28 Years Later Review

28 Years Later is the cinematic equivalent of that one party you regret attending—chaotic energy, some intriguing characters, and at least one moment that haunts your dreams forever. The film tries to recapture the eerie brilliance of its predecessors but instead gives us a heavy dose of existential dread, shaky parenting, and… genital horror. Yep. We'll get there.

First, let’s address the tiny terror: Spike. Played by Alfie Williams, this kid had the survival skills of a potted plant and the sleeping habits of someone not being hunted by virus-ravaged rage zombies. He’s supposed to be the heart of the story, the reason to fight, the hope for the future—but honestly, his little scary ass should’ve stayed on his isolated island reading picture books and letting the grown-ups handle the trauma. I spent half the movie yelling, “How are you still alive?” and the other half hoping he’d trip a motion sensor and teach us all a lesson in natural selection.

Then there’s Aaron Taylor-Johnson, or at least we’re told it’s him, because this isn’t the chiseled leading man of past roles. No, this man is weather-beaten, grimy, and looks like he’s slept on concrete since the last movie ended. But you know what? It works. As Jamie, Spike’s dad, Taylor-Johnson gives full commitment to a character who’s been through it all—loss, survival, babysitting the worst travel companion imaginable—and he sells it. The ruggedness is earned. His beard has seen things.

Jodie Comer plays Isla, Spike’s mother, who’s hanging on to reality with sheer stubbornness and an ever-deepening look of “I did not sign up for this.” And Ralph Fiennes as Dr. Kelson? Equal parts demented and brilliant. His bones-to-speech ratio is unsettling, but in a cool, Victorian ghost-story sort of way.

Now, let’s talk about the actual nightmare fuel: Alpha, played by MMA fighter Chi Lewis-Parry. The new strain of the infected is embodied by a seven-foot-tall wall of muscle who sprints like he’s fueled by vengeance and protein shakes. And yes—he’s unclothed. Fully. Unnecessarily. The camera pulls no punches in showcasing every inch of this homicidal track star, and I now have a new phobia I didn’t need. The way he rips people apart like soggy paper? Traumatizing. The 4K flopping? Unforgivable.

So, did I love 28 Years Later? Not exactly. Did I survive it? Barely. It’s an oddly paced, sometimes brilliant, sometimes baffling entry that leaves you scratching your head—and maybe calling your therapist. Because in the end, when the most memorable thing is a rogue appendage… maybe the apocalypse needed a rewrite.

I give this film 3 out of 5 acorns only because I'm afraid of the Alpha.