Cannes Erupts As Nia DaCosta Butchers Legacy With Bloodstained ‘Bone Temple’ Reboot.

FORGET THE ZOMBIES—THE REAL MONSTERS ARE THE CHILDREN. A shocking new film is pushing the boundaries of cinematic depravity, not with mindless infected, but with a CULT OF TEENAGE PSYCHOPATHS modeled after Hollywood’s most infamous violent thrill-seekers. “28 Years Later: The Bone Temple” is a DANGEROUS descent, presenting ritualistic murder and live flaying as art, and forcing audiences to ask: HAS ENTERTAINMENT FINALLY GONE TOO FAR?

The film’s true villain isn’t a virus, but “Sir Lord Jimmy Crystal,” a SADISTIC SATANIST played by O’Connell, who leads a gang of murderous disciples all named Jimmy. Dubbed “The Fingers,” these giggling, rampaging youths are a direct and TERRIFYING homage to the monstrous droogs from “A Clockwork Orange.” In a scene of UNBLINKING BRUTALITY, director Nia DaCosta forces viewers to watch as these characters systematically string up innocent survivors and FLAY THEM ALIVE. The violence isn’t frenetic; it’s COLD, CALCULATED, and filmed with a matter-of-fact stillness that makes it feel all too real. This isn’t horror—it’s a SNUFF FILM masquerading as high art.

DaCosta abandons the frenetic style of the original for a STATELY, OMINOUS gaze, making us complicit in every agonizing moment. Meanwhile, the plot descends into ABSURDITY with a subplot featuring Ralph Fiennes’s doctor getting “blissfully high” with a tamed, nudist zombie named Samson—a stoner-hangout fantasy that MOCKS the gravity of its own apocalyptic setting. The message is clear: in a broken world, the only responses are either psychotic violence or drug-addled nihilism.

This film is a CULTURAL POISON, a deliberate experiment in audience desensitization that celebrates human evil as more “frightening” than any pandemic. It doesn’t just depict atrocity; it invites you to admire the craftsmanship of cruelty. We have handed our nightmares to a generation of filmmakers who no longer know the line between commentary and CELEBRATION. The true infection was never the rage virus—it’s the creative minds now feeding us this graphic despair and calling it genius.