28 Years Later: The Bone Temple – Film Review

Although Danny Boyle started this franchise, director Nia DaCosta steps up to the plate to helm 28 Years Later: The Bone Temple, and the results are glorious. This is a bold, unsettling, and unexpectedly thoughtful continuation of one of modern cinema’s most influential horror franchises. Written by Alex Garland and shot back-to-back with 28 Years Later (2025), this fourth installment doesn’t merely recycle the Rage Virus formula—it reshapes it into something stranger, darker, and more philosophically charged. With a haunting atmosphere, striking performances, and a willingness to push the series into new thematic territory, The Bone Temple stands as one of the strongest entries in the franchise to date.

Rather than focusing solely on survival horror, the film explores the emotional and psychological wreckage left behind by decades of collapse. Civilization hasn’t just fallen—it has fractured into cult-like belief systems, desperate rituals, and warped attempts to impose meaning on a ruined world. DaCosta leans into this unsettling evolution, crafting a film that feels less like a traditional zombie thriller and more like a nightmarish post-apocalyptic myth.

Visually and tonally, The Bone Temple feels both familiar and radically different. The raw, handheld intensity associated with the 28 Days Later series is still present, but it’s now layered with dreamlike imagery, ritualistic symbolism, and an almost theatrical sense of spectacle. This creates a unique mood: part survival horror, part psychological descent, and part twisted spiritual allegory.

Ralph Fiennes delivers one of the most fascinating performances in the franchise as Dr. Ian Kelson, a grieving survivor who has dedicated his life to preserving the dead in a macabre memorial known as the Bone Temple. Fiennes plays Kelson with quiet sorrow and restrained intensity, making him feel less like a traditional “mad scientist” and more like a man desperately searching for meaning in a world that has lost it. His scenes are among the film’s most compelling, filled with moral ambiguity and eerie calm.

Jack O’Connell is equally striking as Sir Lord Jimmy Crystal, a charismatic yet terrifying cult leader who embodies the film’s exploration of power, fanaticism, and manipulation. O’Connell leans into Jimmy’s theatrical cruelty, crafting a villain who is both magnetic and deeply unsettling. He isn’t just dangerous because of his violence—he’s dangerous because of how easily people follow him. His presence gives the film a constant sense of tension, as every interaction feels like it could spiral into chaos.

Alfie Williams shines as Spike, a young survivor caught between desperation and disillusionment. Williams brings emotional depth to the role, making Spike’s confusion, fear, and growing moral awareness feel authentic. He serves as the audience’s emotional anchor, grounding the film’s more surreal elements in relatable human experience. Erin Kellyman’s performance as Jimmy Ink adds further nuance, portraying a character torn between loyalty and conscience with subtle strength.

One of the film’s most daring choices is its treatment of the infected. Instead of presenting them purely as mindless monsters, The Bone Temple introduces the idea that traces of humanity might still exist beneath the Rage Virus’s grip. This concept is handled carefully and respectfully, avoiding sentimentality while opening the door to deeper questions about identity, memory, and what it truly means to be “lost.”

Chi Lewis-Parry’s portrayal of Samson, an Alpha infected who becomes central to this idea, is both physically imposing and emotionally haunting. Through restrained body language and minimal dialogue, Samson becomes one of the film’s most memorable figures—an unsettling reminder that the line between human and monster may not be as clear as it once seemed.

DaCosta’s direction is confident and inventive. She balances intense horror sequences with slower, mood-driven moments that allow the film’s themes to breathe. The Bone Temple itself is a striking visual centerpiece, blending religious imagery with post-apocalyptic decay in a way that feels both beautiful and disturbing. The film frequently uses light, shadow, and sound design to create unease rather than relying solely on shock, proving that atmosphere can be just as powerful as action.

Alex Garland’s screenplay is dense with symbolism, but it never loses sight of character. Themes of grief, faith, control, and memory are woven naturally into the story, making the film feel thoughtful without becoming pretentious. The script respects the intelligence of the audience, trusting viewers to interpret its more abstract elements rather than spelling everything out.

The horror in The Bone Temple is less about jump scares and more about psychological dread. There’s a constant sense of unease, as if the world itself is broken beyond repair. When violence does occur, it feels purposeful rather than gratuitous, reinforcing the emotional weight of the story instead of distracting from it.

Musically, the film makes bold choices that enhance its surreal tone. The soundtrack blends ominous scoring with unexpected song selections that add irony and dark humor to key moments. These musical shifts help give the film its own identity, setting it apart from previous entries while still honoring the franchise’s roots.

What truly elevates The Bone Temple is its willingness to take risks. Instead of repeating familiar beats, it expands the emotional and thematic scope of the series. It asks uncomfortable questions about leadership, belief, and whether hope can survive in a world shaped by endless trauma. These ideas linger long after the credits roll.

Despite its ambition, the film remains accessible. You don’t need to analyze every symbol to appreciate the story, and longtime fans will find plenty of callbacks and tonal connections to earlier films. At the same time, newcomers can jump in without feeling lost, thanks to strong character introductions and clear emotional throughlines.

The pacing is deliberate, allowing tension to build gradually rather than rushing from set piece to set piece. Some viewers may find the slower moments challenging, but they ultimately serve the story by deepening the atmosphere and giving the characters room to evolve.

28 Years Later: The Bone Temple also succeeds in expanding the franchise’s emotional range. There are moments of genuine tenderness, quiet reflection, and even subtle hope woven into the darkness. These softer beats prevent the film from becoming relentlessly bleak and remind us that humanity, however fragile, still matters.

In the context of the 28 Days Later series, this film feels like a natural evolution rather than a forced continuation. It honors the gritty intensity of the originals while pushing the narrative into more experimental territory. The result is a sequel that feels both respectful and refreshingly unpredictable.

By the time the story reaches its final act, the emotional stakes feel earned. The characters’ choices carry weight, and the consequences feel meaningful rather than arbitrary. DaCosta avoids easy resolutions, instead leaving the audience with haunting imagery and lingering questions.

In an era where many franchise films play it safe, The Bone Temple dares to be strange, unsettling, and deeply personal. It’s a film that trusts its audience, challenges expectations, and redefines what a post-apocalyptic horror sequel can be.

With powerful performances, striking visuals, and a story that blends terror with introspection, 28 Years Later: The Bone Temple stands as one of the most ambitious entries in the series. It doesn’t just extend the legacy of the Rage Virus—it transforms it. This is a daring, atmospheric, and emotionally resonant chapter that proves the 28 Days Later universe still has powerful stories left to tell.