Weapons

The culture war is sustained largely by reducing children to pawns, devices to deflect all criticism, stripping them of their agency and their voice. It's reaching a fever pitch, with the federal government and state administrations pushing various polices under the guise of protecting kids: book bans, barring girls from school sports simply for being transgender, outlawing abortion, bathroom bills, banning school vaccine mandates, and more. All of this while doing nothing to improve their well-being or overall health. For example, forcing women to carry a pregnancy to term was not paired with expanded support for child-rearing. Some states even directly prioritize their favorite Culture War issue over opportunities to address childhood hunger. For all their calls to "Think of the children!", they make no attempt to hide that kids were only ever a means to an end. Their true concern has only ever been the accrual of power and the shaping of society to benefit themselves and their peers.

But that is not clear at the beginning of Weapons. A prologue informs us that about a month ago in the town of Maybrook, PA, at 2:17 AM, seventeen of the eighteen kids in Ms. Justine Gandy's (Julia Garner) class rose out of bed, ran out of their houses, and disappeared into the dark, unheard from since. This footage is played over the opening credits in an eerie montage: children running out their front doors, arms outstretched and down, charging into the night, all captured on security footage and doorbell cams. Its accompaniment by VO from an unseen child (Scarlett Sher) lends it a fairy tale quality, as does the camera's refusal to look at Justine's face. While this premise has been the central point of the marketing, director Zach Creggar immediately signals that the mystery of what happened isn't the point. He doesn't leave us hanging, though; it's never forgotten, and the resolution of the film hinges on a deeper understanding of the events of that night. But he's uninterested in staring at the mystery and trying to unravel it, preferring to make us experience its repercussions.

Accordingly, we're dropped into Justine's world just as it's starting to fall apart. A meeting of the school's faculty and parents devolves into unfounded accusations that she knows something, that she's hiding something. Naturally, we empathize with her as the unearned hostility breeds anxiety and paranoia. It's constant, featuring harassment at home, a confrontation at a gas station, and nothing more than mild verbal support from the school principal, Marcus (Benedict Wong). In the middle of a particularly harrowing incident, there's a hard cut to a title card, and a shift in the story's perspective. It's again a few days after the mass disappearance, but now the focus is on Archer (Josh Brolin), whose child is one of the missing. This brings the structure into view: to fully investigate what happens to a town from which a large number of children disappear, we're going to be exposed to the ripples through the eyes of a bunch of its citizens. As that exploration unfolds, it expands in directions you're unlikely to have predicted, bringing in broader themes of lust for power and disregard for youths to afford yourself protection.

Creggar has constructed a fully functioning town populated by real people, making its quiet terror all the more impactful. Putting us in the shoes of a variety of characters ensures we get a grand tour of the ways the social fabric remains strained over four weeks later. It also means checking in on arcs we began in someone else's story and filling in the gaps of their existence, driving home the idea that everyone you interact with on a regular basis doesn't just blip out of existence when you're not around. The little details of their lives are part of what sell the tapestry being spun, making clear that not every second of their day is dedicated to wondering about those children.

It leads the narrative to feel somewhat fractured, though. We'll eventually spend time with six characters, so although the plot is incredibly clear, it frustrates the ability to get emotionally invested. Inching towards anthology, it nonetheless holds on to its stated premise as it slowly moves towards a resolution, even in the stretches where it's nothing more than a mention. Creggar correctly assumes the image he planted in your mind at the outset will not quickly fade, but it results in having to contend with viewers incorrectly latching on to it as the whole point.

He tries to mitigate this through entertainment value, leaning on his background as a co-founder of comedy troupe The Whitest Kids U' Know. While it usually aids in engagement, or at least keeping the audience suitably off balance such that the horror hits harder, he miscalculates in a few key moments, accidentally undercutting them. The climax is the most notable instance. It's designed to be upsettingly extreme yet suitably cathartic, not least because of what it represents to the town. The inherent absurdity mixed with a slapstick approach had my screening laughing up a storm, in a moment that should be tying the film's primary threads together in a resonant gut punch. Instead, it's severely blunted, aimed at making the audience feel good walking out of the theater instead of making a statement; while one can be extracted, it's more of an intellectual conclusion than an emotional one.

What makes it more disappointing is that for the rest of the film, almost every corner of the plot is focused on some sociopolitical idea or another. Be it school shootings, mob "justice", independent research, police violence and abuse of power, homelessness, or the dangers presented by a society obsessed with etiquette over calling out what's wrong, all are given enough time to make their mark. Each dovetails quite nicely with the broader theme of generational vandalism, of how the older generations fail the younger at the best of times, but more often very literally steal their future for short-term power. As such, the climax giving way to a cartoonish chase stands out like a sore thumb.

That isn't to imply the actors are not up to the task. Everyone in the cast is pulling off the sillier elements of the plot incredibly well, but none more than Amy Madigan. Despite only being in half of the film, she doesn't waste a single second of her time on screen, turning in easily the most game performance of all. She's absurd and upsetting and funny all at once, blending them into a unique but perfect cocktail that steals your gaze every single moment she enters the frame.

Imperfect as it may be, Weapons adds to the emerging identity of 2025 as the year of horror flicks that are ambitious, mid-sized, and successfully split the difference between populist and prestige. So long as horror remains one of the only sure bets at the box office, we can expect their calendar spanning glut to persist, as well as unestablished writers/directors to be guided in that direction in order to increase the chance of their screenplay getting produced. It seems to be the place for creatives who have a message or idea they want to put out there and want people to see. If that means every year will see a few films like Sinners or Bring Her Back or Together or Weapons, then I'm all for it.