3 blockbuster Netflix movies to watch this week (April 13


Netflix‘s subscribers have been treated to a solid couple of months of movies, with some top-shelf titles gracing its Top 10 and beyond, including Peaky Blinders: The Immortal Man, all the James Bond movies (which are leaving soon), and some fun creature horrors like Anaconda and the newly-released Thrash.

But there’s obviously a ton more to sink into on Netflix in the U.S. in April. This week, why not check out a brilliantly cute Wes Anderson adventure, the second part of what is sure to be a zombie trilogy for the ages, and a touching documentary of one of the ’90s spiciest bands.

3

Moonrise Kingdom

Young, quirky-cool love, Wes Anderson style

Before the film’s release in 2012, writer-director Wes Anderson told the New York Times that with creating Moonrise Kingdom, it was “the only time I’ve been consciously trying to capture a sensation, which is that emotion of when you’re a 12-year-old and you fall in love … I remember that being such a powerful feeling, it was almost like going into a fantasy world.”

It’s the love story within its fantasy world that makes Moonrise Kingdom so endearing. It’s 1965, and the story follows Sam (Jared Gilman) and Suzy (Kara Hayward), two lonely young pen-pals, alienated from their families, who fall in love and decide to run away together, albeit on the remote 12-mile-long New England island where they live. Sam’s a seasoned Khaki Scout, and the couple navigates their way to their perfect retreat. But with a hurricane on its way, the entire town mobilizes to find them—including Sam’s bickering lawyer parents (Bill Murray and Frances McDormand), his entire Scout troop and Scout Leader (Edward Norton), and sad-sack local cop (Bruce Willis).

Moonrise Kingdom is full of the brilliant whimsy and quirkiness that Anderson is known for and feels very much like the same universe as The Darjeeling Limited, The Royal Tenenbaums, and Asteroid City. But, if you want to see this masterpiece on Netflix, do it soon—it leaves the streaming service on April 30.

2

28 Years Later: The Bone Temple

Part two of Alex Garland’s zombie-horror sequel trilogy

In 2002, British filmmaker Danny Boyle took Alex Garland’s freaky zombie screenplay 28 Days Later and turned it into a movie that redefined the zombie horror genre with its infected, berserking undead. It also launched a franchise. Now, its fourth installment, 28 Years Later: The Bone Temple, is streaming on Netflix, and it might be the best one yet.

With director Nia DaCosta (Candyman, The Marvels) at the helm, and Alex Garland penning the entire “28 Years Later” trilogy (The Bone Temple is number two), The Bone Temple picks up where 28 Years Later left off—after teenager Spike (Alfie Williams) is captured by The Jimmys, a vicious tracksuit-wearing, blond-haired cult/gang led by the insane Sir Jimmy Crystal ) Jack O’Connell).

Meanwhile, hidden away in his temple of bones, Dr. Ian Kelson (Ralph Fiennes, Harry Potter’s Voldemort) may be onto a discovery about the Rage Virus as he tries to communicate and even tame a hulking infected “Alpha” zombie.

What I’ve always loved about this franchise of zombie movies is that its walking dead aren’t slow and stumbling, um, stereotypical zombies—they’re fast, stealthy, and utterly horrifying, making for an excellently thrilling watch. 28 Years Later: The Bone Temple has a 92% critics’ rating on Rotten Tomatoes.


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28 Years Later: The Bone Temple


Release Date

January 16, 2026

Runtime

109 Minutes


  • Cast Placeholder Image

  • instar53669797.jpg

    Jack O’Connell

    Jimmy Crystal

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    Ralph Fiennes

    Dr. Ian Kelson

  • instar53624552.jpg

    Aaron Taylor-Johnson

    Jamie


1

The Rise of the Red Hot Chili Peppers: Our Brother, Hillel

The beautiful and tragic origin story of the iconic ’90s band

As a Gen-Xer and a kid of the ’90s, I must admit that I was never the biggest fan of the music of the Red Hot Chili Peppers—I preferred the fuzzier guitars and guttural vocals of bands like Nirvana and Soundgarden. But I do love a great origin story, and after watching the Netflix documentary The Rise of the Red Hot Chili Peppers: Our Brother, Hillel, I was left with a better understanding of the group and a renewed interest in their music.

Our Brother, Hillel tells the story of the famed Los Angeles band before they took over the scene in 1991 with their album, Blood Sugar Sex Magik. More than a decade before that, three shy, loner weirdos at L.A.’s Fairfax High School became inseparable best friends, brothers, and eventually bandmates, planting the seeds for one of the biggest bands on the planet. The 95-minute documentary is an emotional telling of how Anthony Kiedis, Michael Peter Balzar (Flea), and Hillel Slovak, while on their individual creative journeys to find themselves while growing up in the vibrant L.A. music and art scene, haphazardly came together as RHCP, changing everything.

The band’s creative force, however, was the charismatic Slovak, a gifted guitarist and songwriter. And as the group’s early popularity and success was on the rise, the relentless touring and partying lifestyle took its toll, eventually leading to Slovak’s death from a heroin overdose in 1988, before the band would hit the big time.

Using rare archival footage, energetic early performance clips, and emotional interviews with Kiedis, Flea, and those closest to Hillel, the documentary puts a spotlight on what was and might have been in the journey of the Red Hot Chili Peppers. The Rise of the Red Hot Chili Peppers has a 100% rating on Rotten Tomatoes.


Every week, we dig into all the new shows and movies coming and going from Netflix in the U.S.—from the best documentaries to Oscar-winning movies on the service to some great weekend shows to binge.

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Do you ever walk past a person on the streets exhibiting mental health issues and wonder what happened to their family? I have a brother—or at least, I used to. I worry about where he is and hope he is safe. He hasn’t taken my call since 2014.

James and his brother as young children playing together before his brother became sick. James is on the right and his brother is on the left.

James and his brother as young children playing together before his brother became sick. James is on the right and his brother is on the left.

When I was 13, I had a very bad day. I was in the back of the car, and what I remember most was the world-crushing sound violently panging off every surface: he was pounding his fists into the steering wheel, and I worried it would break apart. He was screaming at me and my mother, and I remember the web of saliva and tears hanging over his mouth. His eyes were red, and I knew this day would change everything between us. My brother was sick.

Nearly 20 years later, I still have trouble thinking about him. By the time we realized he was mentally ill, he was no longer a minor. The police brought him to a facility for the standard 72-hour hold, where he was diagnosed with paranoid delusional schizophrenia. Concluding he was not a danger to himself or others, they released him.

There was only one problem: at 18, my brother told the facility he was not related to us and that we were imposters. When they let him out, he refused to come home.

My parents sought help and even arranged for medication, but he didn’t take it. Before long, he disappeared.

My brother’s decline and disappearance had nothing to do with the common narratives about drug use or criminal behavior. He was sick. By the time my family discovered his condition, he was already 18 and legally independent from our custody.

The last time he let me visit, I asked about his bed. I remember seeing his dirty mattress on the floor beside broken glass and garbage. I also asked about the laptop my parents had gifted him just a year earlier. He needed the money, he said—and he had maxed out my parents’ credit card.

In secret from my parents, I gave him all the cash I had saved. I just wanted him to be alright.

My parents and I tried texting and calling him; there was no response except the occasional text every few weeks. But weeks turned into months.

Before long, I was graduating from high school. I begged him to come. When I looked in the bleachers, he was nowhere to be seen. I couldn’t help but wonder what I had done wrong.

The last time I heard from him was over the phone in 2014. I tried to tell him about our parents and how much we all missed him. I asked him to be my brother again, but he cut me off, saying he was never my brother. After a pause, he admitted we could be friends. Making the toughest call of my life, I told him he was my brother—and if he ever remembers that, I’ll be there, ready for him to come back.

I’m now 32 years old. I often wonder how different our lives would have been if he had been diagnosed as a minor and received appropriate care. The laws in place do not help families in my situation.

My brother has no social media, and we suspect he traded his phone several years ago. My family has hired private investigators over the years, who have also worked with local police to try to track him down.

One private investigator’s report indicated an artist befriended my brother many years ago. When my mother tried contacting the artist, they said whatever happened between them was best left in the past and declined to respond. My mom had wanted to wish my brother a happy 30th birthday.

My brother grew up in a safe, middle-class home with two parents. He had no history of drug use or criminal record. He loved collecting vintage basketball cards, eating mint chocolate chip ice cream, and listening to Motown music. To my parents, there was no smoking gun indicating he needed help before it was too late.

The next time you think about a person screaming outside on the street, picture their families. We need policies and services that allow families to locate and support their loved ones living with mental illness, and stronger protections to ensure that individuals leaving facilities can transition into stable care. Current laws, including age-based consent rules, the limits of 72-hour holds, and the lack of step-down or supported housing options, leave too many families without resources when a serious diagnosis occurs.

Governments and lawmakers need to do better for people like my brother. As someone who thinks about him every day, I can tell you the burden is too heavy to carry alone.

James Finney-Conlon is a concerned brother and mental health advocate. He can be reached at [email protected].



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