Your ultimate guide to Bangkok

Operation Neptune is in full flow as Allied troops storm the beaches of Normandy. Overhead, the US is flying in air support. One misfit team, led by a grizzled commander (Wyatt Russell), is tasked with destroying a radio transmitter located at a fortified church behind enemy lines. When their plane is shot down, the bruised and battered troops scramble to the church only to discover that, beneath its foundations, the Reich has been busily amassing an unholy army of undead mutants. On paper, Overlord sounds like a run-of-the-mill midnight movie. In reality, it has much more going for it, most significantly the talented young cast—including British actor Jovan Adepo as the captivating lead. Admittedly, the characters are thinly-written cliches – the brooding man-of-few-words commander, the wise-cracking crack shot, and the heart-of-gold newbie. But these simple archetypes are forgivable, especially in the case of the gloriously-over-the-top-jack-booted antagonist, played by Game of Thrones actor Pilou Asbæk. Meanwhile, Mathilde Ollivier impresses as a tough-as-nails villager who would be a worthy addition to the French Resistance. The story is also much more artful than the premise suggests, playing with the concept of monstrosity and asking what separates good from bad in times of war. And how far are each side willing to go? Or rather, who are the real monsters here? Be prepared for blood, guts and gore. The violence, both in the high-octane opening scenes and the more mon

Lisbeth Salander, your #MeToo moment has arrived: If ever there was a perfect time for the avenging hacker of Stieg Larsson’s Millennium series to make a rebooted comeback, it’s now. So call it a spectacular failure to read the room that the new action-tooled The Girl in the Spider’s Web—James Bond without the bondage—strips its hero of everything that made her spiky and singular. It’s not that the movie doesn’t have a terrific lead (The Crown’s Claire Foy, who knows from mining subtle shades of rebellion) or a sleek, inky visual template, established by David Fincher in 2011 with his Rooney Mara–led The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. Problematically, Spider’s Web sees nothing to celebrate in Salander but a bland video-game avatar, someone who speeds across icy ponds on her Ducati, flees explosions in slo-mo and barely gets it on (one listless same-sex sleepover with a club kid hardly counts). Foy wasn’t made to frown at laptops; what little psychology there was in the literary version of this antihero has been scaled back to nothing. Meanwhile, sad little girls play ominous games of chess and several actual spiders make their long-legged presence known—but wouldn’t a properly cryptic Lisbeth have been better? Worse, she’s up against one of those generic madman-steals-a-nuke-app scenarios that went out with Roger Moore. (Ineffectual side characters include Get Out’s Lakeith Stanfield as an NSA agent and Sverrir Gudnason as this installment’s hero-journalist Mikael Blomkvist,

The best horror movies, just as major as the more reputable stuff, work on a primal level, beyond plot or words. They grab at your bowels. Dario Argento’s 1977 stunner Suspiria, an explosion of color, gore and vaulting stylistic ambition, is undoubtedly one of them. To know (and to love) the film is to appreciate Italian cinema in a deeper way, for its eeriness and hysteria. Still, it wasn’t quite a slam dunk when it was announced that a fellow Italian—even one as gifted as Call Me by Your Name’s Luca Guadagnino—would be re-imagining Suspiria, an obsession of his for decades. Guadagnino knows about getting good performances, and how to brew adult sexiness. But it’s a miracle that he seems to understand Argento’s witch-centric original on an almost molecular level—so much so that he can radically depart from it and still cast his own spell. Scripted by David Kajganich (who also did Guagadnino’s A Bigger Splash, itself an adaptation of the 1969 French thriller La Piscine), today’s Suspiria is a spectacularly strange affair, thrumming with wild blood and weird powers. It’s easily the classiest horror movie made in years, maybe ever, decked out in muted pinks and green marble, and scored, gorgeously, by Radiohead’s Thom Yorke, whose arpeggiating piano lines, rumbling synths and cooing vocals create a Can–like propulsiveness. Traditional horror fans won’t be pleased: Almost transgressively, Guadagnino has deprioritized the shocks, even the fear. But in their place, he’s pumped u