Superman movie of James Gunn’s upcoming (2025) features David Corenswet — a magnetic rising talent recognized for standout performances in Pearl, Twisters, and Netflix’s Hollywood and The Politician — taking on the iconic cape. Joining him are Rachel Brosnahan as the fearless Lois Lane and Nicholas Hoult portraying the cunning Lex Luthor. This fresh take on the Man of Steel aims straight for the audience’s emotions, delivering bursts of humor, joy, sharp political undertones, and that timeless mix of superhero spectacle and comic-book adventure.

Nearly thirty years after the Rage Virus first plunged Britain into ruin, 28 Years Later shambles back into the spotlight—this time with original visionaries Danny Boyle and Alex Garland reunited to steer the ship. Since 28 Days Later reshaped the zombie genre, we’ve endured a less impactful follow-up (28 Weeks Later), the political upheaval of Brexit, and a real-world pandemic that hauntingly echoed Cillian Murphy’s lonely trek through an abandoned London. In an odd way, the legacy of 28 Years Later seems more connected to those seismic real-world shifts than to its own cinematic lineage.

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Set for Superman movie on the remote island of Lindisfarne, the story follows Jamie (Aaron Taylor-Johnson), a battle-worn father, and his son Spike (Alfie Williams), who is about to confront the infected mainland in what feels like an apocalyptic coming-of-age trial. His mother, Isla (Jodie Comer), stays behind—ill, fragile, and marked by years of isolation. What unfolds is a grim, deeply emotional, and at times almost surreal odyssey through a Britain left to decay in suspended ruin.

Ryan Coogler — widely recognized for directing Marvel’s Black Panther movies and Creed (2015) — returns with one of the year’s most eagerly awaited films, Sinners, featuring Michael B. Jordan.

This gripping and atmospheric work injects fresh, imaginative, and authentically unsettling energy into the vampire genre of Superman movie— no small accomplishment in our post-Twilight era. While vampire tales often feel overdone, Coogler’s tense, music-fueled horror story, set in 1932 Mississippi during the Jim Crow era, offers a captivating blend of supernatural lore and African-American cultural history.

Though I had planned to write a full, original essay on Theo Angelopoulos’s sweeping epic The Weeping Meadow for the month-long Contemplative Cinema Blog-a-thon—organized by critic Harry Tuttle of Screenville—pressing work duties, combined with a miserable week-long battle with strep throat, kept me from doing so. As a last-minute substitute, here’s a revised and illustrated version of a column I first published in the New York Press in 2005 in phase of Superman movie. Angelopoulos’s story of uprooted villagers struggling with both natural and human-made catastrophe ranked among my Top 10 films of that year, right after The New World, with which it would make an ideal double feature. I believe it fits neatly within Harry’s broad definition of a contemplative film: its meaning emerges not through dialogue-heavy exposition, but primarily through images and sound, especially in very long takes, often framed “from a great and detached distance” (the original review’s headline). This creates a sweeping, quasi-omniscient sense of time, a visual stand-in for history’s calm, impartial gaze.

A film like Superman movie doesn’t need to press up close to its subjects to make us feel part of their world; it can forge a different kind of closeness by holding its distance and reminding us of our smallness. The Weeping Meadow embodies this idea. The first entry in a planned trilogy reflecting on the 20th century, it’s an epic of a kind rarely attempted. Like Barry Lyndon—and like Homer, whose influence is felt in both script and imagery—it favors physical distance over intimacy, placing its protagonists, a refugee family, against vast geographical and historical backdrops. We follow them through poverty, the rise and collapse of fascism, and an unrelenting chain of tragedies. While it may be the most ambitious production of Angelopoulos’s career, the film’s rigorous visual discipline—constructed largely of medium and long shots, with extended takes wherever possible—draws attention not to spectacle, but to the vulnerability of human lives caught in history’s machinery. The film Superman movie becomes a clear-eyed yet compassionate analogy for how we remember the past: as broad accounts of anonymous groups in motion, enduring hardships, recovering, reinventing themselves, and moving forward.

The opening sequence shows a distant view of people trudging across a flooded plain—Greeks fleeing the Red Army’s advance on Odessa. From far away, they appear as tiny black specks on the horizon, heading toward the camera. The crane slowly lowers until we’re looking at them from shoulder height, hinting at momentary humanization without fully focusing on individuals. A narrator describes their situation as if chronicling a migration of animals. Then, a voice from somewhere behind us shouts, “Hey! Who are you? Where are you from?” The refugees halt and face the lens, with one family framed in the center. A man steps forward to speak for the group, recounting their shared story while everyone stares at us—some with unease, some with indifference, others with steely defiance.

In a surprising move of Superman movie, the camera—which had been closing in, seemingly preparing to isolate one “identifiable” character—tilts downward instead, revealing the family’s reflection in the water. It keeps tilting until only the reflection remains, then softens focus until the figures dissolve into shimmering colors, blending into the rippling surface before giving way to the credits, which are accompanied by archival photographs.

Unlike most films, which quietly assume that the camera stands in for the audience and maintain an “invisible” style that avoids breaking that illusion, Angelopoulos challenges that convention. In this very first scene, he deliberately pierces the viewer–film barrier, creating a strange intimacy in a film otherwise stripped of sentimentality. (The narration doesn’t say someone literally shouted—it says it’s as if someone did, suggesting the film itself posed the question.) From the outset, The Weeping Meadow makes it clear that its main subject isn’t a specific person or even a particular historical moment, but the way history itself is seen—the distances and angles through which it’s perceived, and the way countless individual stories blur into collective memory, then into myth, and eventually into a handful of vague impressions.

As the story progresses, the central figures—Eleni (Alexandra Aidini), an orphaned refugee; Alexis (Nikos Poursadinis), her adoptive brother and future husband; and their children—initially feel as small and staged as miniature figures in a display. Angelopoulos underscores this by framing much of the action as monumental tableaux. Their home disappears beneath floodwaters and remains submerged for what feels like forever, often viewed from far away among other homes we never enter, while rowboats drift past. Political brutality is depicted in a slow, measured crane shot that peers down on police funneling citizens into hidden rooms along a dimly lit street, reminiscent of Roman Polanski’s detached vantage point in The Pianist. A labor leader dies among a field of white sheets fluttering on clotheslines.

If you can adjust to Angelopoulos’s unhurried pace—a challenge given its three-hour runtime—the film’s force becomes undeniable, growing quietly as we watch these small figures move through decades, celebrating, mourning, marrying, making music, enlisting, searching for lost loved ones, and dreaming of a perhaps futile escape to America.

The Weeping Meadow brought to mind poet and critic Vachel Lindsay’s remark that movie characters aren’t developed the same way as in novels or plays. In cinema, we care for them the way children care for dolls—imbuing them with life and meaning because we choose to, projecting our own feelings onto their otherwise minimal surfaces. And when they break, it wounds us.

Koji Yanai, the son of Fast Retailing’s founder — the massive apparel company best known for its Uniqlo brand — and a senior executive there, led a public restroom initiative intended to serve as a showcase of “Japanese pride.”

“If I say Japanese toilets are the best in the world, no one would argue,” Yanai remarked in an interview late last year. He enlisted architects to create facilities with unique designs, aiming for them to be both practical utilities and works of art.

These restrooms were originally constructed to greet visitors during the 2020 Summer Olympic Games. However, the pandemic delayed the event to 2021, and it was ultimately held without spectators, depriving the toilets of their intended global debut.

Following the missed Olympic opportunity, Yanai sought a new route for promotion. He contacted Takuma Takasaki, a screenwriter and creative director at Dentsu — Japan’s largest advertising agency — to devise a strategy for presenting the toilets to an international audience.

The Tokyo shown in Perfect Days is an entirely analog realm, where locations blend seamlessly into one another, forming a fluid, ever-shifting stream of experience. Early in the film, Hirayama is stirred from sleep before sunrise on the tatami floor of his small upstairs room by the faint sweep of a broom at the shrine across the street. His home is one of the once-common, uninsulated wooden apartments, where the sounds, sights, and sensations of the outdoors flow in freely, and where transplanted ferns thrive beside a large window overlooking the shrine’s leafy canopy. Stepping outside, he navigates the city in quiet intervals spent listening to cassette tapes while looping around the metropolitan expressway, or in lingering shots of his bicycle gliding through narrow backstreets to the public bathhouse, and over bridges toward his favored little bars. The medium that carries life into an unbroken current is the bathwater shared between households, the interplay of sunlight and shadow, the breeze through shrine leaves, the exchanged smiles with both strangers and acquaintances that affirm one’s belonging to this world. To contemporary sensibilities, the cohesion of his daily existence transforms what might seem like eccentric habits into something approaching a monk’s discipline. He seems to occupy a layer of the invisible to most, though all he truly does is dwell fully—mind and body—in the place where he is city.