Exclusive: Nia DaCosta Cracks Open the Crypt of ’28 Years Later: The Bone Temple’ – Rage, Redemption, and a Mountain of Skulls Await

In the shadowed annals of post-apocalyptic cinema, few franchises have clawed their way into the collective psyche quite like the 28 Days Later saga. Born from the fevered imagination of Danny Boyle and Alex Garland back in 2002, it didn’t just revive the zombie genre—it redefined it, swapping shambling corpses for sprinting hordes fueled by a rage virus that turned humanity’s basest instincts into a sprint toward oblivion. Twenty-three years later, the flame reignites with ferocious intensity: 28 Years Later, the long-awaited sequel, drops in theaters on January 16, 2026, hot on the heels of its immediate follow-up, 28 Years Later: The Bone Temple. And at the helm of this bone-chilling chapter? None other than Nia DaCosta, the visionary force behind Candyman (2021) and The Marvels (2023), who’s injecting her signature blend of psychological depth, visual poetry, and unflinching social commentary into the fray.

In an exclusive sit-down with Den of Geek on December 9, 2025, DaCosta peeled back the layers of The Bone Temple, offering tantalizing glimpses into a world where survival isn’t just about outrunning the infected—it’s about confronting the rot within. “This franchise is personal,” DaCosta confesses, her voice steady yet laced with the quiet fire that has defined her career. “28 Days Later was one of the most important films to me in terms of my journey into becoming a filmmaker, wanting to make movies, wanting to be scared, and wanting to scare people.” It’s a sentiment that echoes through every frame she’s crafted, transforming what could have been a rote sequel into a meditative exploration of isolation, humanity’s fragile grace, and the deadly dance between light and shadow. As the penultimate installment in a bold new trilogy penned by Garland and produced by Sony, The Bone Temple promises not just thrills, but a profound reckoning with what it means to endure when the world has long since crumbled.

For fans who’ve waited over a decade since 28 Weeks Later (2007) left us on a cliffhanger of viral resurgence, this isn’t mere fan service—it’s evolution. DaCosta, stepping into Boyle’s shoes after his directorial return for the first film, approached the project with the reverence of a disciple and the audacity of an innovator. Shot back-to-back with 28 Years Later to capture the raw synergy of a continuous narrative arc, her entry arrives mere months after Boyle’s, ensuring the trilogy’s momentum never falters. But make no mistake: DaCosta isn’t here to imitate. “I am not going to make a Danny Boyle movie,” she asserts firmly. “No one else can. It would be stupid to try. I want to make this movie the way I see it.” What follows is a deep dive into the secrets she’s unveiled—plot teases that will keep you up at night, character arcs that humanize the apocalypse, production wizardry born of collaboration, and thematic undercurrents that probe the soul. Buckle up, survivors: the rage is back, and it’s more introspective than ever.

The Fractured World of The Bone Temple: A Canvas of Contrasts

At its core, 28 Years Later: The Bone Temple thrives on duality—a visual and narrative schism that mirrors the fractured psyche of its survivors. The rage virus, that insidious pathogen first unleashed in a Cambridge lab two decades prior, has metastasized into a global cataclysm. Britain, once the epicenter, now stands as a quarantined relic, its islands a mosaic of reclaimed wilds and ruined metropolises. DaCosta’s film zooms in on this eerie equilibrium, where pockets of human defiance flicker against the encroaching green tide of nature’s reclamation.

Enter the titular Bone Temple, a macabre monument rising from the British countryside like a fever dream from a Gothic novel. It’s no mere set piece; it’s the beating heart of Dr. Kelson’s domain, a “mountain of skulls” meticulously assembled by the enigmatic healer as a shrine to memento mori—the ancient Roman reminder that death shadows every step. “It’s this beautiful, humanist perspective,” DaCosta explains, her eyes lighting up as she describes the structure’s dual symbolism. “Kelson’s worship of memento mori reveals a darker side to the healer, but it’s also what makes him so compelling. He’s accepting death in a way that’s almost serene.” Imagine fields of crimson poppies swaying under a golden summer sun, their petals harvested by Kelson for opiate elixirs that numb the pain of existence. The air hums with the whisper of wind through sun-dappled grass, a tableau of “dark serenity” that feels like a held breath before the storm.

This idyll stands in stark opposition to the Jimmies’ turf—a decaying urban sprawl where the infected roam unchecked, and human predators carve out fiefdoms amid the rubble. Led by the charismatic yet ruthless Sir Jimmy Crystal (Jack O’Connell, channeling a feral magnetism that recalls his breakout in ’71), the Jimmies are a ragtag syndicate of “jogging enthusiasts” and opportunists, their name a nod to their relentless, erratic pace through the wasteland. Their world is a study in desolation: cold, desaturated hues bleed into every frame, with handheld camera work that jerks and sways like a pulse racing toward cardiac arrest. “The Jimmies’ scenes are more cutting, more unsteady,” DaCosta notes. “It reflects their cruelty, their mercurialness—abandonment in every corner.” Where Kelson’s realm evokes the steady flow of a river, the Jimmies’ is a jagged flash flood, ready to sweep away anything in its path.

The plot ignites when these worlds collide, a cataclysmic convergence that propels the narrative forward with the inexorable pull of gravity. Fresh off the events of 28 Years Later, young survivor Spike (Alfie Williams, the breakout child star whose wide-eyed resilience stole scenes in the opener) finds himself rescued by the Jimmies in a pulse-pounding coda that teases DaCosta’s film. But rescue comes at a cost: entanglement with Sir Jimmy’s volatile crew drags Spike—and by extension, the audience—into a vortex of moral ambiguity. Whispers from the set suggest a potential reunion with Kelson, the doctor who once patched him up, now a spectral figure haunting the periphery. “There’s this inevitable clash,” DaCosta hints, her words dripping with anticipation. “Spike and Kelson reuniting? It’s going to be explosive.” Layered atop this is the brooding presence of Samson, the hulking Alpha infected who rampaged through Boyle’s film like a biblical plague. In The Bone Temple, Samson’s arc deepens, his primal fury intertwined with Kelson’s calculated risks—decisions born of loneliness that blur the line between savior and saboteur.

DaCosta’s screenplay tweaks, forged in tandem with Garland and Boyle, ensure Samson’s evolution feels organic yet revolutionary. “Certain things that worked in Danny’s film would not look right in mine,” she reveals. One such adjustment? A provocative detail about the Alpha that sent ripples across online forums upon its leak: “Penises bring people together.” It’s a cheeky, DaCosta-signature flourish—equal parts anatomical horror and absurd humor—that underscores the film’s refusal to sanitize the grotesque. Samson isn’t just a monster; he’s a mirror, reflecting the devolution of man into beast, his enlarged anatomy a grotesque emblem of unchecked virility in a world stripped bare.

Faces of the Apocalypse: Characters That Bleed Humanity

If 28 Days Later humanized its heroes through raw vulnerability, The Bone Temple elevates that ethos to operatic heights. At the emotional epicenter stands Dr. Kelson, portrayed by the incomparable Ralph Fiennes in a performance that’s already generating Oscar buzz in early screenings. Fiennes, fresh off his chilling turn in The Menu (2022), imbues Kelson with a tragic grandeur: a man adrift in isolation, his Bone Temple both fortress and folly. “Kelson’s loneliness drives him to these risky decisions,” DaCosta elaborates. “Engaging with Samson? Growing poppies for opiates? It’s curiosity and hope clashing with despair.” Picture Fiennes wandering sunlit meadows, his hands stained red from poppy harvest, murmuring Latin phrases amid the skull pyramid—a “dark-sided freak” whose humanism shines through in fleeting acts of mercy. DaCosta praises Fiennes’ commitment: “He brings this beautiful stillness, like the river I wanted for his world. It’s mesmerizing.”

Opposing this quiet storm is the whirlwind of the Jimmies, with Jack O’Connell’s Sir Jimmy Crystal as their unhinged lodestar. O’Connell, whose intensity simmered in Unbroken (2014) and boiled over in Godless (2017), embodies the gang’s chaotic ethos—a blend of charm, cruelty, and compulsive motion that makes every scene crackle. The Jimmies themselves form a rogues’ gallery of apocalypse archetypes: scavenging “enthusiasts” who jog through derelict streets not for health, but to evade the infected or raid the fallen. Their interactions with Spike promise fireworks; the boy’s innocence becomes both shield and target in their mercurial orbit. “The Jimmies are ne’er-do-wells at their core,” DaCosta says. “But there’s a tragic undercurrent—survival’s made them this way.”

Then there’s Samson, the infected behemoth whose design DaCosta refined in lockstep with Boyle. Inherited from the first film as a towering alpha—flesh mottled, eyes feral—Samson’s expanded role in The Bone Temple transforms him from antagonist to tragic foil. “His story ties intrinsically to Kelson’s,” DaCosta teases. “We collaborated from the jump; Danny really listened when I had thoughts about how those decisions would impact my movie.” The result? A creature that’s less rampaging brute, more existential dread: lumbering through misty moors, his roars echoing like thunder in a skull-lined cathedral. Alfie Williams’ Spike rounds out the core quartet, his arc a bridge between innocence lost and resolve forged. From wide-eyed orphan in Boyle’s film to wary adolescent here, Williams’ growth mirrors the trilogy’s maturation—fragile, fierce, and utterly captivating.

Supporting this ensemble are whispers of cameos and callbacks: Jodie Comer’s enigmatic survivor from 28 Years Later might flicker in the margins, her fate a dangling thread for the finale. And Garland’s script, ever the philosopher’s stone, weaves in echoes of Cillian Murphy’s Jim and Naomie Harris’ Selena, not as literal returns but as spectral influences—ghosts in the machine of memory.

Behind the Lens: Production Alchemy and Collaborative Fire

Crafting The Bone Temple was no solo endeavor; it was a symphony of synchronicity, born from the back-to-back shoots that glued the trilogy’s seams. Principal photography wrapped in late 2024 across the UK’s windswept moors and derelict industrial zones, with DaCosta leveraging the intimacy of practical effects to ground her spectacle. “We built the Bone Temple for real—skulls, poppies, the works,” she shares. “It’s tactile horror; you feel the weight of it.” Cinematographer Laurie Rose, Boyle’s longtime collaborator, adapted his kinetic style for DaCosta’s steadier gaze: long, languid takes for Kelson’s serenity, frenetic Steadicam chases for the Jimmies’ frenzy. The color palette? A deliberate dichotomy—warm ambers and verdant greens for the temple, icy blues and ashen grays for the urban decay—rendered in 35mm for that gritty, filmic texture fans crave.

DaCosta’s collaboration with Boyle was the production’s secret sauce, a master-apprentice dynamic flipped on its head. “From the start, he was open,” she recounts. “We talked Samson endlessly—his size, his movement, how he’d echo in my world.” This porosity extended to Garland’s script, which DaCosta shaped without overhauling: “Alex writes these profound, layered pieces. I grabbed this opportunity because the script was great—personal, scary, alive.” Sony’s backing, buoyed by the franchise’s cult cachet, afforded creative freedom rare in sequels, allowing DaCosta to infuse her Candyman DNA: social horror wrapped in supernatural dread.

Post-production hummed with innovation. Sound designer Johnnie Burn, of The Zone of Interest fame, layered the film’s audio with subtlety—poppy rustles like whispers, Jimmie footfalls like distant thunder, Samson’s gutturals a low-frequency menace that vibrates in your chest. Editor Justine Stewart, DaCosta’s The Marvels alum, wove the dualities into a taut 118-minute runtime, balancing quiet dread with explosive set pieces. Early test audiences raved about a mid-film sequence: Kelson’s opium ritual amid the skull mountain, intercut with the Jimmies’ raid, a symphony of serenity shattering into chaos. “It’s the collision we’ve built toward,” DaCosta beams. “Light and dark, grace and rage—it’s the franchise’s deadly grace.”

Echoes of the Soul: Themes That Linger Like the Virus

What elevates The Bone Temple beyond genre thrills is DaCosta’s thematic scalpel, slicing into the human condition with precision. Loneliness looms largest: Kelson’s isolation isn’t mere plot device; it’s a meditation on quarantine’s psychic toll, a nod to our pandemic-scarred era. “In the apocalypse, we’re all adrift,” she muses. “Kelson’s curiosity—risking Samson, tending poppies—it’s hope weaponized against despair.” This humanism clashes with the Jimmies’ cruelty, a microcosm of societal fractures: the haves (Kelson’s verdant haven) versus the have-nots (urban scavengers), mercy versus predation.

Memento mori threads through it all, transforming death from antagonist to teacher. Kelson’s skull edifice isn’t macabre for shock’s sake; it’s philosophical scaffolding, echoing the original film’s existential bite. DaCosta draws parallels to 28 Days Later‘s “wanting to be scared,” but amplifies it: fear here is introspective, a catalyst for growth. Spike’s arc embodies this—boy to man, innocence tempered by necessity—while Samson’s modifications probe monstrosity’s origins. “Is he victim or villain?” DaCosta poses. “We blurred that line.”

Influences abound: Boyle’s kinetic energy, Garland’s cerebral twists, DaCosta’s own Candyman legacy of reclaiming horror for the marginalized. The result? A tone that’s meditative yet merciless—serene summerscapes punctured by visceral eruptions, humor flickering in the horror (that “penises” quip a prime example). It’s rage virus as Rorschach test: What does your apocalypse say about you?

Horizon of Horror: The Trilogy’s Unfinished Symphony

As the trilogy’s middle child, The Bone Temple isn’t standalone—it’s a fulcrum, tilting toward the finale’s unknown abyss. DaCosta demurs on specifics (“The third film’s in gestation; it’ll surprise”), but hints abound: unresolved threads from Boyle’s opener—viral mutations, island strongholds—will converge. Sony’s commitment signals franchise longevity; whispers of spin-offs or prequels swirl, but DaCosta eyes closure first. “This is about honoring the legacy while pushing forward,” she says. “The rage evolves, but the heart stays human.”

For DaCosta, 36 and at the peak of her powers, The Bone Temple marks a pinnacle: her first franchise helm, a bridge from indie dread to blockbuster scope. Post-The Marvels backlash, she emerges unbowed, her vision sharper. “I make what scares me,” she concludes. “And this? It terrifies—in the best way.”

As January 16 beckons, 28 Years Later and The Bone Temple loom as a double-barreled shotgun blast to the genre’s gut. Will Kelson’s serenity hold against the Jimmies’ storm? Can Spike bridge the divide, or will Samson’s shadow consume all? One thing’s certain: Nia DaCosta has forged a sequel that’s not just survival—it’s resurrection. The rage calls. Answer it.