CrimsonRaptor

George A. Romero's return to the zombie genre through the lens of found footage technology represents both an ambitious attempt at modernization and a stark reminder of how certain filmmaking approaches can dilute rather than enhance established storytelling strengths. This fifth installment in the Dead series trades the master's signature wide compositions and methodical pacing for the jerky, handheld aesthetic that defined horror cinema in the mid-2000s, creating an experience that feels more constrained than liberated by its technological conceit.

The cinematography, while technically competent within the found footage framework, lacks the visual poetry that made Romero's previous works so compelling. The camera work, by necessity of the format, becomes claustrophobic and disorienting in ways that serve the narrative but sacrifice the broader social commentary that typically elevates zombie cinema beyond mere gore. When the film does achieve moments of visual impact, they feel accidental rather than deliberately crafted, as if the handheld aesthetic stumbled upon effectiveness rather than pursuing it.

Michelle Morgan delivers the film's strongest performance as Debra, the girlfriend of the documentarian whose growing disillusionment with her boyfriend's obsessive filming mirrors the audience's own frustration with the format's limitations. Her evolution from supportive partner to moral voice provides the narrative with its most compelling character arc, though even her committed performance struggles against the constraints of constantly justifying why the camera keeps rolling during increasingly dangerous situations.

Josh Close, as the filmmaker Jason, embodies the central tension between documentation and participation that drives the plot, but his character's single-minded dedication to recording everything becomes more irritating than insightful as the story progresses. The supporting cast, including Shawn Roberts and Amy Lalonde, perform adequately within their limited roles, though the found footage format prevents them from developing the kind of memorable characters that populated Romero's earlier works.

The film's exploration of media obsession and the disconnect between experiencing life and documenting it feels particularly relevant, yet the execution lacks the subtle allegory that made Night of the Living Dead a cultural touchstone. Instead of allowing these themes to emerge naturally from the horror, the narrative becomes heavy-handed in its critique of our camera-obsessed culture, undermining its own message by falling victim to the very superficiality it seeks to criticize.

Chad Archibald's "It Feeds" emerges as a technically competent but ultimately underwhelming entry in the supernatural horror canon, delivering polished craftsmanship that cannot quite mask its derivative storytelling. The film operates within familiar possession territory, following reluctant psychic Cynthia Winstone and her teenage daughter Jordan as they confront a malevolent entity that transfers between victims like a parasitic curse. While Archibald demonstrates clear directorial intent and visual sophistication, the narrative unfolds with predictable beats that rarely surprise or genuinely unsettle. Ashley Greene anchors the film with a measured performance as Cynthia, effectively conveying the burden of psychic sensitivity and maternal protection. Her portrayal balances skepticism with growing dread, though the character's arc feels constrained by formulaic writing. Ellie O'Brien brings youthful determination to Jordan, creating believable chemistry with Greene that sells their mother-daughter dynamic. Shawn Ashmore, while underutilized, delivers solid work as the desperate father Randall, his performance carrying emotional weight despite limited screen time. Cinematographer Jeff Maher crafts visually striking compositions that compartmentalize the narrative space effectively, using tight framing to suggest Cynthia's hyper-focused perspective. The film's atmosphere benefits from this approach, creating claustrophobic intimacy within domestic settings. The creature design by Daniella Pluchino deserves recognition for its practical effectiveness, withstanding close examination without losing impact. Production values remain consistently professional throughout, with makeup and sound design supporting the horror elements competently. However, these technical achievements cannot elevate a screenplay that follows well-worn possession tropes without meaningful innovation. The film's central mystery lacks genuine intrigue, dispensing revelations at a sluggish pace that tests patience rather than building suspense. Character development remains surface-level despite strong performances, with supporting figures serving primarily as plot mechanisms rather than fully realized individuals. The horror elements, while professionally executed, rarely achieve the visceral impact or psychological depth necessary to distinguish the film within its crowded genre."It Feeds" represents solid craftsmanship applied to unremarkable material, resulting in a viewing experience that satisfies basic genre expectations without transcending them. The film succeeds as competent horror programming but fails to justify its existence beyond providing familiar thrills to undemanding audiences.

At its core, Baaghi is a collision of passion and fury, of melodrama framed through bone-crunching combat and a love story dragged into the heart of chaos. Yet for all its visual bravado, it sits in the middle ground of spectacle and storytelling, unable to fully reconcile the two, earning a fair but middling 5/10.

Visually, the film positions itself as a kinetic experiment, attempting to marry Bollywood romance with South Asian martial arts cinema. The cinematography thrives in its grander moments, especially in its humid, rain-slicked settings that lend both grit and atmosphere. One recurring visual motif, the interplay of water and violence, is staged with energy that lingers in the memory. However, the visual grammar often leans on repetition: slow-motion mid-air kicks and stylized impacts lose their shock value when deployed too often, undercutting their intended intensity.

Performances anchor the film more than the writing. Shraddha Kapoor gives the most engaging turn, balancing innocence with streaks of defiance in a role that otherwise risks being overshadowed by endless fight sequences. She becomes the emotional thread, her vulnerability and small rebellions offering a needed reprieve from the testosterone-heavy narrative. Tiger Shroff, while physically impressive, struggles with emotional range, his presence more a vehicle for stunts than character depth. Still, his athleticism cannot be denied; he commits to every action beat with conviction, his body becoming an extension of the choreography. Sudheer Babu, as the antagonist, injects moments of menace, though the writing paints him more as an obstacle than a fully realized figure.

Thematically, Baaghi teeters between romantic melodrama and full-throttle martial arts showcase. Yet the balance is fragile, tipping frequently toward spectacle at the cost of storytelling coherence. By its conclusion, the film leaves the viewer caught between admiration for its kinetic bravado and fatigue from its lack of nuance. It is an ambitious hybrid, but one that lands in the realm of "serviceable but unremarkable," remembered more for isolated images than for its overall impact.