A film and series library the whole household can search, a list of what you mean to watch and what you already have — and twenty-four games for the twenty minutes it always takes to agree on something.
No menus to learn and nothing hidden three levels down. Everything below lives behind one of these three.
The catalogue. It opens on what your family said it likes the first time the app ran — and on the IMDb Top 100 if you told it nothing in particular. The search stays folded away behind the magnifier until somebody actually wants it.
Two lists in one place: what you mean to watch, and what you already have. Tick a film off the plan and it does not vanish — it moves across to Watched, with the date you saw it.
Everyone on the account, the games hub, the awards cabinet, the dressing room, the skies and the music. Ages here are what decide what each person is offered.
Type a title, or do not — narrow by kind and by genre and let the shelf do the work. Every card carries the poster, the year, the rating and the certificate, so the question of whether the nine-year-old can watch it is answered before anybody presses play.
Loved Films is the family's favourites shelf. Watch-Later is the plan. Film History is everything you have already sat through, newest first — and a film cannot be both planned and already seen, so ticking one moves it rather than duplicating it.
Some want a keyboard, some want a stopwatch, some want a pencil and some only want you to talk. Four of them need no reading at all, so the youngest in the room is never sitting the round out. Pick a kind to narrow the list.
"Read the part, dress the avatar for it."
A part is described — the wizard who has lost his hat, the pirate who is frightened of water — and the dressing room opens underneath it. Five rails of hats, capes, faces and props, and not a keyboard in sight. The youngest in the room can win this one outright.
"Read the clue, guess who it is."
One clue read out loud to the room, one character hiding behind it. Somebody always shouts the answer before the reader has finished the sentence — that is the game working, not the game broken.
"Three little pictures, one film."
Three emoji, one film, and a room that goes completely silent and then all at once. The ones everybody gets instantly and the ones nobody gets at all are, reliably, not the ones you would have picked.
"Sixty seconds, no talking, one very silly parent."
Sixty seconds on the clock, a title only the actor is allowed to see, and a total ban on words. The phone keeps the count so nobody has to; everyone else just shouts. It is the loudest minute in the app.
"Same minute, a pencil instead. Paper required."
The same minute, except the actor gets a pencil. No letters, no numbers, no talking — and a drawing the family will still be arguing about at breakfast. The one game that asks you to fetch something first.
"Spot the fib about a film you know."
One statement about a film everybody knows, and one question: is that true, or did we invent it? Two buttons, no typing — and an unsettling number of the true ones sound completely made up.
"One famous line. Name the film."
A single famous line with the title filed off it. You will know it in half a second or not at all, and there is no middle ground — which is exactly why it is worth putting in front of a room.
"One word missing. The easy one — start here."
One word has been lifted out of a title everybody knows. The gentlest game in the hub and the right one to open an evening with, because nobody gets left out on the first round.
"T. L. K. — go on, then."
Just the initials. Nothing else on the screen at all. Somewhere between impossible and blindingly obvious depending entirely on who is holding the phone, and it flips between the two without warning.
"Every letter is there. None of them are in order."
Every letter of the title is on screen and not one of them is where it belongs. The person who spots it first never can explain how, which is the most annoying possible way to lose.
"One clue at a time. Say it early, look clever."
Three clues, handed over one at a time, and the score drops with each one you take. Call it on the first and you get to be insufferable about it for the rest of the evening. That is the entire appeal.
"Two belong together. One does not."
Three films, two of them joined by something you have to work out for yourself. Tap the intruder. The rule is almost never the first one you think of, and the reveal is half the fun.
"Two real films and one invention."
Two of these films exist. One we made up this morning. Real cinema being what it is, the invented one is very rarely the daftest of the three — which is what makes this harder than it sounds.
"Find the rule in the row. No reading, no films needed."
A row of shapes with a rule hidden inside it — tap whatever belongs on the end. No reading, no film knowledge, and no advantage whatsoever to being the oldest person in the room. Children clean up here.
"One place, three films. Only one of them has it."
A place is named — a city, a mountain, one very particular staircase — and three films are offered up. Only one of them actually went there. A geography lesson nobody notices they are having.
"Three things that happen. Which came first?"
Three moments out of one story, shuffled. Put them back the way the film told them. Much easier to feel than to explain, which is precisely why it plays so well with everyone talking at once.
"Two real films. Which one does the world rate higher?"
Two real films, two real ratings, and the world's opinion set against yours. The gap between what your family loves and what actually scores well is the whole entertainment, and it opens up fast.
"Twelve tiles, six pairs. No reading needed."
Twelve tiles face down and six pairs underneath them. No words, no reading, no clock — and, as every household eventually discovers, children beat adults at this one roughly always.
"Watch the order, tap it back. One longer every time."
The reel lights up in an order and you tap it back exactly. Then it does it again, one step longer. Everybody has a number they cannot get past, and finding out yours takes about ninety seconds.
"Look at the line-up. One of them was not there before."
Study the line-up. Look away. Something in it is different now — and the difference is deliberately the sort you almost notice, which is far worse than the sort you do not notice at all.
"Faces go past. Seen that one already, or not?"
Faces go past one at a time and there is only ever one question: have we had this one already? Straightforward until about round nine, at which point you stop trusting yourself entirely.
"Ninety seconds. The room shouts, the phone counts."
Five films with a colour in the title. Ninety seconds. The room shouts over itself, the phone keeps the tally, and somebody confidently offers a title that has never existed. Every single time.
"No right answer. Say why anyway."
Two impossible, film-shaped choices and no score at all. Nothing here is being marked — the point is the argument that follows, and the argument always follows. Good for the car, and for the ten minutes before bed.
"Spin a film nobody has made. Now pitch it."
Spin up a hero, a place and a problem that have never once been in the same film, then pitch it to the room like you mean it. Nobody wins this. Everybody remembers the pitch.
Showing all 24 games.
Nothing is stored per badge — the app keeps a tally of what actually happened and reads the awards off it. Which means a badge added next year is won retrospectively by a family who already did the work.
Tap one and the whole app changes underneath you — background, stars and dust all at once. These are the real gradients.
Synthesised rather than licensed, looping gaplessly behind everything, and switched off in one tap in Family Profile → Sound.
Five rails of choices over a live preview — hats, hair, faces, capes and props. Nothing is saved until Wear It, so a child can try a wizard hat on every character in the house and change absolutely nothing.
A search that comes up short offers a notepad instead of a dead end. What gets written on it lands on a shared board every household can read — a title, a family name and an optional note, and nothing else. It is the one screen in the app that shows you another family anything.
The app opens straight onto the films. Signing in — with Google or with an email address — is only what lets a family carry its members, its lists and its awards to a new phone. Everything is written to the device first and uploaded second, so a family on a train can still add a child.
There is no advertising in Film Heaven, no analytics SDK, and nothing is sold to anybody. The one permission the app asks Android for is internet access.
Family Profile → Delete Account. It asks you to type the account's own email address rather than tapping "are you sure?" twice — a second confirmation gets answered by the same reflex that answered the first. The family record goes first, the account second, and a failed wipe stops the whole thing rather than stranding your data.
If the app is already uninstalled, use the deletion request form. It reaches us directly and we action it within 30 days.