‘It's feral, it's raw': Lily James teases ‘real re-imagining' of Sylvester Stallone's Cliffhanger
The 36-year-old actress will star in the new take of Sylvester Stallone's 1993 action flick as Naomi Cooper, and James has now revealed Cliffhanger is 'definitely different' to the first flick.
Speaking with Screen Rant, she said: 'I don't want to say too much to give it away right now. What I will say is I had one of the most thrilling experiences of my life. We shot in the Dolomites. We were there for six weeks on the mountains.
'I was really hanging off mountains. We had to shut down multiple times because of freak snowstorms.
'The story is very much through Naomi and her sister Sydney. I would hope that we are maintaining what people love about the original cliffhanger, but it's definitely different.
'It's feral, it's raw. It's a real re-imagining, and I am producing it too.'
The Baby Driver star added she 'loved working with' director Jaume Collet-Serra, and gushed it was 'just a dream' to collaborate with Pierce Brosnan - who is portraying her mountaineer father Ray Cooper in the film.
She said: 'I loved working with Jaume Collet-Sera, who's directing it. We have a wonderful cast. Pierce Brosnan is just a dream, and we're in the edit phase now, but I'm really, really excited to share this one.
'And I fell completely in love with rock climbing. I became utterly obsessed. And getting physically strong for that was one of the biggest challenges.
'But getting to really do it and really do all that climbing was seriously empowering really. And I loved it.'
Stallone was initially due to reprise his role as ranger Gabriel 'Gabe' Walker in the new Cliffhanger movie, though the actor ultimately left the project and it was subsequently overhauled with James and Brosnan leading the reboot instead.
The official synopsis reads: 'In this reboot of Cliffhanger, seasoned mountaineer Ray Cooper (Brosnan) and his daughter Sydney run a mountain chalet in the Dolomites.
'During a weekend trip with a billionaire's son, they are targeted by a gang of kidnappers. Ray's older daughter Naomi (James), still haunted by a past climbing accident, witnesses the attack and escapes.'
The cast for Cliffhanger also includes Nell Tiger Free, Franz Rogowski, Shubham Saraf, Assaad Bouab, Suzy Bemba and Bruno Gouery.
In order to prepare for Cliffhanger, James underwent real training to learn how to climb to achieve the epic shots seen in the movie.
Collet-Serra said in a statement: 'Shooting our movie on location in the Dolomites using large format cameras was imperative for us to show the scope and scale of the story we're telling.
'We're going to bring the audience a truly thrilling and visceral, premium theatrical experience. Lily in particular has gone above and beyond for the role, putting in real training and learning to climb.
'Her dedication has allowed us to capture some incredible shots we couldn't have achieved otherwise, and the whole crew is blown away by her commitment.'
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Saul and my future father-in-law are already reclined in the den, poring over the Post and last night's Knicks game. The MIL is no dummy, and it's only a matter of time before she catches on to my lie. The hard truth is that I've been pawning off grocery store–bought knafeh as my own for six weeks now. What would Saul say if he found out that my "Best in the Community!" knafeh wasn't mine at all but the product of a multimillion-dollar goliath of kosher baked goods? Would he still have asked to marry me? It would cost my ring a carat, at least, if he found out how I unwrapped the (parve) margarine-glued kataifi square from its frozen casing, tossed it in the oven, and waited exactly seventeen minutes until it browned. He would never trust me again if he saw how I sprinkled crushed pistachios on top to create the illusion that the store-bought pastry was mine. In the other room, I can hear Saul over the exhausted hum of the Frigidaire say, "Ma. This one's gonna fatten me up, Ma. I'm a dead man." The MIL has finished clearing the dining room table, which means she has retreated to the den and I'd better get started on dessert. I move from the garbage bin to the kitchen island, where cookies and pastries wait in their still-warm tins. I begin to plate the mamoul in symmetrical rows of four, wiping the excess sugar from around the silver tray. I feel the saliva collect inside my cheeks as I imagine sinking my teeth into one of the date-filled pastries. This, too, the MIL made from scratch. She made them from scratch like she makes everything from scratch. Mamoul and atayef and sambusak and yebre. Her freezer is its own supermarket, packed to the gills with Costco-bought Ziploc bags full of readily defrostable "pickups." She can whip up a meal faster than you can decline her invitation. This is a fact, and it's one she takes great pride in. 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This is the way the MIL carries herself at all times, as if her undying commitment to her children might break her at any moment. She welcomes the pain. I imagine her saying: "Throw me on the pyre!" "Epidurals are for women who own bread machines!" "Let my tombstone read: Marie 'I will always get the last word' Dweck, Beloved Wife, Mother, Grandmother, and MIL." My MIL pulls the knife away from Saul and proceeds to cut into the knafeh. Rose water pools inside each sliver. This is not a cake that came frozen from a box. As she hands Saul the first slice, the MIL tells us her new diet is working—she is down to 165 pounds as of last Thursday. Which means she's no longer seeing the old doctor, a miracle worker before he was a liar and a crook and, eventually, as these things tend to go, an anti-Semite. How quickly the consensus around him had shifted over a plate of kaak and a particularly spirited game of canasta. Which brings me to the second lesson Sitto has taught me: Only two things can happen to a professional who stakes his reputation on women who play canasta; they're either broken or made over the game. There is no in-between. My mother-in-law tells us that somebody in her group got wind from somebody who was buying mazza from somebody, that the real miracle worker is two offices over in the ramshackle building in Sheepshead Bay that houses sixteen holistic dietitians and not one working scale. She had her doctor of three decades fax over her medical records within the hour. Excerpted from Sisters of Fortune by Esther Chehebar. Copyright © 2025 by Esther Chehebar. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher. Excerpt: "These Summer Storms" by Sarah MacLean It was not a walk of shame. Yes, Alice had slipped from beneath the heavy arm hooked over her hip and remained perfectly still, clinging to the edge of the too-small bed in Quahog Quay Room 3, staring at the door through which they'd crashed a handful of hours earlier in a breathless tangle of rain-soaked bodies and baggage (literal and metaphorical). Yes, once she'd been certain he wasn't going to wake up, she'd collected her discarded clothes like they were unexploded munitions and crept to the bathroom, closing the door like she was cracking a safe. And yes, when she'd exited the bathroom after washing her face and combing the salt and sea through her hair, she'd studiously ignored him, handsome and half-naked and asleep as she snuck out into the six o'clock sun peeking over the Bay, golden and gorgeous, promising to burn away the remnants of the night before. She walked the quarter mile from the clapboard motel to the docks, eager to get there before the harbormaster or anyone else in that small town full of big mouths would see her—but not because she was ashamed. At least, not because she was ashamed of her one-night stand, which, while deeply out of character for Alice, had proven really pretty great—in more ways than the obvious. Growing up Alice Storm, she'd learned to be suspicious of people who appeared from nowhere. The threats were myriad, from the obvious (photos and gossip about spoiled rich girls were the hottest of modern commodities, the messier the better) to the insidious—charming, clever parasites who would do anything, say anything, for proximity to wealth and power. Franklin had trained all his children to be wary of any kindness that appeared freely given, resulting in something of a skills gap when it came to interpersonal relationships. The first blush of attraction that made fast friends and breathless romance for the rest of the world was not to be trusted for Storm children, and Alice had built her shields early—especially when it came to sex. Over the years, she'd selected partners like other people selected cars, with careful consideration: miles per gallon (a career outside of tech), safety ratings (interest in Alice, but not Storm), resale value (willingness for a long-term commitment). Sure, she'd made some mistakes (one colossal one), but the truth was, one-night stands were not well rated by Car and Driver. But Alice hadn't been herself the night before, and her world wouldn't be itself again for a while, and she'd liked that big, steady man with his strong hands and sure touch and his willingness to step into the fray to keep her out of it. She'd liked how different he was, not like the refined, polished boys of her youth or the frivolous, boisterous man she'd been planning to marry. Long Legs had been full of quiet steel when he'd punched a photographer and taken her hand in the darkness. And then he'd been deliciously rough—his palms stroking over her skin, the way he kicked the motel-room door closed behind them with a massive thud, his gruff words as he'd pressed his heavy weight to her, asking what she liked. Telling her what he liked. Praising her body, her touch, her kiss. No hesitation. No apologies. Just . . . truth. Truth was rare and precious in Alice's life, so, yes. She'd basked in the truth of that man and his desire and his ability to anchor her to her own body for a few hours. A calm before the Storms. Alice tossed her bags into one of the three skiffs moored at the far end of the salt-weathered dock, loosened the lines and fired up the outboard motor, tucking the night away, a secret to keep with all the others as she sailed out of Wickford Harbor for the first time in five years. Since the day her father exiled her, finally, after she'd disappointed him for the last time. The storm from the night before had blown east toward Cape Cod and out to sea, but the scars of it remained, Narragansett Bay churning beneath the small boat, choppy enough to make the six and a half nautical miles to Storm Island a challenge. Alice had sailed since before she'd walked, however—learned at Franklin Storm's feet how to adjust and accommodate, how to work with a mercurial sea, how to respect it. It might have been years since she'd been at the helm of a boat, but she fell back into it with ease, heading into bright sun, reveling in the sting of the salt water on her skin. She navigated the small boat northeast into the Bay, unthinkingly taking her father's favorite approach—via the southern tip of Storm Island, where a small, ancient building housed a fog bell atop the steep, rocky slope. For many, this was the least interesting angle of Storm Island, but her father loved an entrance, and this route, around the cliff's edge on the western side of the island, gave visitors and gawkers a breathtaking surprise, the rock sliding away to reveal a patchwork of trees and fields marked by centuries-old stone walls, leading to an enormous nineteenth-century manor house on the highest point of the island, like a character in a gothic novel, but without the woman in the nightgown running away from the ghosts within. To be honest, though, the day was young. Alice slowed the skiff as she came around the cliffside, taking in the view. The house, tall and imposing, all gables and stained glass, surrounded by a few acres of lush wild thyme in deep greens and bright whites and purples. The boathouse, with its weathered cedar shingles, large enough to house her father's prized sailboat, The Lizzie, in the off-season. Rugged slate steps from the dock up the rocky hillside to the house. Ancient trees—her father's favorite red oak, enormous and strong. Still there. Five years, and nothing had changed. Except everything. Excerpted from These Summer Storms by Sarah MacLean. Copyright © 2025 by Sarah MacLean. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher. Chapter 2 The Family Business The red taillights on Uncle Louie's chartreuse Impala blink as he backs the car out of his garage on his way to pick me up for work. He and Aunt Lil live in the last house on the corner lot before the intersection of Surf Avenue, which leads to the beach. Their Cape Cod, the most landscaped home in all of New Jersey, stands out among the mix of white split‑level and soft blue saltbox houses that hug the curve of the shore of Lake Como like a rope of shimmering opals. Through the years, Aunt Lil and Uncle Louie have installed every manner of ornamentation and architectural interest on their half‑acre lot. 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"For a price," Uncle Louie says into the phone. "Don't soak me, Googs. I'm not in the mood." "Text the address and I'll deliver." Rolando "Googs" Gugliotti hangs up. He is one of Uncle Louie's oldest work colleagues. He would be the Joey Bishop in Uncle Louie's Rat Pack. He shows up, does his business, and disappears like a vapor until you need him again, or he needs you. I look down at my phone. "How does he know exactly when to call? It's creepy." "Not in the least. He's an intuitive salesman. Make a note." I scroll to the notes app on my phone and await instructions.