In the last few years—especially in 2025—film has quietly shifted in a noticeable way. More and more movies are choosing to take place in the actual present, as opposed to leaning into a timeless feel. For a long stretch, filmmakers seemed to prefer ambiguity—stories where the era didn’t matter, where phones barely existed, and where modern life felt optional. But the world changed so suddenly and so drastically that avoiding the present started to feel impossible. COVID didn’t just disrupt our routines; it reshaped everything from politics to social behaviour to how people consume information. Social media became louder, public discourse got more hostile, and anxieties that were already simmering suddenly had nowhere to hide. So it makes sense that movies in 2025 would finally start acknowledging the moment we’re all living through.
One of the clearest examples is One Battle After Another. It’s Paul Thomas Anderson’s first film since Punch-Drunk Love to fully exist in the modern world, and he doesn’t tiptoe around anything. The film openly addresses white supremacist groups, the treatment of immigrants in the U.S., and even incorporates modern music—like “Mo Bamba”—without irony. PTA also includes a non-binary character as a meaningful part of the story, not as comic relief or background noise. These might seem like small decisions, but they signal a larger shift: filmmakers aren’t trying to blend the cultural landscape into the background or pretend it’s not there. They’re facing it directly.
Eddington takes a slightly different approach. Technically it’s a period piece since it takes place in 2020, but it captures the emotional atmosphere of the early 2020s better than almost anything. The film leans into the confusion, exhaustion, and strange energy that defined that period. It doesn’t need to be subtle, because the time itself wasn’t subtle. There was a constant sense of things spiralling slightly out of control, and Eddington taps into that feeling in a way that still resonates today. Even though it isn’t set in the “current” moment, it helps explain how we ended up here.
Then there’s Bugonia, which examines a different kind of modern reality—one shaped by online echo chambers and the growth of male-centered podcasts that convince insecure men they’re enlightened when they’re actually being manipulated. The film digs into that mindset in a way that’s uncomfortable but honest. It also touches on workplace exploitation, showing how corporate structures take advantage of ordinary workers. These issues aren’t new, but people are more aware of them now, partly because the pandemic forced everyone to re-evaluate their relationship with work. Of course, since it’s a Yorgos Lanthimos film, everything eventually spirals into strange, unexpected territory. However, its core ideas feel grounded in the last few years. It’s hard to imagine this film existing before 2020, at least not in the form we have now.
Materialists approaches the present from a more personal angle. It looks at modern dating through a cynical, almost mechanical lens, capturing how strange and tedious everything feels now. There’s this odd mix of connection and detachment—people are constantly reachable, yet emotionally distant. Social media, dating apps, and consumer culture all blend together into something repetitive and exhausting. The film has this coldness to it that feels very true to the moment, even if it isn’t the most profound film ever made.
With After the Hunt, the focus shifts again. The film deals with sexual assault and the way allegations circulate in today’s world, but it also examines a specific type of person who has become more visible lately: the confident, self-proclaimed intellectual who speaks in circles yet rarely says anything meaningful. People who flex their moral or intellectual superiority, but crumble when faced with genuine conflict or when their own actions contradict their carefully crafted reputations. These characters exist everywhere now — in academia, in online discourse, in social circles — and the film captures them with almost uncomfortable accuracy. It’s a film that understands how modern communication works, and how fragile performative intellectualism can be.
A smaller example worth mentioning is Sentimental Value, which takes aim at the modern film industry itself—specifically the dominance of streaming and how theatrical runs are no longer guaranteed. It’s not the central point of the movie, but its inclusion adds to the growing trend of films acknowledging the realities of the current media landscape.
What ties all these films together is their willingness to exist in the present rather than hover around it. They show smartphones, laptops, TikTok references, digital workspaces, and the kind of conversations people are actually having. None of it feels like a gimmick. It’s just the world as it is. And after years of movies trying to avoid looking “too dated,” it’s refreshing to see filmmakers embrace the specifics of the moment—even if the moment is messy.
Cinema in 2025 feels different because the world feels different. These films aren’t chasing timelessness; they’re wrestling with the immediate. And that honesty, even when it’s uncomfortable, might be what makes this era of filmmaking so interesting. They’re not pretending the modern world is simple or elegant or coherent. They’re just acknowledging that this is where we are, and that cinema can engage with the present without losing its artistry.
Liam Kinghorn (born January 26 2005) is a Finnish filmmaker, film critic, and social media content creator. He began posting film-related content on social media at the age of 14. At the age of 17, he released his first ever short film, Fear and Ambition. Kinghorn’s films often explore themes of loneliness and despair.
TikTok: @theliamkinghorn, Letterboxd: @kinghorn, YouTube: @theliamkinghorn, Instagram: @kinghorncinema & @theliamkinghorn
