There are moments in Adolescence so quiet you barely realise your fists have clenched. So ordinary you almost forget you’re watching the most harrowing television event of the decade. And then it happens: the full weight of the horror — not just the crime, but the construction of it — hits you like a crowbar to the gut.

François Ozon's When Fall Is Coming presents itself like a rustic linen tablecloth at a bourgeois garden party—calm, sun-dappled, faintly melancholic. But look closer and you’ll see it’s stained with the slow seep of generational resentment, unspoken traumas, and the quiet, persistent erasure of older women.

François Ozon's When Fall Is Coming presents itself like a rustic linen tablecloth at a bourgeois garden party—calm, sun-dappled, faintly melancholic. But look closer and you’ll see it’s stained with the slow seep of generational resentment, unspoken traumas, and the quiet, persistent erasure of older women.

In the labyrinthine world of espionage, where trust is a currency often devalued, Steven Soderbergh's Black Bag attempts to weave a tale of intrigue, betrayal, and marital discord. Starring Michael Fassbender as George Woodhouse and Cate Blanchett as Kathryn St. Jean—both seasoned British intelligence officers—the film sets out to explore the complexities of a marriage entangled in the high-stakes game of spycraft. ​

Let’s talk about smoke, secrets, and the soft rustle of silk robes concealing centuries of institutional rot. Conclave, Edward Berger’s adaptation of Robert Harris’s novel, is a slow-burn ecclesiastical thriller that traps us inside the velvet-lined chamber of the Vatican’s most secretive ritual—the election of a new pope. But don’t mistake its solemnity for sanctity. This is a pressure cooker of power, paranoia, and patriarchy, dressed up in cassocks and incense.

There are quiet films that whisper, and then there are quiet films that haunt you like a hymn sung in an abandoned church. Small Things Like These, based on the Claire Keegan novella and starring Cillian Murphy, is the latter. It’s a film that burns slowly but leaves a deep, unshakeable ash in the soul.

Oh, Anora. If you want to witness the cinematic equivalent of a beautifully iced cake being left out in the rain—slowly melting, still sweet, vaguely tragic—then by all means, book your ticket. This is not a film, it’s a postmodern fairy tale, surgically dissected and stitched back together by a director clearly weaned on Cassavetes and vodka.