Release Date: February 20, 2026 (theatrical, limited)
Runtime: 109 minutes (1 hr 47 min)
Rated: R – strong violence, language, some sexual references, brief drug use
Production Companies: Mothership Motion Pictures
Producers: Michael J. McGarry, Kevin McManus, Matthew McManus, Nate Cormier, PJ McCabe (plus exec producers Karen & Paul Cormier)
Cinematography: Alan Gwizdowski
Editing: Derek Desmond, Nate Cormier
Music/Composer: Paul Koch
Redux Redux (2025)
Directors & Writers: Kevin McManus & Matthew McManus
Cast: Michaela McManus, Stella Macus, Jeremy Holm, Jim Cummings, Grace Van Dien, Taylor Misiak
Multiverse and time travel are two notions quite often utilized in storytelling nowadays, so how do you make your story stand out when it comes to using that narrative device? For Kevin and Matthew McManus, the answer lies not in scientific intricacies or temporal paradoxes, but in an unrelenting cycle of grief and violence. Their frequent collaborator and sister, Michaela McManus, portrays Irene Kelly — a mother who loses her daughter, Anna (Grace Van Dien), at the hands of Neville (Jeremy Holm), a cook at a local diner.
Armed with a mysterious time-hopping device she carries with her, Irene travels from universe to universe in search of a reality where her daughter is still alive. Yet what quickly becomes apparent is that this isn’t just a search for reunion — it is a ritual. In nearly every universe she enters, she hunts down Neville with calculated precision. Her pursuit is not impulsive; it is conditioned. And that conditioning is what makes it frightening.
Where many time travel stories prioritize technological exposition and the mechanics of altering timelines, the McManus brothers deliberately sidestep heavy explanation. The device simply works. Instead, they root the narrative in emotional depth, occasionally allowing temporal logic to bend in favor of a larger point: grief, when left unresolved, becomes cyclical. It loops. It festers. It demands action — even when that action begins to blur into obsession.
Each new universe is introduced with subtle variations — similar aesthetics, altered moods, small environmental shifts that remind us something is different even if it looks familiar. The repetition is intentional. Irene may be dimension-hopping, but she is emotionally stationary. The worlds change; her mission does not.
The mechanics of the machine are never fully addressed, and there truly is no need. Michaela McManus anchors the film with a performance that commands attention. She embodies Irene with a bold, gritty physicality — shoulders tense, eyes constantly scanning, voice measured yet capable of erupting at any moment. There is an instability simmering beneath her composure. You want to root for her — how could you not? — but the film cleverly pushes you to question when that support begins to feel morally complicated. At what point does justified vengeance begin to resemble something darker? McManus navigates that line with nuance, allowing Irene to be sympathetic and unsettling all at once.
Irene’s mission begins as a desperate attempt to find a universe where her daughter still breathes. But that desire becomes entangled with another fixation: eliminating Neville in every reality she encounters him. What might initially feel cathartic soon turns brutal and reactive. The juxtaposition becomes haunting — Irene searching for a living daughter while repeatedly confronting, and often torturing, versions of her daughter’s killer. The grief and the violence begin to coexist in a way that feels less like healing and more like compulsion.
A wrench is eventually thrown into Irene’s tightly controlled cycle with the introduction of Mia (Stella Marcus), a runaway teen who also finds herself in Neville’s path. Up until this point, Irene has operated alone, detached, singular in purpose. Mia disrupts that solitude. Their dynamic complicates Irene’s mission in ways the multiverse never could.
Mia is not just a side character; she is a mirror. Through her, Irene begins to see the reflection of her own vengeance — raw, emotional, impulsive. As they travel across universes together, the film subtly shifts from revenge thriller to character study. Irene witnesses her own obsessive tendencies refracted back at her. The hypocrisy becomes unavoidable. She can justify her actions as a grieving mother, but when she sees similar rage manifest in Mia, it unsettles her. It forces her to confront whether she has truly been in control at all.
And that illusion of control is central to the film.
Irene technically holds all the power. She can jump timelines. She can escape consequences. She can reset her circumstances at will. Yet every exit is messy. Every confrontation escalates. Despite infinite realities at her disposal, she narrows her focus to one singular objective: find Neville. Kill Neville. Repeat. Small differences between universes become irrelevant to her. She moves with blinders on, to the point that Neville’s sudden appearances feel almost arbitrary — and her response, instinctive. Automatic. As if vengeance has become muscle memory.
Ultimately, the McManus brothers place us directly in Irene’s position and ask an uncomfortable question: If given the same power, would we do any different? Would we search endlessly for a version of life untouched by tragedy? Or would we trap ourselves in a loop of our own making?
The film opens with a fiery, haunting image of Irene setting Neville ablaze — a bold statement that sets the emotional temperature for what follows. But beneath the violence lies something far more introspective. While many time travel fables explore the catastrophic ripple effects of altering timelines, Redux Redux chooses to examine the internal damage of refusing to move forward. The real danger is not the machine. It is the inability to let go.
In the end, Irene’s journey is less about rewriting fate and more about confronting herself. The multiverse offers her infinite chances to repeat the same act, but repetition does not equal resolution. Healing cannot be forced through revenge, no matter how justified it may feel. Sometimes the hardest reality to remain in is the one where you stop running.
And perhaps that is the film’s quiet challenge to us: not whether we would change the past, but whether we would ever know when to stop trying.