Inside, directed by Vasilis Katsoupis and written by Katsoupis and Ben Hopkins, features two taglines: “This is not Willem Dafoe” and “A solitary exhibition.” And these two phrases tell you just about everything you need to know about the film. The first is undoubtedly a reference to surrealist René Magritte’s The Treachery of Images, which is a painting of a pipe with the phrase “Ceci n’est pas une pipe” (“This is not a pipe”) written below. This allusion indicates the film concerns itself with the art world and may itself be surreal in nature (it does and it is).

The second tagline, in conjunction with the first, sums up just what the proceeding hour and 45 minutes will be: Dafoe playing a character in total solitude. And aside from a few supporting players who pop up in this character’s world (and his dreams), that is exactly what Inside is.

It follows art thief Nemo (Dafoe, of course), who breaks into a high-tech New York City penthouse owned by an art collector and dealer away on a business trip for an indeterminate amount of time. Nemo’s there to steal works by Austrian Expressionist Egon Schiele, especially a $3 million self-portrait, which he cannot locate. When he attempts to leave with the other paintings, an alarm system sounds and traps Nemo within the home. His cohorts, circling the building in a helicopter, abandon him, leaving Nemo to find his own way out. This proves far more difficult than he could ever have anticipated, almost as if the penthouse were built to be a prison.

Days go by. The days become weeks, and the weeks become months. The solitude begins to drive Nemo mad, and in his madness he begins to create a grand work of art of his own, writing and drawing on the walls in black ink. He talks to himself and to a cleaning woman he sees on security monitors, whom he names Jasmine. He sings and dances to himself as well, all while working at the frosted glass of a skylight high above, which Nemo accesses via a makeshift scaffolding he constructed himself out of furniture and which resembles an avant-garde sculpture in its own right. It’s a combination of form and function, oddly interesting from an aesthetics standpoint while also serving as a potential means of escape, assuming Nemo can remove the glass and crawl outside.

The phrase “This is not Willem Dafoe” is especially on point here because the actor disappears into the role. We truly forget the fiction and become absorbed in this man’s quest to survive. This is achieved primarily through Dafoe giving the performance his all, but also through Katsoupis and Hopkins’ script, which constantly ratchets up the external and internal stakes, be it through the scarce amount of food available to Nemo, to the fact that the sinks in the home don’t work, forcing the character to get his water from a still operational sprinkler system, to Nemo’s crumbling sanity, which takes a toll on his ingenuity, his ability to think rationally. We’re repeatedly asking ourselves, “How will he get out of this one?”

Admittedly, the fundamental premise of Inside can at times feel flimsy — why, for instance, hasn’t the art dealer employed someone to look after his multimillion-dollar home while he’s away? But the strength of Dafoe’s performance, the taut script and the incredible cinematography of Steve Annis all combine to eclipse such questions, creating a rich, engaging and overall satisfying viewing experience. —Christopher Shultz

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A murdered prostitute. A rash of neighborhood break-ins. A ransom call from a child’s kidnapper. A thwarted robbery and assault in the subway. That’s a lot of crime for one movie — unless that movie is an anthology. 

Meet Mania, a gem of a suspense omnibus from the Great White North. Its opening-credits sequence suggests something special and very, very ‘80s. You get both from all four of its unhosted, unconnected stories. 

With the majority directed by Prom Night’s Paul Lynch, each segment concludes with a twist. If the near four decades since have rendered those conclusions guessable, you still must acknowledge and admire the cleverness in their construction. They’re not gimmicky in the M. Night Shyamalan way where you’re so focused on parsing them out rather than enjoying the journey to get there. 

Mania might be accurately called Canada’s version of Alfred Hitchcock Presents; it’s certainly more narratively successful than NBC’s short-lived revival of that time. Most of all, the Maniaical pieces remind me of the ingenious shorts HBO used to play in its infancy as between-movies filler seemingly beamed in from nowhere.  —Rod Lott

Clearly, Don’t Look Now is a brilliant film in the annals of mind-bending suspense, but also one that is very bizarre and outré, something that sets it apart. Even more so, this giallo precursor was the type of film you could release in the ’70s and win all the awards while being a critical darling. The last movie Nicolas Roeg directed that was a tasteful piece of erotic art was Mimi Rogers’ Full Body Massage. While it doesn’t reach the highs of Don’t Look Now, it’s a classic in its own way.

The older I get, the more Don’t Look Now confounds me and astounds me, leaving me internally terrified that the dreamlike atmosphere and disjointed pieces are so broken, similarly distorted by the sheer realism and tragic finale. And, of course, that ending is a total shocker, even by today’s exacting standards, both graphically and creepily.

Donald Sutherland and Julie Christie play John and Laura, a married couple dealing with their daughter’s recent fatal accident. A few months pass, we find them in Venice, restoring an old church. Suddenly, strange occurrences take place, with troubling doppelgangers, blind mediums and, of course, the horrific killer.

An extension of the traumatic loss of the emotionally stunted characters, it plays with the conventions of the stages of grief and mourning, given a paranormal twist by Roeg. With the natural movements in an alien culture, Roeg gives you that xenophobic feeling walking along the canals.

Adapted from the short story by Daphne du Maurier, the movie finds both Sutherland and Christie remarkable in their roles, although Donald struts around like he’s going to an Italian Doctor Who convention. And with a more than shocking sex scene that feels highly animalistic, Roeg brings back my Mimi Rogers fantasies.

Don’t Look Now needs to be viewed multiple times, because I always find another piece of the puzzle—even if it not supposed to be there. —Louis Fowler

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Squealer positions itself as based on real-life crimes without stating whose. If they’re not Robert Pickton’s, then actor Ronnie Gene Blevins can chalk his visual similarity up to pure coincidence and be proud of the paycheck. Then again, how many greasy pig farmers have moonlighted as serial killers? 

Maybe don’t answer that. 

As “Squealer” in Squealer, Blevins (2018’s Death Wish remake) plays a pig farmer and butcher who kills prostitutes. Oink, boink. He makes literal meat of the slain hookers, which causes the odd nipple ring to make its way into the ground round. 

The police investigate. One of the cops is Tyrese Gibson, needing to eat between Fast X installments. The main man on the case, however, is Jack (Wes Chatham, 2014’s The Town That Dreaded Sundown remake). Because his estranged wife (Danielle Burgio, House of the Dead 2) happens to be a social worker whose heart looks out for the ladies of the night, whether Jack succeeds is a matter of when, not if.

Burgio also co-produced and co-wrote the film with director Andy Armstrong (Moonshine Highway), a fellow stuntperson. Originality may not be among the pages, but they wrote her a great showcase. She shines in the part.

Meanwhile, Kate Moennig (2012’s Gone) and Theo Rossi (Emily the Criminal) steal the movie out from everyone, Batman villain-style, as Squealer’s “business associates.” She’s a tweaker; he’s a purple-suited, crossbow-wielding drug dealer. Together or individually, they bring levity every time they show up, in a movie that plays things bone-dry.

If it sounds like Squealer gets squeezed out of Squealer, that’s because he does — a victim of his own supposed story. Part procedural, part slasher, part domestic drama and part social justice advocate, the unfocused film doesn’t amount to much, outside a few amusing turns. —Rod Lott

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Through no real fault of his own, Michael Fassbender’s past decade hasn’t exactly been stellar. His standout performances in Steve McQueen’s Shame (2011) and 12 Years a Slave (2013) came close to making him a household name. That is, until he was unable to save a trilogy of lackluster misses in 2016 with X-Men: Apocalypse, The Snowman and the video-game adaptation no one asked for, Assassin’s Creed.

It’s enough to make anyone to step away from the limelight, become a Formula One racer, return for an abysmal X-Men sequel in 2019 before finally driving a Porsche into the sunset. So what could possibly bring Fassbender back into the cinematic fold? A lack of championships — and maybe a lead role in David Fincher’s most cerebral film yet, The Killer.

Fassbender plays a high-dollar hitman with a set of aliases for every country. He’s got his routine down to a science, but still, killin’ ain’t easy. After a rare botch in Paris, the assassin books it back to his secluded mansion in the Dominican Republic. He finds his girlfriend near death, the victim of a beating intended for him. Telling himself it’s strictly business, the killer goes on an international spree hunting down everyone involved — including his employer.

The Killer doesn’t quite reach the heights of Fincher’s best work (Seven, Zodiac), but that’s hardly a slight. Though the cold-blooded protagonist isn’t terribly relatable, his on-the-job frustrations scratch close to the same itch as Office Space’s first act. Weirdly, however, the revenge plot does little to endear the character. Of course, that’s not vital, but it raises some emotional hurdles that the film never really dodges.

Even so, fans of the opening scene from Nicolas Winding Refn’s Drive will appreciate this feature-length equivalent. Plus, the would-be insufferable voiceover narration shines thanks to a clever, intimate and misanthropic monologue. And where there’s Fincher, there’s masterful sound editing. Capping off the nihilistic voyage is an ideal score from the filmmaker’s frequent collaborators Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross — with a welcome sprinkling of The Smiths for good measure.

The film also excels with a rawness that escapes most blockbuster action choreography. It only has one fistfight, but it captures a visceral, desperate exchange where every blow clearly weighs on Fassbender’s character. It takes the house fight in the second season of HBO’s Barry up a few notches, without protecting the protagonist with some unrealistic invulnerability. He can’t shed the scars, and the hitman bears the bruises of the encounter until the credits roll.

The sum of The Killer’s parts doesn’t equal its whole, but it still mostly satisfies where it counts. No, you won’t find a relatable lead or a very satisfying conclusion. But if you’re in it for gunplay, beautiful brutality and sociopathic musings, this flick finds its target. —Daniel Bokemper