‘Weapons’ Review: Zach Cregger Crafts a Horror Masterpiece That Explores the Core of Communal Trauma [A]

If you had told me, even just a few years ago, that one of the Whitest Kids U Know would be one of the most captivating and boundary-pushing genre filmmakers working today, I would have said you were insane. But in a post-Jordan Peele cinematic landscape, perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised. There’s no denying some of the most gifted comedians have a real knack for the macabre, and in 2022, Zach Cregger took the world by storm, blindsiding audiences with Barbarian – a batshit horror sensation in the vein of Sam Raimi, that seemingly came from obscurity. With little more than a teaser trailer and poster, it was the fervent word-of-mouth and shocking subversion of the genre that catapulted Barbarian into the horror canon, and Cregger into a surprising position as Hollywood’s latest horror auteur. But even Barbarian’s inventive thrills, unforgettable protagonist-shifting POV antics, the revival of Justin Long, devilish sense of humor, and surprisingly profound commentary on suburban decay and gentrification hardly began to hint at the brilliance yet to come…though, perhaps we should’ve seen it coming.

From the onset, Weapons ignited a seismic bidding war as studios raced to stake their claim on “the next Jordan Peele.” What truly set Zach Cregger apart was Peele’s own endorsement. When Monkeypaw’s joint bid with Universal lost to New Line Cinema, Peele’s frustration reportedly led him to sever ties with his management, further amplifying curiosity and suggesting that Weapons wasn’t merely the follow-up to Barbarian, but something truly special – an electrifying, topical horror film destined to shock audiences. And shocking doesn’t even begin to describe Weapons. With a level of confidence rarely seen from a filmmaker this early into their career, Cregger delivers a film so twisty, unpredictable, and thrilling that Peele’s indignation feels entirely justified. With Weapons, Cregger effortlessly sidesteps the sophomore genre slump, delivering a bona fide horror masterpiece, easily staking its claim as the best film of the year.

Weapons masterfully blends the parental paranoia and chilling suspense of Denis Villeneuve’s crime thriller Prisoners with the sprawling narrative complexity of Magnolia, peppered with absurdist humor reminiscent of the Coen Brothers. Weapons sharply critiques our society’s reaction to tragedy, particularly communal horrors centered around America’s gun epidemic, illustrating how our destructive sensationalism and how the obsessive pursuit of motive paralyzes genuine progress. Rather than confronting the root causes, we fixate on superficial details, endlessly cycling through blame and outrage, ultimately normalizing the objectively abnormal.

If Barbarian showcased Cregger’s command of structure and perspective, Weapons is a confident-as-fuck refinement of the form. Perspective takes center stage as Cregger deftly weaves together a Rashomon-esque tapestry consisting of six points of view ascribed to six different characters charting the ripple effects of a tragic mass disappearance of schoolchildren in the small suburban town of Maybrook. This mosaic not only represents the various stages of grief Cregger experienced while writing the film as a means to cope with the loss of a close friend, but also serves as a vessel to investigate the different attitudes and institutions in the fallout of a tragedy. What binds these stories isn’t just the central mystery, but how each character represents a failing in the systems meant to protect and nurture our children. To simply label Weapons as an allegory for school shootings is a tad reductive – Cregger is exploring the culture that perpetuates these issues, the rot at the core.

Central to this web is Justine Gandy (Julia Garner), a compassionate educator with a tendency to overstep her rigid duties who finds herself in the crosshairs of parental outrage and media frenzy, becoming the de facto scapegoat due to past mistakes in her personal life. In trying to make sense of a senseless situation, Justine becomes the town pariah, her flaws laid bare as Maybrook infers the worst of her, even if the actual crime has nothing to do with her past actions. As one character says, she’s either “negligent or complicit;” either way, she’s to blame. The inhumanity with which Justine is treated underscores the film’s criticism of a cultural inability to look inward. There’s a readiness to vilify, pass judgment, and blame, weaponizing grief to distract from genuine culpability because it’s easier; it offers an answer, not a solution. And that answer comes at the expense of Justine’s own emotions. She’s in complete disarray, feeling intense guilt over what happened and isn’t given the space to grieve along with the parents even though she arguably spends more time with their children on a day to day basis. In her own words, under mounting pressure, she says, “I love those kids.” We’ve seen Garner’s impressive range, exploring her rise as a ruthless crime boss in Ozark to the supernaturally tormented Silver Surfer in The Fantastic Four: First Steps, both of which take advantage of her deceptive appearance. Garner carries an inherent intensity balanced by an unassuming, delicate stature, and Cregger expertly utilizes this duality to craft a nuanced portrait of a flawed, passive person who recognizes the strength they have within themselves and channels that into being a force for good. While initially her grief turned guilt causes her to turn to the bottle, that love becomes a motivator to do something, she owes it to her kids, as she takes the initiative looking in places the police won’t and challenging the abnormalities that have been afforded one too many excuses. Justine’s transformation is indicative of the kind of public servant she’s been all along, however instead of remaining stifled by the broken system in place, she (rightfully) oversteps allowing Garner to turn in a remarkably honest and powerful performance.

Standing in opposition to Justine is Archer (Josh Brolin), a grieving father desperate for answers, who spends his nights falling asleep in the bed of his missing son. His actions, his frustration, his anger are directed at Justine, at the situation, yes, but have more to do with himself and the guilt he carries inside. The guilt of being an emotionally distant dad who never really expressed his love for his son. Brolin depicts Archer’s torment with such intensity and heartbreak. Though no stranger to playing father figures, this is certainly the star’s most honest and compelling effort yet, coming part and parcel with the film’s best f-bomb drop. Through Archer, we see how his hyperfixation on the same footage, the tangible, the act of his son running away, only causes him to run in circles. He’s not really open to other perspectives because it doesn’t align with the limited facts. A practical man looking for rational answers in the wrong place, poring over the same footage over and over again, and while he’s doing more than the police, his motivation is stunted by a one-track mind. He’s only viewing the situation one way. Acting irrational and purporting to be rational. Perhaps it’s only human nature to try to intellectualize and rationalize an irrational response, but it drives a wedge between us and the very people who could be helping. Again, the obsession over the why obfuscates our ability to solve the problem and prevent it from happening again.

Law enforcement, personified by Paul (Alden Ehrenreich), is depicted as tragically ineffectual, consumed by personal crises and professional apathy. Paul’s self-destructive behavior and violent outbursts, covered up by higher-ups protecting their reputation, underscore a corrupt police system ill-equipped and unwilling to meaningfully address societal wounds, instead doubling down on the petty, irrelevant misdemeanors they can control. Ehrenreich’s distraught expressions and employing a similar pettiness as his Senate aide from Oppenheimer shape a character completely unraveling at the seams in the most comically incompetent way possible highlight why the Solo actor continues to be a director’s secret weapon. Paul’s actions encapsulate the film’s broader message: societal institutions selfishly prioritize image over genuine progress, thereby perpetuating tragedies like the one Maybrook is experiencing.

Meanwhile, the film’s most compelling character, James (a scene-stealing Austin Abrams) – a troubled addict and frequent victim of the community’s self-serving negligence – tragically embodies Maybrook’s abandonment of the vulnerable. This willingness to let people self-destruct is indicative of how a classroom of kids could go missing. He exemplifies how stigmatization and neglect transform individuals into weapons themselves. While divulging too much of his or Paul’s secrets would ruin the fun, James’ storyline painfully exposes the systemic cycle of neglect and violence embedded within the fabric of the community. A system disinterested in rehabilitation so much as it is band-aid solutions.

Then there’s Marcus (Benedict Wong), the principal unwilling to confront uncomfortable truths about his students’ welfare, who represents the insidious passivity that enables horrors like the disappearance of Ms. Gandy’s class. His willful ignorance, fear of negative attention, and unwillingness to challenge glaring red flags reflect a broader selfishness that endangers future generations. Even when confronted with the answers, he remains in denial. So much of this film functions as a response to how, at least in American culture, we’ve gotten comfortable normalizing objectively abnormal or awful things, and the people ultimately on the front lines of this societal paralysis are our children. They’re soldiers in a domestic war for prolonging the comfort, youth, and excess of our parents and our parents’ parents. Cregger understands this and brilliantly employs powerful imagery, such as the chilling echo of the Napalm Girl as the children flee their homes at the witching hour. His “Chekov’s Gun” isn’t hiding under the table; it’s staring us dead in the face, and yet we choose to ignore it. That, mixed with an environment that allows troubled home lives to fester, is a lethal clip waiting to unload.

There’s something unnerving about the suburbs and the banality of it that Cregger weaponizes against us. Similar to Barbarian, he turns our familiarity with these seemingly safe places of comfort into our worst nightmares. Perhaps it’s the fact that suburbia in general is an unsettling facade used to cover up and seclude people from the realities of the world, leading to dissociation. That dissociation becomes the root cause of the tragedies that befall places like Maybrook and the inability to reconcile with the possibility of evil that has wormed its way into a place thought to be incorruptible. The irony of this is that all one has to do is take a closer look around and they’d recognize that things are not as idyllic as they appear. Gone is the allure of Suburbia, if there ever was one, and in its place exists a decaying haven of isolation and entitlement, lacking in empathy, tearing itself apart from the inside. You have teachers on trial for doing their job, affectionless parents, relapsing alcoholic cops who take their self-hatred out on any perp they happen to cross paths with, children bullied and under great duress at home from an abusive relative, and/or irresponsible parents. This is hardly an ideal place to live. It’s a pressure cooker of everything wrong in America. The abstraction of normality writ large. The paranoia that permeates a community and the fear stoked by sensationalist media, the Fox Newsification of the domestic. The real horror – the perpetrators, the leeches – are the ones we least suspect, and yet they paradoxically couldn’t be more obvious if given an ounce of thought. We live in a society directed by self-serving ghouls who devour that which we hold most dear, scarring the rest of us with irreversible trauma as we furiously scramble to reclaim our lives. “I failed you,” one character says, and that’s the tragedy of Weapons; it’s a story about how we fail our kids even when we have every opportunity to right the ship, to change the status quo.

With Weapons, Zach Cregger emerges definitively as a vital cinematic voice, boldly confronting uncomfortable truths and societal hypocrisies. While its core ideas are bleak and unnerving, similar to Barbarian, he manages to infuse enough wit and situational humor paired with Lynchian send-ups and the best The Shining homage I’ve ever seen to help the medicine go down. A chilling masterclass in suspense and POV storytelling that exposes a culture with dwindling empathy that tolerates dehumanizing acts. Lingering long after the credits have rolled, Weapons is a haunting reminder of our complicity in perpetuating horrors we claim to oppose and an unsettling reflection of the times we inhabit.

Grade: A

Warner Bros and New Line Cinema will release Weapons only in theaters on August 8.

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Griffin Schiller

Griffin Schiller is a Los Angeles based critic and the founder and host of FilmSpeak, a YouTube channel dedicated to providing more thoughtful insight and analysis behind the entertainment you love.

He is also a regular contributor and podcast host at The Playlist and now the lovely folks over at AwardsWatch. A versatile media journalist Griffin has interviewed some of the industry's leading creatives, reported on breaking news, and attended film festivals and other exclusive industry events.

Griffin is the world's biggest Nolan fan (eat your heart out Ryan), loves James Bond, and has some of the wildest takes out there...like seriously, he's the weirdo who actually loves The Amazing Spider-Man 2.

You can find Griffin on YouTube at www.youtube.com/@FilmSpeak, Twitter: @griffschiller, Instagram: @griffschiller

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