggers’ doesn’t really re-invent the wheel or make a particularly thought-provoking statement.

As a self-professed history buff and a former production designer, Eggers does deserve to be lauded for Nosferatu from the perspective of a period piece. Craig Lathrop’s design is suitably gothic, oppressive, and finely detailed – his vision something straight from a storybook. Cinematographer Jarin Blaschke is a wizard with his craft, bringing to life an eerie and desaturated world that slowly closes in on you. His lighting, colour, and framing choices are nothing short of award worthy. Louise Ford’s editing style, however, is not my cup of tea, with what I consider lazy transitions, though other critics disagree. Robin Carolan’s delightfully terrifying score though is what truly makes Nosferatu ooze with agony and dread.

Starring Lily-Rose Depp as lead Ellen Hutter alongside Nicholas Hoult as her hapless husband Thomas, the acting in Nosferatu is not something I’d deem particularly praiseworthy. With the exception of Willem Dafoe’s zany Professor von Franz (the equivalent of Van Helsing), Simon McBurney’s perfectly deranged Herr Knock (our Renfield), and, of course, Bill Skarsgård at his best in the disgustingly horrifying role of Count Orlok… though his incessant heavy breathing was more comical than frightening.

Inspired by the 1922 rendition at the age of nine, Eggers has been working towards Nosferatu his whole life. And you can tell! It is beautiful and clever and undeniably good. It’s just not great.

The long-awaited screen adaptation of the Tony-winning Broadway musical Wicked trades the Yellow Brick Road for a trip down memory lane, whizzing through the story of how the green-skinned woman Elphaba (Cynthia Erivo) and Ozian it-girl Glinda (Ariana Grande) came to be known as the Wicked Witch of the West and the Good Witch of the North. An adventurous tale that celebrates female friendship and champions standing up for what’s right, this magical musical is as whimsical as it is wondrous, as outrageous as it is off-kilter.

Like its Broadway predecessor, the film version is also presented in two acts, with Defying Gravity serving as a show-stopping ending to part one. In many ways, the screen adaptation remains faithful to the stage play, which in turn was based on Gregory Maguire’s 1995 novel that reimagines the characters from The Wizard of Oz books. Like the stage musical, Stephen Schwartz wrote the music and lyrics, while Winnie Holzman wrote the book, but the director’s seat is occupied by Jon M. Chu, who crafts a multicoloured, maximalist dreamscape alongside production designer Nathan Crowley and costume designer Paul Tazewell. Arm in arm with these wonderful world-building wizards, cinematographer Alice Brooks adds the icing on the emerald cake with her bold colour choices and sweeping shots. I just wish Myron Kerstein’s editing had featured slower cuts so we could take it all in better.

The story is an archetypal myth where good is pitted against evil, the comfort of the status quo juxtaposing the freedom of changing the world. Wicked does not reinvent the wheel in its saga of misunderstanding and alienation – even with its subplot of animal persecution. But the wheel isn’t broken, and with Erivo and Grande behind the reins it trots along nicely. Their excellent chemistry is made all the more enjoyable by their opposite vibes, while appearances from Michelle Yeoh as Madame Morrible and Jeff Goldblum as Oz add an extra layer of grandiosity. What begins as loathing between Elphaba and Glinda blossoms into love and mutual respect, and there is always room for more interactions that pass the Bechdel Test in Hollywood.

Fun and fantastical with more than a few Easter eggs for fans, Wicked is wickedociously, whimsifyingly wonderful.

Simultaneously an ode to Italy and a denunciation, Caro Diario (1993) is a far cry from the mainstream media who idealise the European lifestyle. If that’s the world you’re dreaming of watch this first, because this is how it truly feels, what it actually looks like, and how it really is.

Caro Diario, which is both written and directed by Italy’s contemporary auteur filmmaker Nanni Moretti (who also stars in the film), is autobiographical in style with a touch of magical realism. It’s an open diary that doesn’t follow the narrative form we are accustomed to. Rather, it ambles through moments and emotions, thoughts and events, capturing the essence of a time, place, or feeling instead of prioritising story. That said, it’s not without structure.

Segmented into three chapters, On My Vespa pays homage to Moretti’s beloved Roma, but the back alleys and suburbs that are deserted and desolate during the summer holiday of Ferragosto – an occurrence ingrained in the culture and intrinsic to the country. The centrepiece Islands is a Ulyssean journey to the Aeolian Islands to find inspiration for his next film, but without success, Moretti tells us as we sit in the cinema watching his antics. The final chapter Doctors is a slice of life with actual footage of medical notes, appointments, and treatments – the disdain for Italian bureaucracy is palpable.

Caro Diario is intimate, in part due to Moretti’s narration, which feels like he’s talking to a friend, paired with Mirco Garrone’s slow editing that allows Giuseppe Lanci’s poetic cinematography to wash over us. Marta Maffucci’s authentic and unpretentious production design completes the trifecta, creating a world that you are firmly a part of. In what is reminiscent of a Roman epic or a classic saga, Caro Diario is rooted in philosophical musings, but it doesn’t forgo lightness, charm, and humour. Much like in life itself, moments simply happen, good and bad waltz arm in arm, and the little things are the most special.

Screening as part of the Italian Film Festival, Caro Diario may not depict the Italy you’re dreaming of, but it distils the visceral, infuriating, poetic, and magical place it really is.