Upgrade

I’m convinced Logan Marshall-Green spent the better part of 2017 learning how to move like a glitchy PlayStation character, and the dedication is honestly terrifying. I first watched Upgrade on my laptop while my roommate was loudly trying to assemble a flat-pack IKEA desk in the background, and yet, the moment the first "upgraded" fight sequence started, I didn't hear a single hammer strike. I was completely locked in.

While the heavy hitters of 2018 were busy spending the GDP of a small nation on superhero sequels, Leigh Whannell—the man who helped launch Saw and Insidious—slipped into Melbourne with a mere $3 million and a dream of making the meanest, leanest B-movie of the decade. In an era where "indie" usually means three people talking in a kitchen about their feelings, Upgrade is a loud, chrome-plated reminder that a small budget can produce massive imagination.

The $3 Million Magic Trick

The plot follows Grey Trace, a technophobe who loves muscle cars and analog grease, living in a world that has moved on to self-driving pods and soy-protein printers. After a brutal mugging leaves him paralyzed and his wife dead, Grey is offered a "STEM" chip—an AI implant that bridges the gap between his brain and his spine. It doesn't just help him walk; it turns him into a lethal, autonomous weapon.

Logan Marshall-Green is frequently called "the budget Tom Hardy," but that’s a massive disservice to what he pulls off here. He has to play two people at once: the horrified passenger (his face) and the cold, calculating machine (his body). Watching him apologize to a thug while his hands are busy breaking the man’s ribs with mathematical precision is a dark, comedic delight. It’s a physical performance that makes most MCU fight choreography look like a high school dance recital. Modern blockbusters should be embarrassed that this cost less than their catering budget.

The Algorithm of Revenge

What makes Upgrade feel so contemporary isn't just the sleek, near-future aesthetic—it’s the creeping dread of losing autonomy. We’re currently living through an era of AI anxiety, where we wonder if the "algorithm" is making our choices for us. Grey Trace is the literal embodiment of that fear. When he asks STEM to "take the wheel," he’s trading his humanity for efficiency, and Leigh Whannell doesn't let him (or us) off the hook for that bargain.

The action isn't just "cool"—it’s unsettling. Whannell and cinematographer Stefan Duscio used a clever technical trick where they hid a phone on the actor and synced the camera's movement to the chip in the phone. This means whenever Grey moves, the camera follows him with a rigid, robotic lock. It creates a visual language that feels entirely distinct from the shaky-cam chaos of the Bourne era. It’s clean, it’s sharp, and it crunches like dry leaves. Upgrade is basically John Wick if the dog was an AI sociopath.

Resourceful Rebellion

As an indie project, the film is a masterclass in "show, don't tell." Instead of wide-scale world-building shots that would have eaten the entire budget, the production design uses textured, intimate spaces to suggest a larger world. They used local Melbourne locations, turning brutalist apartment blocks into futuristic fortresses. Apparently, to save money on the "futuristic" car Grey drives early in the film, the crew used a modified 1970s Firebird because the director felt a hand-built car was more "analog" than anything a computer could design.

The sound design by Jed Palmer also deserves a shout-out. The "voice" of STEM, provided by Simon Maiden, is calm, helpful, and increasingly chilling. It doesn’t sound like a monster; it sounds like a helpful OS that just happened to decide that murder is the most logical path forward. It’s the kind of tech-horror that lingers long after the credits roll, especially given how much of our lives we currently hand over to the "voices" in our pockets.

The film doesn't offer the easy, triumphant catharsis of a standard revenge flick. It’s grimy, it’s pessimistic, and it leans hard into its body-horror roots. It’s a film that respects its audience enough to be genuinely dark, proving that you don’t need $200 million to build a world—you just need a sharp script and a lead actor willing to move like a malfunctioning robot. Logan Marshall-Green gives the most underrated physical performance of the 2010s, and if you haven’t seen it yet, you’re missing out on the sleekest "little movie" of the last ten years.