Weapons

Weapons, Zach Cregger's new film, arrives with very high expectations after Barbarian's decisive impact on the genre. And yet, almost miraculously, it surpasses them. This is not just a second success. It is a statement of artistic evolution, of a filmmaker boldly venturing into more experimental, emotionally devastating, and narratively ambitious territory. If Barbarian was an intelligent and wild rollercoaster ride, Weapons is a maze of broken mirrors: sprawling but perfectly controlled, surreal but painfully grounded in reality, horrifying but deeply human. From the moment the triggering incident is revealed—seventeen schoolchildren wandering through the night in unison, never to return—the film sets the tone for an intellectual and chilling work. Yet Weapons refuses to fall into the clichés of the conventional mystery thriller. Instead, Zach Cregger relies on fragmented storytelling, inspired as much by Paul Thomas Anderson's Magnolia and Alejandro González Iñárritu's 21 Grams as by everything in modern horror. Each chapter reveals a new angle, a new soul fractured by grief, suspicion, or trauma, and slowly, sometimes exasperatingly, the emotional puzzle transforms into something far more disturbing than a simple answer: a mosaic of moral decay, generational pain, and festering denial lurking beneath the clean surface of suburban America. At the heart of the film is Justine Gandy, played by Julia Garner, a third-grade teacher whose entire class has disappeared without explanation. From her first appearance on screen, Julia Garner brings a quiet, explosive intensity to her character, delivering a performance of breathtaking restraint and anguish.

This is not a woman who descends into hysteria, but someone who is drained by guilt and the gaze of others, worn down by sleepless nights and the sickening realization that nothing she says will make sense of the inconceivable. In less skilled hands, the character could have seemed like a tired cliché, the misunderstood woman blamed by the public. But Zach Cregger doesn't give her any breaks. Justine is flawed, broken, and hiding things, some emotional, others far more painful. A long scene where she sits silently in her classroom after the incident, surrounded by empty chairs and erased pencil drawings, is one of the most moving portrayals of survivor's guilt in recent genre film. Garner doesn't need dialogue; her face is an open wound, and Zach Cregger knows it. Their collaboration gives birth to an unforgettable character, a broken compass pointing nowhere.

Next comes Josh Brolin as Archer Graff, a father devastated by the loss of his daughter, and arguably the most moving character in the entire film. Josh Brolin taps into something primal here, delivering one of the most vulnerable performances of his career: a man hardened by traditional notions of masculinity, now unable to deal with his pain other than through suspicion, rage, and misguided actions. His descent is terribly plausible, especially in a culture where grief is so often redirected toward conspiracy, blame, or violence. A late sequence at a gas station, where Archer's despair leads to a public confrontation, is typical of Zach Cregger: funny and dark, uncomfortably violent, and rich with emotion. But the genius of Josh Brolin's performance lies in the fact that he never allows Archer to become a mere symbol of toxic masculinity: he is, above all, a human being, flawed and helpless, but not beyond redemption. His chapter doesn't end with resolution, but with emotional fragmentation, like a man who has realized too late that the world has no answers to offer him, only consequences. In the hands of a less talented actor, Archer would have been an archetype. With Brolin, he becomes a Greek tragedy played out in jeans and flannel.

To balance these heavyweights, Alden Ehrenreich plays Paul Morgan, a disillusioned cop caught between his duty and his survival instinct. Alden Ehrenreich brings his trademark nervous charisma and infuses his character with pathos and dark humor. Paul isn't a particularly competent cop: he drinks too much, avoids paperwork, and stumbles around crime scenes with the anxiety of someone who knows he's in over his head. Yet his scenes, especially those with Julia Garner, crackle with emotional complexity. There's a history between them, a tension laced with regret, unspoken truths, and perhaps deeper betrayals. The chapter devoted to Paul is more traditionally noir than the others, with Zach Cregger relying on seedy diners, flickering lights, and thick, humid silences to create tension. And while Paul's narrative arc is more modest, it echoes the broader themes of the film: here, everyone is searching for redemption, or at least something to hold on to, even if it means sinking deeper into denial. Alden Ehrenreich plays Paul as a man who has spent too much time convincing himself that he still has time to fix things, until he realizes that he doesn't.

And then there's the unknown: Austin Abrams as James, a nervous, sharp-tongued drug addict who bursts into the story like a grenade with the pin already pulled out. Austin Abrams delivers an exceptional performance, the kind that makes you feel like you're watching an actor step up to a whole new level. His James is funny, scary, tragic, and at times deeply insightful, not because he's wise, but because his chaotic mind is free from the comforting lies that the other characters continue to tell themselves. It's in the chapter devoted to James that the supernatural elements of the story begin to emerge: moments of temporal distortion, collective hallucinations, and dreamlike logic unfold through his eyes, creating some of the film's most visually daring sequences. There is a surreal and extended sequence involving a mirror, a half-forgotten nursery rhyme, and a glimpse of the “thing” the children may have been following, and it is here that Zach Cregger most clearly demonstrates his sense of horror. Yet even in these supernatural segments, Abrams remains the Cassandra of this story, warning the town of a fate that is already too late to prevent.

In the final act, Amy Madigan appears and changes everything. Describing her role in detail would spoil one of the scariest twists in Weapons, but suffice it to say that Amy Madigan embodies her character, both wise woman and specter, with terrifying control. She becomes a symbolic figure, representing the sins of the past that have been buried beneath the white picket fences and rituals of the middle class. Her scenes completely change the tone of the film, shifting it from a realistic tragedy to something more mythical, more folkloric. In hindsight, her performance casts a shadow over the rest of the story, reminding us that the horror began long before these characters arrived and will continue long after they are gone. She is, in essence, the embodiment of the film's generational decay: smiling, maternal, and utterly terrifying.

Visually, Weapons is a pure masterpiece of the kind we'd like to see more often in cinema. Larkin Seiple's cinematography captures a world that is both mundane and cursed, with long takes, subdued lighting, and static frames that encourage the viewer to look closer, then punish them for doing so. The soundtrack, composed by Ryan Holladay, Hays Holladay, and Zach Cregger himself, relies on distorted lullabies, low rumblings, and minimalist piano chords that evoke both fairy tales and funeral marches. Every shot oozes tension, but rarely through jump scares. Instead, it's about atmosphere, silences, and the unease that comes from seeing too much of a scene without understanding its meaning. Weapons doesn't just tell a story, it unsettles you with the way it withholds information and plays with your memory of previous scenes. It's the kind of film that demands—and rewards—a second viewing.

Thematically, Weapons resembles a horror story about the state of the nation, using the narrative of missing children to explore a range of topics, from online radicalization and the scapegoating of teachers to the commodification of grief and the way suburban America hides its dysfunction behind a veneer of civility. Zach Cregger dares to ask not only What happened to these children?, but also What happened to us? The horror isn't just behind the window. It lies in what we do when the lights go out, when blaming becomes easier than healing, when lies become necessary to live with ourselves. At one point in the film, a character says: “I think we made them disappear, not the other way around.” It hits like a punch in the gut. Weapons isn't so much about supernatural entities as it is about the ghosts we make of each other, about how trauma is passed down, buried, and eventually returns with a vengeance.

In its final minutes, the film abandons linearity entirely and plunges into a feverish climax that blends fairy tale, true crime, found footage, and cosmic horror into a nightmarish crescendo. It's messy. It's bold. And it's brilliant. Weapons doesn't end with a resolution, but with an infection: it creeps under your skin and stays there, challenging you to examine your own complicity, your own ability to deny reality. It's a cinematic experience that ends not so much with a conclusion as with an echo, like a scream trapped in a closed room. With this film, Zach Cregger has cemented his status not only as a master of horror, but also as a bold storyteller with something urgent to say. Weapons is an unforgettable film that doesn't just show you the dark side. It leaves you there, wondering if you were ever really safe.

Weapons
Written and directed by Zach Cregger
Produced by Roy Lee, Zach Cregger, Miri Yoon, J. D. Lifshitz, Raphael Margules
Starring Josh Brolin, Julia Garner, Cary Christopher, Alden Ehrenreich, Austin Abrams, Benedict Wong, Amy Madigan
Cinematography: Larkin Seiple
Edited by Joe Murphy
Music by Ryan Holladay, Hays Holladay, Zach Cregger
Production companies: New Line Cinema, Subconscious, Vertigo Entertainment, BoulderLight Pictures
Distributed by Warner Bros. Pictures
Release date: August 6, 2025 (France), August 8, 2025 (United States)
Running time: 128 minutes

Seen on August 5, 2025 at Gaumont Disney Village, Theater 12, seat C19

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