FUZE. Given the death of concise action-oriented picture-stories currently on offer, the promise of such a thing, particularly with movie stars in the cast and a reliable director in charge, is even more compelling than it once was. Factoring in the presence of explosives and a daring heist in the middle of a major metropolitan area — well, they had me before the title card. And while Fuze may not emerge as one of the classics of its day (or even its genre), its mere existence, competency and scene-to-scene hold on the viewer’s attention makes it a rousing success, even considering the paucity of competition and diminished standards in the field.
Directed by David Mackenzie (Relay, 2024; Hell or High Water, 2016), Fuze opens with the discovery of an unexploded World War II era bomb embedded in the earth of a central London jobsite. As the Metropolitan police tape off and evacuate the area, Maj. Will Tranter (Aaron Taylor-Johnson), an explosives disposal expert with a troubled military history, is brought in to assess and disarm the situation. Meanwhile, a crew of unnamed thieves sets to work burrowing into the vault of a neighborhood bank, where one of them (Theo James) has clearly targeted a specific item.
Meanwhile, Tranter and his unit, in constant communication with police Chief Superintendent Zuzana Greenfield (Gugu Mbatha-Raw) work against a literal ticking clock (and a certain amount of infighting) to prevent a municipal disaster. The heisters betray their location, triggering a harried escape and subsequent conflict with the heavies who financed their operation. The rest comes after a rather precipitous turn, so I’ll spare the details.
Like Relay, Fuze demonstrates a remarkable ability on the part of Mackenzie (credit to screenwriter Ben Hopkins) to bring tension and motion to confined spaces, while adding something of substance to the action-thriller canon. There are moments when the movie’s insistence on concision and pace undercuts some of the gravity we might have felt, given a more granular examination of the history and motivations of the main characters. Ultimately, the decision to favor speed over meditation is a satisfying one, though, as the movie sticks to its race-like rhythm from start to finish, yielding a finely crafted, consistently engaging if somewhat lightweight final product. R. 98M. STREAMING.
MOTOR CITY. Because the list never seems to get any shorter, I still haven’t found the time to watch Old Henry (2021) and, as such, this marks my first experience with the work of the (incredibly named) director Potsy Ponciroli. It has been on my radar for a while, both because it is a 1970s Detroit-set crime picture and because (like so many of us) I find the somewhat unlikely ascendance of Alan Ritchson to quasi-superstardom very satisfying. So, fair warning.
But a second disclaimer is in order (one that might benefit some of the impatient, insufferable trolls among us): Motor City almost entirely eschews dialogue, certainly of any sort of expository nature, instead adhering almost fanatically to some of the most fundamental precepts of cinema-craft — as in: show, don’t tell. And so, with a wall-to-wall soundtrack of score and AM Gold, Ponciroli (with a screenplay by Chad St. John) reels out a lurid, archetypal revenge tale replete with gleefully, exquisitely enacted onscreen violence.
John Miller (Ritchson), a factory worker released from the terms of his probation in the movie’s early moments, has fallen in love. The problem is his girl (Shailene Woodley) had, until their meeting, been in some sort of (toxic) relationship with a goggle-eyed coke lord (Ben Foster). In retribution, said coke-lord squeezes a corrupt cop (Pablo Schreiber) to send our hero to prison for a quarter-century. This clearly won’t do, so Miller enlists the aid of his fellow-veteran buddies to get him out, get her back and get his pound of flesh.
One can hardly call this experimental, faithful as it is to the tenets of its medium, but Motor City just about mounts to the level of an art-film, albeit one born in the grindhouse. The three primary leads, especially Foster — in a performance that should merit consideration for awards — put on a clinic in physical acting, enlivening a gritty, graphic-novel style phantasmagoria with palpable rage and sorrow, while around them the neon-lit, garbage-strewn streets of Detroit pulse with impending mayhem.
Because it plays to our expectations just as it defies them, I worry that Motor City may struggle to find the audience it deserves. Being a contrarian, though, I might feel just as satisfied with it remaining a niche favorite because there is something illicit, something a little wrong, in its discordant sublimity. It’s not for everyone, but those of us who get it have something new to talk about. R. 103M. PRIME.
John J. Bennett (he/him) is a movie nerd who loves a good car chase.
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For showtimes, visit catheaters.com and minortheatre.com.
This article appears in Burger Week 2026.