Still rips, and still stands as the very peak of Danny Boyle's whole deal: ugliness as subject and texture; periods of sustained disorientation punctuated by blunt-force trauma. Also the peak of Alex Garland's whole deal: there was actually some meat in the gym mats back then, with frothing, mindless, contagious rage tabbed, aptly and mercilessly, as a potent apocalyptic accelerant. Great use of Murphy, Gleeson, and Eccleston, back in the paranoid mode of Shallow Grave. Watched in anticipation of a sequel that I am -- perhaps foolishly -- allowing myself to think might be not only worthy (and properly scary) but right on time.