Weapons Review: An Expansive Horror Narrative That Falls Short in Emotional Impact

      For as long as we've been aware of Weapons, writer-director Zach Cregger’s highly anticipated follow-up to his 2022 darkly humorous splatter hit Barbarian, it has been repeatedly described as the supernatural horror genre's grand equivalent to Magnolia—an elevator pitch that may not be the most marketable but certainly grabs the attention of cinephiles. Cregger has not attempted to refute this comparison, stating that PTA’s operatic Los Angeles tale is his primary inspiration. Coupled with a mysterious marketing campaign, the film arrives on screens veiled in secrecy and with a vague promise of a bold vision from a rising filmmaker. However, if Weapons does indeed take a sharp turn, it is because Cregger has successfully captured the sprawling, ambitious, genre-crossing essence of that ensemble drama but fails to delve into the emotional complexities of his flawed characters, often avoiding their moral ambiguities. While the film is entertaining, it lacks depth in relation to its charged themes; it resembles a trick, maintaining a deliberate distance until one can figure out how its parts connect rather than engaging with the individuals involved.

      Cregger has claimed that Weapons is a personal narrative that should not be interpreted as a political allegory. This is a bold assertion, especially when the film immediately immerses us in a town hall reminiscent of those seen after school shootings. Here, we meet Justine Grandy, a schoolteacher entangled in conspiracy theories, believed to be the "witch" responsible for the overnight disappearance of almost all her students. Julia Garner portrays Justine in a way that reveals more than the script does; on the page, she is presented as an enigma early on, reflecting Cregger’s choice to make all characters shrouded in mystery until the larger picture becomes clear.

      Garner's performance (which ranks among her best since The Assistant) conveys the nuances of a recovering addict who finds purpose in her work, from which the school principal (Benedict Wong) insists she take a leave. However, the script deliberately portrays her as an unreliable narrator; her understandable nightmares following the children's disappearance are depicted as hallucinations, highlighting her unstable condition. This misdirection is evident, and this introductory chapter—which is the longest in Weapons—suggests Cregger’s attempt to imitate the unsettling intrigue of Barbarian’s opening text.

      The most significant issue with Weapons is that we fail to sense the true weight of the tragedy and its impact on the community beyond that first meeting and the sporadic glimpses of missing posters. The only parent we truly engage with is Josh Brolin’s Archer Graff, presumably named for the charts and graphs he uses to trace the children's disappearances after scrutinizing extensive Doorbell-cam footage. A compelling film could be made exploring how grief can transform us into existential detectives seeking answers for incomprehensible tragedies—that film is called The Shrouds, where David Cronenberg immerses you in the protagonist’s mind, grappling with why people in emotional turmoil often embrace conspiracy theories. Cregger permits us to glimpse Archer’s grief only once, during an elaborate dream sequence, and if you’re like me, you might be distracted by the presence of a Mad Max: Fury Road poster on his 8-year-old son’s bedroom wall. Archer’s emotional turmoil—and that of any other character—loses its complexity as Cregger prioritizes the mystery, even at the expense of adding depth or relatable resonance to the individuals ensnared by it.

      In subsequent segments, this avoidance of anything too provocative becomes more evident as the focus shifts to Paul Morgan (Alden Ehrenreich), Justine’s ex-boyfriend who exposes himself to complications while trying to suppress footage of him assaulting a handcuffed suspect (Austin Abrams). The presence of a rare instance of police violence between white officer and white victim suggests some self-awareness from Cregger—that to depict anything else would necessitate engaging in discussions about systemic racism, a subject he appears too hesitant to tackle. Given how adeptly Barbarian balanced its unflinching social commentary with genre excitement, it’s disappointing to see him take a more cautious approach here, with themes introduced similarly to school shootings and far-right conspiracy theories—through imagery that invites you to make connections, though the narrative lacks the courage to directly address and weave them in.

      Weapons shines when it fully embraces dark fairytale elements. The opening and closing monologues from a child recounting the tragedy resemble not so much the introductory voiceover of Magnolia but rather a ghost story told around a campfire, with the final line serving as a haunting closing thought for recent horror films, reframing the tale as one passed down through generations. The arrival of Amy Madigan as Gladys, the aunt of the only boy in Justine’s class who didn’t vanish, taps into fairytale tropes of the deceptive guardian harboring sinister intentions. Madigan brings in much-needed levity, and her mid-film introduction shifts