Recent Movies on AMC+
Looking for fresh cinematic experiences to stream right now? AMC+ continues to expand its library with compelling recent releases that showcase some of the best independent and contemporary filmmaking from the last five years. Whether you're drawn to character-driven dramas, pulse-pounding thrillers, or thought-provoking narratives, the newest movies on AMC+ offer something for every taste. This streaming platform has become a go-to destination for film enthusiasts seeking quality over quantity, curating a selection of critically acclaimed titles that might have flown under the radar during their theatrical runs. From gripping psychological studies to atmospheric genre pieces, the recently added films on AMC Plus demonstrate the platform's commitment to bringing subscribers distinctive voices and bold storytelling. Our regularly updated guide helps you navigate the latest additions to the service, highlighting the most noteworthy recent movies worth your time. Skip the endless scrolling and discover your next great watch among these handpicked selections that represent the diverse, innovative spirit of modern cinema available to stream on AMC+ today.
Adam Elliot delivers another masterful stop-motion achievement with this deeply personal story of Grace Pudel, a lonely Australian woman whose collection of snails becomes both comfort and metaphor for her isolated existence. The tactile beauty of Elliot's claymation combines with Sarah Snook's exceptional voice performance to create a character portrait that's simultaneously heartbreaking and darkly funny. The film explores Grace's troubled childhood, her complex relationship with her twin brother, and the various eccentrics who drift through her life with unflinching honesty and unexpected tenderness. Elliot's trademark blend of melancholy and humor never tips into sentimentality, even as the emotional stakes rise. The snail imagery works on multiple levels without feeling forced, and the craftsmanship on display is simply stunning. This is animated filmmaking for adults that trusts its audience with difficult material and rewards that trust magnificently.
Juliette Binoche stars as Eugénie, a gifted cook working alongside renowned gourmet Dodin Bouffant (Benoît Magimel) in late 19th-century France, where their decades-long professional partnership has blossomed into profound love. Director Tran Anh Hung transforms this period romance into a sensory meditation on craft, devotion, and the artistry of cooking. Extended sequences show the preparation of elaborate meals in meticulous detail—the film trusts viewers to find drama in the careful reduction of sauces and the perfect timing of a roast. Binoche and Magimel share wonderful chemistry, conveying a mature relationship built on mutual respect and shared passion for their work. The film's patient pacing allows flavors to develop like the dishes themselves, creating an immersive experience that celebrates expertise and dedication. It's a gorgeous, elegantly structured film that understands how creating something beautiful for others can be the deepest expression of love.
In this tender drama, a Chicago construction worker named Dan (Keith Kupferer) stumbles into a community theater production while dealing with unprocessed grief, and finds unexpected healing through performance and human connection. Directors Kelly O'Sullivan and Alex Thompson craft an intimate character study that understands how creativity and community can offer pathways through trauma without oversimplifying the process or offering easy resolutions. Kupferer delivers a beautifully restrained performance as a man who has shut down emotionally, and watching him slowly open up through theatrical exercises and relationships with fellow cast members feels genuinely earned rather than manipulative. The film wisely spends time with the theater troupe itself, allowing supporting characters to register as full human beings rather than mere catalysts for Dan's journey. O'Sullivan and Thompson, making their co-directing debut, demonstrate remarkable sensitivity to both the specific textures of grief and the particular magic of amateur theater—how vulnerable adults become when they attempt something creative together. "Ghostlight" never pushes too hard for emotional effect; instead, it trusts that small moments of recognition and acceptance will accumulate into something powerful. The result is a lovely, quietly devastating film about finding your way back to life through art and community, performed with uncommon authenticity.
This exploration of obsession, voyeurism, and the dark corners of the internet follows a young woman fixated on the trial of a serial killer, raising uncomfortable questions about our cultural fascination with true crime and violence. Director Pascal Plante crafts a deliberately cold and clinical aesthetic that mirrors the disturbing subject matter, with Juliette Gariépy delivering an unnervingly composed performance as Kelly-Anne, whose interest in the case goes far beyond casual observation. The film examines how technology enables new forms of dangerous fixation while maintaining an ambiguous stance toward its protagonist—we're never quite sure what drives her or where her moral boundaries lie. Plante refuses to sensationalize the violence, instead focusing on the psychological spaces his characters inhabit and the ethical void they navigate. The minimalist approach and measured pacing won't appeal to everyone, but those willing to engage with its challenging themes will find a thoughtful meditation on complicity, spectatorship, and the human capacity for darkness.
The remarkable rise and calculated destruction of sex researcher Shere Hite forms the basis of this essential documentary about how society punishes women who challenge sexual orthodoxy. Director Nicole Newnham chronicles how Hite's groundbreaking 1976 book "The Hite Report" revolutionized understanding of female sexuality by actually asking thousands of women about their experiences, only to see Hite herself subjected to brutal public evisceration when her findings contradicted male assumptions. Through archival footage and interviews, Newnham reconstructs both Hite's radical methodology and the misogynistic backlash that ultimately drove her from America. The film excels at contextualizing Hite's work within second-wave feminism while demonstrating its continued relevance to contemporary conversations about women's autonomy and pleasure. What emerges is a portrait of a brilliant, difficult, deeply principled woman whose insights were deliberately suppressed because they threatened entrenched power structures. The documentary serves as both rehabilitation of Hite's reputation and sobering reminder of how thoroughly society can erase inconvenient female voices. It's intelligent, infuriating, and absolutely necessary viewing.
Matt Johnson directs this sharply entertaining dramatization of how two Canadian engineering students built a telecommunications empire before spectacularly losing it all. Jay Baruchel stars as Mike Lazaridis, the brilliant but socially awkward inventor of the BlackBerry, while Glenn Howerton plays Jim Balsillie, the aggressive businessman who propels the company to dizzying heights through questionable methods. Johnson himself appears as Doug Fregin, Lazaridis's loyal but immature co-founder. The film chronicles BlackBerry's rapid rise from a scrappy Waterloo startup to Silicon Valley titan, then its equally dramatic collapse as iPhone and Android devices rendered it obsolete. Johnson shoots with a frenetic, almost documentary-like energy that captures both the creative chaos of the early days and the corporate dysfunction that followed success. The performances are uniformly excellent, with Howerton particularly magnetic as the ethically flexible Balsillie. BlackBerry works as both a cautionary tale about innovation and corporate culture and a surprisingly funny character study of flawed visionaries who changed how the world communicates.
Director Jang Jae-hyun delivers an intricately plotted supernatural thriller that blends Korean shamanism, geomancy, and family curses into something genuinely unsettling. The film follows a team of spiritual practitioners—a shaman, a funeral director, and a geomancer—hired to relocate a wealthy family's ancestral grave, only to unleash something malevolent. Choi Min-sik anchors the ensemble with his commanding presence, while Kim Go-eun brings fierce determination to her role as the young shaman. What distinguishes "Exhuma" from typical horror fare is Jang's serious engagement with Korean spiritual traditions and the way he builds dread through careful investigation rather than cheap scares. The film's structure reveals information gradually, letting each discovery raise the stakes and deepen the mystery. The production design authentically recreates the rituals and settings, grounding even the most supernatural elements in cultural specificity. It's an ambitious, atmospheric thriller that respects both its genre and its cultural roots, delivering genuine chills alongside thoughtful exploration of historical trauma.
Two brothers in rural Argentina discover a possessed man whose demonic infection threatens to spread, forcing them into a desperate fight for survival as evil literally lurks around every corner. Director Demián Rugna delivers relentlessly bleak horror that earns its dread through atmosphere and genuinely disturbing imagery rather than cheap jump scares. The film's mythology around demonic possession feels fresh, with rules and consequences that make the threat feel tangible and terrifying. Rugna doesn't flinch from showing the horrific impact on children and animals, creating genuine unease that lingers. The performances from Ezequiel Rodríguez and Demián Salomón as the brothers ground the supernatural horror in believable human desperation and moral compromise. The film's nihilistic worldview won't appeal to everyone, and some sequences push into genuinely upsetting territory. However, for horror fans seeking something that doesn't pull punches, this delivers visceral scares and an oppressive atmosphere of dread that few contemporary horror films achieve. It's dark, uncompromising, and genuinely frightening.
Emilie Blichfeldt helms this Danish fantasy-comedy that flips the Cinderella story to follow Elvira, the overlooked stepsister who discovers she might be more central to the fairy tale than anyone realized. The film takes a meta approach to classic stories, giving agency and dimension to a character usually relegated to comic villainy. It's a clever premise that allows for both humor and surprisingly thoughtful commentary on how narratives shape our understanding of heroes and villains. The Danish production brings charm and a slightly different sensibility than typical Hollywood fairy tale revisionism. While it doesn't reinvent the genre completely, it offers enough fresh perspective and heart to justify its existence. The younger cast handles the material with energy, and the production design effectively evokes storybook aesthetics on a modest budget. It's an entertaining watch for families seeking something a bit different.
A blind woman who possesses psychometric abilities receives a mysterious wooden box following her twin sister's murder, setting in motion a supernatural mystery that cleverly plays with perception and reality. Writer-director Damian McCarthy crafts an impressively atmospheric Irish horror film that uses its rural setting and practical effects to create genuine unease without relying on cheap scares. Carolyn Bracken delivers a compelling performance navigating her character's disability and supernatural gift, while the film's structure keeps you questioning what's real as it weaves between timelines and perspectives. McCarthy demonstrates remarkable control over tone and pacing, building dread through suggestion and shadow rather than explicit violence, though when the horror does arrive, it's memorably unsettling. The cinematography makes brilliant use of darkness and negative space, creating a world where threats could lurk anywhere. This is smart, patient horror filmmaking that respects its audience's intelligence and proves that low-budget doesn't mean low-quality when craft and imagination are present.
A French horror film shot in one continuous take, this audacious experiment from director David Moreau follows a nightmarish evening that begins with a young man's party drug use and spirals into genuinely unsettling territory. The technical achievement alone is remarkable—the 88-minute single shot follows multiple characters through streets, buildings, and vehicles while maintaining tension and coherent storytelling. But this isn't just a gimmick; the unbroken perspective creates an immersive sense of dread as reality seems to fracture and something infectious spreads through the night. The mostly unknown cast commits fully to the demands of this approach, with performances that feel spontaneous and increasingly desperate. Moreau uses the long-take format to disorient viewers, making us question what's real alongside the characters. The horror builds through atmosphere and implication rather than excessive gore, though there are visceral moments. It's a bold, occasionally messy piece of filmmaking that succeeds far more often than it stumbles, proving that formal experimentation and genuine scares can coexist.
David Dastmalchian plays Jack Delroy, host of a struggling late-night talk show in the 1970s who stages a Halloween special featuring a possessed young girl, a parapsychologist, and a skeptic, not realizing he's about to broadcast something genuinely demonic. Directors Colin and Cameron Cairnes craft an ingenious found-footage horror film that feels authentically like a period broadcast, complete with era-appropriate graphics, commercial breaks, and the slightly artificial patter of variety television. The genius is in how they build dread while maintaining the format's constraints—we're watching a live show unravel in real time as something terrible emerges. Dastmalchian is excellent as a man whose desperation for ratings has blinded him to genuine danger, and the supporting cast commits fully to the heightened reality of 1970s TV personalities. The film works both as a clever period piece and as genuinely unsettling horror, escalating in its final act to some truly disturbing places. It's a smart, stylish thriller that understands both its historical moment and horror fundamentals.
Anja Plaschg delivers a haunting performance as Agnes, a young woman in 18th-century Austria whose struggle with what we would now recognize as severe depression becomes increasingly desperate. Directors Veronika Franz and Severin Fiala craft a deliberately paced historical drama that examines mental illness through the lens of religious devotion and societal expectations. The film's austere beauty and commitment to period authenticity create an immersive atmosphere that makes Agnes's isolation palpable. While the slow burn approach won't be for everyone, those willing to meet the film on its own terms will find a thoughtful exploration of suffering that refuses easy answers. The Devil's Bath succeeds in translating historical records into a deeply human story about the absence of hope.
When a struggling tire repair shop becomes the unexpected setting for life-changing encounters, ordinary people discover extraordinary connections in this character-driven drama. Set primarily within the modest confines of a neighborhood vulcanizadora, director crafts an intimate portrait of working-class life where small gestures carry profound meaning. The ensemble cast brings authenticity to their roles as mechanics, customers, and locals whose lives intersect in surprising ways throughout one transformative period. The film finds beauty in the mundane details of daily work and casual conversations, allowing its themes of community, resilience, and human dignity to emerge organically rather than through forced sentiment. Cinematography makes excellent use of the cramped, oil-stained setting, finding visual poetry in tools, tires, and weathered hands. While the deliberately slow pace won't appeal to everyone and some narrative threads feel underdeveloped, the film's genuine affection for its characters and their struggles creates an affecting portrait of lives often overlooked by cinema.
Laura Moss makes an impressive feature debut with this unsettling body horror drama that explores maternal grief through a Frankenstein lens. Marin Ireland stars as Rose, a pathologist whose clinical detachment masks deep isolation, while Judy Reyes plays Celie, a maternity nurse devastated by her young daughter's sudden death. When Rose's experimental reanimation techniques offer Celie a chance to bring her child back, the two women form a desperate alliance that spirals into ethical nightmare territory. Moss confidently handles the tonal shifts between medical procedural, psychological drama, and visceral horror, never exploiting the premise for cheap shocks. Ireland and Reyes deliver committed performances that ground the increasingly disturbing developments in recognizable human emotion—grief, guilt, and the irrational bargains we'd make to undo loss. The practical effects work is impressively grotesque, while Moss resists easy moral judgments about her characters' choices. It's a thoughtful genre film that uses horror elements to examine motherhood, bodily autonomy, and how far love can justify transgression, signaling Moss as a filmmaker to watch.
The early 1990s horror landscape comes under the documentary microscope in this comprehensive exploration of the genre's evolution during a pivotal transitional period. Filmmaker David A. Weiner continues his "In Search of Darkness" series by examining the years 1990-1994, when horror cinema was shifting away from the slasher-dominated '80s toward new subgenres and storytelling approaches. The documentary features extensive interviews with directors, actors, and genre experts who provide insightful commentary on films ranging from "Misery" and "The Silence of the Lambs" to lesser-known cult favorites that deserve reconsideration. At several hours long, it's an exhaustive deep dive that will satisfy hardcore horror enthusiasts looking for behind-the-scenes stories and cultural context. The format remains engaging throughout, mixing film clips, rare footage, and thoughtful analysis that illuminates why this era was more significant than often credited. It's essential viewing for anyone interested in understanding how '90s horror set the stage for the genre's modern renaissance.
Directors Indianna Bell and Josiah Allen craft an effectively claustrophobic thriller that unfolds almost entirely within a single trailer home during a torrential storm. The minimal setup finds a mysterious young woman seeking shelter from a volatile man living in isolation, and what begins as an uneasy encounter escalates into a tense psychological game. The two-hander format allows both leads to deliver intense performances, with the confined space amplifying every shift in power and revelation of character. Bell and Allen demonstrate impressive control over atmosphere, using sound design and the relentless storm outside to build dread without relying on cheap jump scares. The script keeps you guessing about who to trust and what's really happening, though some viewers may find the ambiguity frustrating rather than intriguing. At a lean runtime, the film doesn't overstay its welcome, maintaining tension right through to its unsettling conclusion. It's a smart, economical thriller that proves you don't need elaborate sets or large casts to create genuine suspense.
Entertaining and surprisingly comprehensive, this documentary from director Jennifer Tilly and Kyra Elise Gardner chronicles the cultural phenomenon of the "Child's Play" franchise and its iconic killer doll Chucky. Through interviews with creator Don Mancini, franchise stars like Brad Dourif and Jennifer Tilly herself, and devoted fans, the film traces how a slasher villain became a queer icon and an enduring figure in horror cinema across four decades. The documentary balances behind-the-scenes production insights with thoughtful analysis of why Chucky has remained relevant through multiple film series and television iterations. It's particularly effective when exploring the franchise's evolution from straightforward horror to self-aware comedy and back again, as well as its groundbreaking LGBTQ+ representation in recent years. Both casual viewers and devoted franchise fans will find plenty to enjoy in this affectionate yet substantive look at a series that has consistently defied expectations and remained genuinely creative within genre constraints.
This creature-feature from France takes the apartment invasion thriller and infuses it with genuine creepy-crawly dread that will have arachnophobes squirming. Director Sébastien Vaniček follows a group of residents in a rundown Parisian housing project who find themselves under siege by rapidly multiplying and increasingly aggressive spiders. The practical effects work is impressively unsettling, and Vaniček wisely builds tension gradually before unleashing full-scale chaos in the confined spaces of stairwells and apartments. Théo Christine leads a capable cast of mostly young actors who bring authenticity to their working-class characters. While the premise isn't groundbreaking, the execution is genuinely nerve-wracking, with several sequences that will have you checking your own corners. It's unpretentious horror that understands what makes skin crawl and delivers those visceral thrills without overstaying its welcome.
Sharp and suspenseful, this thriller makes excellent use of its contained premise and escalating paranoia. Director Anthony Romero follows a tight-knit suburban neighborhood watch group that discovers something genuinely sinister lurking behind the manicured lawns and friendly waves. What begins as amateur surveillance and community protection spirals into dangerous territory as the members disagree about how to handle their discovery. The ensemble cast—including strong turns from relative unknowns—brings authenticity to the group dynamics, capturing how ordinary people rationalize increasingly extreme actions. Romero builds tension through suggestion and character conflict rather than constant action, trusting his premise to generate unease. The film occasionally gets caught in repetitive middle sections, but the final act delivers on the setup with satisfying intensity. It's a lean, effective genre exercise that understands how suburban normality can mask something darker, offering smart entertainment without overreaching.
This documentary profile examines the legendary Italian horror director Dario Argento, though it never quite achieves the depth his complex career deserves. Director Simone Scafidi assembles the expected elements—archival footage, film clips, and interviews with Argento and collaborators—but the approach feels somewhat surface-level for such an influential filmmaker. Fans will appreciate seeing Argento discuss his craft and creative process, and the film provides solid context for those unfamiliar with his work in giallo and supernatural horror. However, it doesn't probe deeply into the more controversial aspects of his career or the significant decline in his later output. The documentary works as a competent introduction to Argento's filmography and aesthetic obsessions, particularly his use of color and violence. While it lacks the stylistic ambition or critical rigor that might match its subject's importance, it remains a serviceable entry point for genre enthusiasts.