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This review may contain spoilers.

Batman Begins is a solid introduction to Christopher Nolan’s trilogy. This reboot offers a fresh start for the Batman character, completely distancing itself from the tone and aesthetics of previous installments. Here, the superhero vanishes in favor of a vigilante within a darker, more mature action-thriller. It’s a film that works and that sets the stage nicely for what’s to come.

One idea I found especially interesting is how the birth of Batman is deeply tied to the concept of fear, and how something so negative becomes the foundation for a hero. It adds a lot of depth to the character and sends a powerful message about how fears and insecurities can be transformed into strengths. That duality gives the figure of Batman a unique complexity, distancing him from the typical superhero stereotype.

One of the things that bothered me most—and what I consider the film’s biggest flaw—is the pacing. It’s just too fast. I understand this is Nolan’s style—you can see it in Inception (2010) or even The Dark Knight (2008), although it’s more controlled there—but here it becomes overwhelming. The story moves so quickly that it’s hard to take in, and on top of that, the constant time jumps and flashbacks make following the plot more difficult. There were moments when I just felt overwhelmed, and that’s why I can’t rate this film higher. I’m interested in what it’s trying to say, but I don’t fully connect with it because there’s barely any room to breathe.

Adding to that is a soundtrack which, while powerful at times, often felt too intrusive. It sometimes sounds so epic that it clashes with what’s happening on screen. Instead of ing the scenes, it overpowers them, and that took me out of the story more than once.

That said, I do appreciate how the film explores Bruce Wayne’s origins, from his childhood trauma to his training and return to Gotham. It’s all well-structured and engaging, though, as I said, it goes by so quickly that it’s hard to absorb the finer details. The film also takes time to establish his connection with Rachel Dawes, his childhood friend and a key moral figure in his life. This relationship adds a more human, emotional layer to Bruce, showing that despite his dark mission, he still has personal ties anchoring him to his past and to Gotham.

In my opinion, Christian Bale fits the role perfectly. Thanks to his incredible performance, he gives Bruce Wayne a personality that truly aligns with the character: serious, complex, with that dark edge, but also vulnerable.

On another note, I was surprised by how little screen time the Scarecrow gets, especially considering how memorable he is. Cillian Murphy has something magnetic about him, and it was interesting to see him in an earlier stage of his career, speaking with an American accent we’re not so used to. His character is unsettling, visually effective, and had great potential—so it was a shame that he gets overshadowed by other villains like Falcone or Ra’s al Ghul.

I also have to highlight the incredible cast in this film. It’s amazing to see so many familiar names so well cast. Michael Caine, Morgan Freeman, Gary Oldman… there’s not a single weak performance. 

Despite its flaws, the film maintains enough tension to keep you engaged and curious about what will happen next. Even if you don’t connect emotionally all the time, it still manages to hold your attention and guide you steadily to the end.

That said, I feel like Nolan’s style isn’t fully formed yet in this film. Batman Begins feels like an experiment—a good one, but still restrained—and that distinctive style we now associate with him doesn’t truly come together until The Dark Knight (2008), where everything finally clicks into place. Other aspects, like the depth of the ing characters, the narrative balance, and the control of pacing also need refinement here, but improve noticeably in the sequels.

In short, Batman Begins is a good first installment. It’s not perfect and doesn’t move me as much as other films in the genre, but it works well as a prologue. It lays the foundation for what’s to come.

“People need dramatic examples to shake them out of apathy.”

This review may contain spoilers.

James and the Giant Peach is a whimsical children’s fantasy based on the book of the same name by Roald Dahl in 1961. It tells the story of James, a boy who escapes his harsh home life when a giant peach grows in his garden, and he embarks on a surreal journey to New York with a group of talking insects. The premise is as absurd as it is endearing: a child literally enters a flying peach. It’s absolute madness—in the best way possible.

Just like Coraline (2009) and The Nightmare Before Christmas (1993), this is one of the films directed by Henry Selick that many people still confuse with Tim Burton’s work. And it’s easy to see why—the visual and narrative style is incredibly similar. In fact, Burton was a producer on this film, as he was with The Nightmare Before Christmas (1993). That distinct aesthetic is clearly present throughout the movie.

The use of stop motion is absolutely mesmerizing. Personally, I think this is the first time I’ve seen a stop-motion film that also includes live-action actors, giving it a very original and experimental touch. Visually, it’s a gem, filled with imagination, charm, and symbolism.

One of the film’s strongest symbolic elements is the rhinoceros, which represents death and the trauma James carries after losing his parents. This dark figure contrasts with the warmth of the characters he meets on his journey and adds an unexpected emotional depth to a children’s story.

I also find it very interesting how the film explores the idea that family is something you choose. After living with his cruel aunts, James eventually finds an environment where he feels accepted, loved, and respected. His bond with the insects serves as a beautiful metaphor for chosen family, which can often feel more real and meaningful than biological ties.

The concept reminded me a lot of Coraline (2009), in the sense that the protagonist seeks to escape an oppressive environment and ends up discovering a new, almost dreamlike world—brought to life through stop motion. I really wish I had seen this film as a child because it has that magical, childlike charm so typical of Henry Selick’s movies. 

One of my favorite scenes is when Mr. Grasshopper begins playing the violin at the very top of the peach, on a dark, starry night. The song playing is Family, which creates an absolutely stunning moment—visually beautiful, and filled with whimsy and dreamlike fantasy that makes it feel almost otherworldly. I really love how Mr. Grasshopper explains to James how he perceives music, telling him what he plays when he’s happy and when he’s sad. That moment feels very tender and heartfelt. Overall, the soundtrack, composed by Randy Newman, is amazing—the songs are really cool and add so much emotion to the film.

And let’s talk about the peach: honestly, it might be the most delicious-looking thing I’ve ever seen. It’s animated with such texture, color, and detail that it looks mouthwateringly real. It feels like a character in its own right, warm and inviting throughout the entire film.

As for Paul Terry’s performance as James, I was surprised to learn this was his only film. I actually really liked his performance—he brings a sense of tenderness and vulnerability to the character. The voice cast also did an outstanding job bringing personality to each of the characters, especially the group of insects, who truly come alive thanks to their expressive voices.

Although it might rank a little lower compared to some of Henry Selick’s other works, James and the Giant Peach still stands out as a unique and artistic piece in its own right.

“Maybe it started that way, as a dream, but didn’t everything? Those buildings, these lights, this whole city! Somebody had to dream about it first, and maybe that’s what I did. I dreamed about coming here, but then I did it!”

This review may contain spoilers.

A lonely mother is given a second chance at motherhood when one of her homemade dumplings comes to life. But as the little bao grows up, she learns that nothing stays the same forever.

Pixar never disappoints, and Bao is no exception. Alongside the studio’s signature high-quality animation, this short offers a tender—albeit bittersweet—reflection on the bond between a mother and her child, and the emptiness left behind when the child decides to leave the nest. The short clearly touches on the emotional weight of empty nest syndrome, portraying how deeply a parent can struggle with the transition of letting go.

It’s especially curious that this story is told through the famous Chinese steamed buns known as bao. This choice is not only a nod to the cultural significance of food as an expression of love and care in Chinese families, but also a powerful metaphor: like the bao, a mother’s love wraps and protects her child. Interestingly, the word bǎo (宝) in Mandarin means “treasure” or “precious,” and is often used affectionately to refer to children—like in bǎo bao (宝宝), meaning “baby” or “little treasure.” This subtle linguistic layer adds even more emotional depth to the story. In just eight minutes, and without a single line of dialogue, Bao manages to evoke powerful emotions and deliver a meaningful message about family—especially about the role and inner world of mothers.

The soundtrack, clearly influenced by traditional Chinese music, and the anime-inspired character expressions—exaggerated—complete a brief but deeply moving experience.

Of course, it’s impossible not to mention the plot twist, both shocking and oddly heartbreaking, when the mother eats her own dumpling-child in a moment of desperation. It’s a macabre, symbolic act that speaks volumes: sometimes, in the face of loss, we may destroy what we love rather than accept that it’s no longer ours.

Bao also made me reflect on that instinct so many mothers seem to carry by nature—though not all, of course—that enduring presence despite time, distance, or even a broken relationship. There’s something about that kind of love that quietly persists, and this short captures it with a delicacy that leaves a mark.

This review may contain spoilers.

Rosemary’s Baby follows a young wife who, after moving into an old New York building with her husband, begins to suspect that a dark conspiracy is surrounding her pregnancy.

Rosemary’s Baby is not just a classic—it’s one of the defining cult horror films. With an atmosphere that becomes more and more oppressive with each scene, Roman Polanski manages to turn the ordinary into something deeply disturbing. He doesn’t rely on cheap jump scares: the horror seeps in through manipulation, uncertainty, gaslighting, and that terrifying feeling of losing control. What struck me the most is how the film reflects, in a chilling way, how women’s bodies can be controlled and objectified by powerful social and religious structures that serve only themselves. It was clearly a turning point in psychological horror, and I’m convinced it influenced countless films that came after—The Exorcist (1973) being one of the most obvious, especially in how it uses religious horror to dig into deeper social fears.

From the very first scene, that lullaby—Lullaby (Sleep Safe and Warm) by Krzysztof Komeda and sung by Mia Farrow—sets the tone perfectly. It sounds gentle, almost comforting, but there’s something quietly haunting underneath, like a whisper warning us of what’s to come.

There are moments that still stay with me. Like when Rosemary tells Hutch that it’s normal to lose weight in the first months of pregnancy, echoing what she’s been told. Later, Mr. Castevet repeats almost the exact same phrase—“well, she has lost some weight, but that’s quite normal for the early months. Later on, she’ll gain… probably far too much.” We realize that idea has been planted in Rosemary’s head. It’s such a subtle way of showing how her perception is slowly being twisted.

Guy casually its he had sex with her while she was unconscious, brushing it off as a “necrophilic little fantasy.” That moment is grotesque. From there on, everything shifts. We know her husband is involved in something bigger, and that his friendliness with the neighbors isn’t just politeness. In fact, when he hears she’s pregnant, his excitement isn’t for his wife—it’s for the chance to rush and tell the Castevets.

There’s also the scene where Rosemary suddenly finds herself eating raw meat, only to look up in horror at what she’s doing. At the same time, she’s being completely cut off from anyone not part of this twisted circle. Hutch mysteriously falls into a coma right before he’s supposed to meet with her—and then dies. The film drops all these breadcrumbs for you to piece together, and honestly, that kind of slow-burn horror really got to me.

What I find so brilliant is how Polanski never confirms anything too early. As a viewer, you feel exactly what Rosemary feels: isolated, confused, increasingly paranoid. The line between reality and delusion is so thin that even when things start to become clear, that lingering doubt never fully goes away. Personally, I wasn’t 100% sure of anything until Rosemary sees her baby—and then suddenly, it all makes sense. The cult, the betrayal, the horror… and the worst part is realizing she was right all along.

And then there’s all the strange lore surrounding the film itself. The death of actor John Cassavetes, the composer Komeda falling into a coma and dying not long after—uncannily mirroring Hutch’s fate—and other tragic events. The Dakota building, where it was filmed, is also infamous for real-life tragedies, like the murder of John Lennon right outside and the death of Sharon Tate, Polanski’s wife, who once lived there. Honestly, it’s surrounded by weird coincidences I don’t even want to think about.

The film brilliantly has a clear satirical undertone about society’s obsession with motherhood. Rosemary is a woman with almost no agency over her own life or body. In fact, it’s quite ironic that Roman Polanski would be the one to make a film about a woman whose body is used against her will. The film doesn’t scream its message, but it’s all there: how society—and even religion—can be twisted to turn women into vessels. 

Mia Farrow is mesmerizing in this role. Not just beautiful—though she is—but completely captivating. She becomes Rosemary. Her performance is raw and intimate in a way that makes it hard to look away. And while Ruth Gordon won the Oscar for Best ing Actress (and she’s great), I honestly can’t stop thinking about Mia Farrow and John Cassavetes. They managed to deliver absolutely terrific performances, full of tension, ambiguity, and charisma that’s hard to compare. Also, as someone who’s obsessed with 1960s aesthetics, I was absolutely drawn in by the costumes, interiors, and makeup—it’s a visual time capsule.

That sense of dread—both thematic and emotional—is what kept me completely hooked for the whole 2 hours and 12 minutes. It’s a film that gives you anxiety in the best possible way. For me, Rosemary’s Baby isn’t just a horror film. It’s a haunting experience, a puzzle full of slow-building tension, and a true masterpiece of psychological horror.

“It’s like they’re a bunch of witches or something.”

This review may contain spoilers.

10 Things I Hate About You is a modern and loose adaptation of Shakespeare’s The Taming of the Shrew (1590~1592). The original story takes place in Renaissance Italy, but here it’s brought—with a refreshing twist—to a 1990s American high school. And while it might seem like “just another” teen rom-com at first glance, it actually stands out.

The film rises above the flood of romantic comedies based on absurd bets and forced love stories (How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days (2003), anyone?). Sure, it plays with clichés, but it does so with charm, humor, and a cast of characters that somehow feel genuinely likable, even when exaggerated. Plus, it’s impossible to overlook the fact that this is one of the most memorable roles in Heath Ledger’s short but brilliant filmography.

The connection between Heath Ledger and Julia Stiles is one of the things I love most about the movie. They don’t just work well together, they click. They have that spark you don’t often see on screen, that feeling that two people fit naturally without having to force it. They’re the kind of couple that makes you think, “They just work,” not only because they look good together, but because of the energy they share. Their characters are also completely different from the rest: Kat and Patrick are outsiders, misunderstood, a bit removed from the usual high school social dynamics. And that’s exactly why, when they find each other, they connect in a very unique way.

What I especially like about Patrick is that even though he agrees to the bet—and doesn’t handle it well—he never tries to change Kat. Even though she’s the girl nobody seems to like, the one with strong opinions who doesn’t fit into the idea of a “normal” teenager, he accepts her as she is. He never tries to tone her down or fix her.

Like most Shakespearean-inspired stories, we’re presented with familiar archetypes: the “bad boy,” the sweet and obedient girl, the clever outsider. Kat, played by Julia Stiles, is the smart, outspoken older sister who refuses to conform to what’s expected of her, standing in contrast to Bianca—the popular, pretty, more conventional younger sister. Joey is the arrogant popular guy, and Cameron, played by Joseph Gordon-Levitt, is the shy, awkward one… although personally, I’ve always found him incredibly charming. Honestly? In my high school, he would’ve had every girl wrapped around his finger—myself included.

I also acknowledge that the movie is based on a pretty outdated idea of romantic attraction—that women who are “hard to get” are somehow more desirable just because they’re a challenge. The entire premise revolves around that logic, and yes, it’s something that can feel questionable now. But it’s also important to that this story is directly inspired by a centuries-old play, with all the courtship values and gender roles that come with it. Even if the setting is a high school in the ‘90s, it still carries echoes of that older mindset. That said, for the time it was released, this kind of portrayal didn’t feel particularly out of place. Nowadays we can look at it with a more critical lens—but I don’t think that stops us from enjoying the film for what it is.

And it does get a lot right. The film might be simple, but that’s part of its charm. It’s the kind of story that’s easy to love, accessible to pretty much anyone—as long as you’re not expecting anything too deep or demanding.

The “Can’t Take My Eyes Off You” scene has become one of the most iconic teen movie moments of the ‘90s. It’s over-the-top in the best way—a grand romantic gesture that somehow feels innocent, sweet, and truly endearing. And of course, the poem scene at the end still hits just as hard.

The movie is soaked in ‘90s culture—from the music to the outfits to the witty, fast-paced dialogue. But above all, what truly makes it special is that it’s a true comfort movie. It offers warmth, nostalgia, and familiarity—qualities that turn a simple teen rom-com into a cult favorite that never loses its emotional resonance.

"I hate the way you talk to me
And the way you cut your hair
I hate the way you drive my car
I hate it when you stare
I hate your big dumb combat boots
And the way you read my mind
I hate you so much, that it makes me sick
And even makes me rhyme
I hate the way you're always right
I hate it when you lie
I hate it when you make me laugh
Even worse when you make me cry
I hate it when you're not around
And the fact that you didn't call
But mostly I hate the way I don't hate you
Not even close
Not even a little bit
Not even at all"

Vincent is a stop-motion short film directed by Tim Burton when he was just 24 years old. In just under seven minutes, it tells the story of Vincent Malloy, a seven-year-old boy who’s obsessed with the macabre. He dreams of being like his idol, Vincent Price, and imagines himself in eerie gothic scenarios, often inspired by the works of Edgar Allan Poe. In real life, he’s just a quiet, imaginative kid—but in his head, he lives in a world of darkness, experiments, and tragic poetry.

What makes Vincent absolutely adorable and unique is not just its story, but the fact that it’s one of the first glimpses into the creepy and creative mind of Tim Burton. It’s narrated entirely in verse (written by Burton himself), which adds a theatrical, almost poetic rhythm that perfectly complements the visuals and gives the whole piece a fairy tale-like quality. Even with its dark themes, there’s a certain charm to it—an innocence that reminds us of the way children often live in their fantasies, blurring the lines between imagination and reality.

Vincent Price, as the narrator, does more than just tell the story—he makes a subtle yet powerful tribute to classic horror cinema. His voice brings a sense of elegance and timeless horror charm to the piece. For Burton, this collaboration was more than just a professional one; it was a heartfelt homage to one of his lifelong inspirations. Years later, Price would appear as the inventor in Edward Scissorhands (1990), the final role he would ever play in a film.

Stylistically, the short is shot in black and white, using strong contrasts and dramatic lighting that evoke German Expressionism and early silent horror films. These elements beautifully complement the haunting and playful world of Vincent’s imagination. The bizarre and tragic daydreams that populate the film—his beloved wife buried alive, his dog Abercrombie turned into a zombie, and his poor aunt dipped in hot wax—show just how far his imagination can go.

In my opinion, it’s the perfect way to introduce kids to Tim Burton’s cinema without making them run away in fear, haha. It’s creepy, creative, and strangely sweet—a tiny masterpiece that already showed what Burton would become.

“His voice was soft and very slow,
As he quoted The Raven from Edgar Allan Poe:
’And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor,
Shall be lifted—Nevermore!‘”

This review may contain spoilers.

Ed Wood, a film set in the 1950s, tells the story of a filmmaker who, despite being considered one of the worst directors in history, pursued his love for cinema no matter how many times he failed. What makes this film so fascinating is that it isn’t your typical biopic about a revered figure—it’s about someone who failed spectacularly and still kept going. It shows us the life of a failed director, someone who today is ed more for his ion than for the quality of his films. The result is a deeply engaging portrait, not just of the man, but of a filmmaker’s love for cinema—and in a way, it also provides insight into the history of cinema as a medium itself. Even though it’s based on real events, it’s clear there are creative liberties taken, but that doesn’t take away from its emotional authenticity.

In real life, Edward Davis Wood Jr. is perhaps best ed for his infamous cult classic Plan 9 from Outer Space (1959), a film often cited as one of the worst ever made—which, ironically, is what made it famous.

Ed Wood is a dramedy that, without abandoning humor, takes its main character seriously and treats him with genuine respect. Although Tim Burton is often associated with gothic, fantastical, and visually elaborate worlds, Ed Wood adopts a much more restrained and grounded tone within his filmography. It surprises with a more realistic style, shot in black and white, and directed with elegance and intimacy—focusing on the characters and the essence of their struggles rather than grand stylistic flourishes. Still, there are visual nods to classic horror and the influence of German Expressionism, especially in the way some scenes are lit and framed. While it retains a subtle eccentricity, it’s a film that invites you to connect with Ed as a flawed, but deeply human, dreamer. Rather than mock its protagonist, it subtly celebrates his resilience, even when the world sees him as a failure. Ed clearly made films that didn’t correspond to his time—his ideas felt outdated to many, yet they were sincere reflections of his personal vision.

The comedic tone works beautifully to tell this story, adding levity to Ed’s many misadventures. It provides a counterpoint to the sadness that lingers beneath the surface, because, while the tone is lighthearted, this is ultimately a tragic story. The film only touches the beginning of Ed’s decline, which would later spiral into alcoholism and other struggles. Still, there are genuinely funny moments that will have you laughing out loud, especially in scenes that showcase Ed’s unrelenting optimism—like when he convinces the entire crew to get baptized just to secure funding from a Christian producer. You can’t help but ire his determination to keep filming no matter the cost. It’s moments like these that really highlight Ed’s unshakable belief in his own vision.

Johnny Depp gives one of his most heartfelt performances, portraying Ed Wood with tenderness and charm. It’s a restrained performance that never devolves into caricature, offering a nuanced portrayal of a man whose dreams always seemed to be just out of reach. Alongside him, Martin Landau’s Oscar-winning performance as Bela Lugosi is nothing short of remarkable. He plays the aging actor who once starred in the 1931 Dracula with a heartbreaking mix of sadness and dignity. The chemistry between Depp and Landau is moving and powerful—together, they form a truly unforgettable duo.

Ed Wood as a character also allows the film to explore gender identity and self-expression in a refreshingly non-dramatic way, free from moralism or judgment. The film does not label Ed for his love of dressing in women’s clothing; it simply shows it as part of who he is, without ridicule or sensationalism. I personally loved how this was handled—so naturally and realistically. My favorite scene in that regard is the one at the haunted attraction, where Ed opens up to his new girlfriend and tells her that he enjoys wearing women’s clothes. She accepts him. It’s a special scene, because in the middle of all the rejection and chaos, he finally finds someone who accepts him as he is. This aspect of his identity was also central to his first film, Glen or Glenda (1953), which reflected his own experiences with cross-dressing.

Even though the film wasn’t a box office hit, its emotional and artistic quality has led many to consider it Burton’s most mature and complete work. In my opinion, not necessarily because it’s “better” than others, but because it aligns more with certain critical standards that tend to value realism, and a more conventional cinematic approach. Often, more fantastical or sentimental Burton films like Big Fish (2003) or Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (2005) are dismissed for being too “childlike” or whimsical. But I think those films have just as much artistic identity and take even greater creative risks. For that reason, I believe they’re just as important and just as representative of who Burton is as a filmmaker.

“Visions are worth fighting for. Why spend your life making someone else’s dream?”

This review may contain spoilers.

Pirates of the Caribbean: At World’s End is the conclusion to a trilogy that has grown in complexity, ambition, and darkness. If The Curse of the Black Pearl (2003) immersed us in a vibrant pirate world and Dead Man’s Chest (2006) delved into its shadows, this third installment brings every character arc to a close.

The story centers on the need to form alliances in order to face a common enemy: Lord Beckett. Yet this final conflict is less a war between good and evil, and more a clash of personal interests. Each character pursues their own goals, what benefits them, what they want or need: Jack wants to escape his debt to Davy Jones and, deep down, achieve a kind of immortality; Will is willing to do anything to free his father, even betray his allies; Elizabeth is forced to grow and take on unexpected leadership—though in this film, her character feels less compelling. Her decisions and sudden leadership feel convenient for the script, as if this transformation had to happen for the emotional paths of her and Will to split and create narrative tension. Barbossa acts as a mediator between chaos and strategy, with always ambiguous motives. The Pirate Brethren unite not out of belief, but because there’s no other choice against imperial domination.

Still, the film feels a bit long. Unlike the previous two entries—which are also lengthy but justify their runtime through steady pacing and development—this one sometimes drags, which feels all the more noticeable given that certain storylines are wrapped up too quickly. One clear example is Calypso: after all the buildup in the second film, her liberation here feels rushed and anticlimactic.

The need to tie up so many subplots makes the film lose part of the humorous and lighthearted tone that defined the saga, becoming even more serious than Dead Man’s Chest. Although moments of humor remain, the playful spirit of The Curse of the Black Pearl gives way to a multi-character plot dominated by betrayal, death, and sacrifice. Yet within this maturity lies one of its strengths: At World’s End feels more grown-up, and focused on the idea that the pirate world is coming to an end.

Visually, the film continues to explore boldly. The cinematography is stunning, from the exotic landscapes of Singapore to the final battle inside the maelstrom. The scene where the ship flips to return to the living world is one of the most visually striking in the saga. During the climactic battle, the use of slow motion—especially as Beckett walks down the stairs while his ship is being torn apart—creates an almost operatic feel. The CGI, furthermore, maintains the same impeccable quality since the first film, providing strong visual continuity throughout the trilogy.

Personally, one of the most powerful scenes is Jack in Davy Jones’ Locker, surrounded by copies of himself, trapped in a kind of purgatory with nothing but sand, the Black Pearl, and crabs. He is alone with his conscience, condemned to a constant hunger he cannot satisfy—not because he needs to eat, but because it represents a desire that can never be fulfilled. It’s a striking portrayal of his madness, ego, and internal conflict. At the same time, it’s a punishment: he is paying for his past actions, confronting the consequences of his selfish nature.

The crab appears as a symbolic figure that, though never explicitly explained, holds great visual and thematic weight. It represents transformation, nature, and the eternal cycle of life and death. It’s a creature that doesn’t move in a straight line but sideways, like the characters themselves, who drift from their paths, contradict themselves, and change course. There’s also something eternal and mad about its presence. The crab, which reappears when Calypso is released, seems to connect both characters in their moment of transformation—Jack and Calypso.

The costumes are impeccable, with every detail carefully crafted—from the worn pirate outfits to the crisp imperial uniforms. There’s clear attention to worldbuilding, and even as the tone shifts, the visual universe remains a priority. The soundtrack, as always, doesn’t disappoint. The song sung by the sailors at the beginning, Hoist the Colours, works as a funereal hymn to what the pirate world once was, reinforcing the identity and mythology of pirates.

At World’s End is not a perfect film, but as a trilogy closer, it is epic, beautiful, deeply symbolic, and a very fitting conclusion to the saga’s journey.

“It’s not just about living forever, Jackie. The trick is living with yourself forever.”

⊹ Links ⊹

Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl
Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest

Mr. Incredible and Pals is a short animated film that parodies 1950s cartoons, starring Mr. Incredible, Frozone, and a bizarre talking rabbit named Mr. Skipperdoo. It’s a fantastic parody that perfectly reflects the retrofuturistic aesthetic of The Incredibles universe. What I love about it is how it imagines what the original movie might have looked like if it had been made back then—probably in 2D with a comic-book style like this one: limited animation, static backgrounds, and a very unique vibe. Plus, the short includes a commentary track on the DVD, featuring Craig T. Nelson and Samuel L. Jackson, which is a fun touch for fans. It’s their first reaction to watching the short, and it adds an extra layer of enjoyment.

"I get caught! The black superhero gets caught!"

⊹ Links ⊹

The Incredibles
Incredibles 2
Jack-Jack Attack
Auntie Edna

Just like Jack-Jack Attack (2005) is part of The Incredibles (2004), Auntie Edna is the short we get in Incredibles 2 (2018), where Edna takes care of Jack-Jack and seizes the opportunity to design a suit that can withstand his many powers. It’s sweet and funny—a fun little addition for those of us who’ve always loved this world.

Edna Mode is an absolute icon, and having her in a short like this feels like a real treat, especially considering how few scenes she actually gets in the films. I’ve always loved how fascinated she is by the art of costume design, and in this case, creating one for a baby like Jack-Jack—so unpredictable and explosive—seems to thrill her even more. Their dynamic is hilarious, and even though the short is brief, it definitely leaves you smiling.

“The stage is yours. Listen to your audience, they’re lucky to be in your presence. Do the turn. Yes! You’re a tiny god!”

⊹ Links ⊹

The Incredibles
Incredibles 2
Jack-Jack Attack
Mr. Incredible and Pals

This review may contain spoilers.

Jack-Jack Attack always felt like a hidden gem from The Incredibles (2004)—a short film that expanded the world I was so fascinated by as a kid. It came on the same DVD as the movie, which I had at home as my most prized possession. I watched it on repeat, just like the movie. The short follows Kari, the babysitter, as she struggles with Jack-Jack’s chaotic powers.

Kari has this innocent yet slightly lunatic personality that becomes truly hilarious when paired with Jack-Jack turning into fire and shooting laser beams from his eyes to the sound of Mozart. I guess she must have been pretty shaken up after leaving the baby with a guy in a superhero suit and hair like Jimmy Neutron’s.

It’s not essential to watch the short, but it is cleverly tied into the larger story: at the end of this film, Kari’s memory gets wiped, just like Tony’s at the beginning of Incredibles 2 (2018). Pixar knew exactly what they were doing.

“Originally, I was gonna have initials for ‘Baby Sitter’, but then I would’ve been going around wearing a big ‘BS’, and you understand why I couldn’t go with that.”

⊹ Links ⊹

The Incredibles
Incredibles 2
Auntie Edna
Mr. Incredible and Pals

This review may contain spoilers.

Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man’s Chest plunges us once again into the chaotic world of Jack Sparrow, this time facing a blood debt to Davy Jones, lord of the deep. While Will Turner tries to help Jack in order to protect both Elizabeth and himself, new threats, shifting alliances, and old enemies return, weaving a story that is darker, more complex, and emotionally deeper than its predecessor.

One of the film’s greatest achievements is that it expands the universe of the first movie without losing its essence. If The Curse of the Black Pearl (2003) was a sparkling adventure with touches of comedy and fantasy, here we dive into a more intricate tale, filled with emotional layers, mysteries, betrayals, and moral dilemmas. Each character begins to confront inner conflicts that force them to make difficult choices, making their arcs feel more genuine and human.

Will Turner, for instance, is unexpectedly reunited with his father, Bootstrap Bill. Elizabeth Swann, who in the first film seemed to have a clear destiny, begins to waver emotionally, revealing that perhaps her feelings aren’t as defined as she believed—the magical com that points to what one desires most doesn’t lie. Jack Sparrow, for his part, occasionally drops his carefree facade and shows genuine fear and anguish about his fate, especially with the Kraken lurking around every corner of the sea. The dynamic between the three main characters becomes more mature and more complex. For the first time, we see cracks in Elizabeth and Will’s relationship, with Jack inserting himself into the mix in an unexpected way.

Artistically, visually, and scenically, the film is dazzling. We are presented with a much darker and less vibrant aesthetic than the first film. In my opinion, this is a very wise choice, as I feel it aligns more closely with the story and the mysterious mythology of this installment. The dark, damp, oceanic look of the Flying Dutchman creates a fascinating atmosphere. The ship feels like a living creature, and its crew—half men, half deep-sea creatures—visually represent the curse of a soulless eternal life. Whereas in the first film the curse revolved around death, here it centers on eternity and the gradual loss of humanity. This darker aesthetic is maintained in the following installment as well, reinforcing the visual and emotional consistency of the trilogy as a whole.

Davy Jones, portrayed with a mix of cruelty and tragedy, is perhaps one of the saga’s best villains. His backstory and pain make him much more than a typical antagonist. There’s a depth to him, both in personality and appearance, that makes him unlike any other character. The CGI used to bring him and his crew to life is stunning—his octopus-like face and tentacled features are a testament to the incredible advancements in visual effects. He gives up love to avoid suffering—and yet he still suffers. He channels his pain into music. This is a character who, having become an octopus-like creature, plays the organ with his tentacles and has a crab-like claw for a hand. The rest of the crew also take on sea-creature forms. We even see one crew member embedded into the ship’s wall, symbolizing the grim fate awaiting the entire crew. The introduction of elements tied to pirates, the marine world, or sirens (seen later in the saga) strikes me as incredibly creative and fully in tune with the tone of the films—without ever losing the serious edge that defines them. 

The film also stands out thanks to its impeccable production design, inventive set pieces, and an impressive variety of settings. Scenes such as the sword fight atop the giant wheel, the escape from the cannibal tribe, or the Kraken attacks are not only technically flawless but also brimming with humor and dynamism. The plot takes many twists and turns, but it does so in a coherent way, keeping you on edge throughout. There’s not a single dull moment. Although this film adopts a more serious and dramatic tone, it still includes plenty of humorous moments. Personally, I believe that balance is one of its greatest strengths.

Additionally, the introduction of new characters such as Lord Beckett and Tia Dalma enriches the universe even further. Beckett embodies the cold, bureaucratic power of the East India Trading Company, while Tia Dalma brings a mystical element that links the human world with the supernatural. We also see a new twist to the character of Norrington. And of course, the ending—with Jack bravely facing the Kraken alone and Barbossa returning from the dead—is arguably the most thrilling of the trilogy (for those of us who like to believe Pirates of the Caribbean is just the original three films). It’s the only truly open-ended finale (as the second and third films are essentially one long story split in two), and it leaves you with your heart in your throat.

In short, Dead Man’s Chest is a sequel that not only lives up to the first installment, but in many ways sures it. It’s more ambitious, darker, more emotional, and more complex. Like the original, it blends action, comedy, drama, and fantasy with uncommon mastery.

Personally, while I understand that the first movie holds a privileged place in collective memory due to its freshness and nostalgia, this second film is the one that moves me the most, that fascinates me visually, and that I value the most in of storytelling.

“Life is cruel. Why should the afterlife be any different?”

⊹ Links ⊹

Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl
Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End

This review may contain spoilers.

Alice in Wonderland, Disney’s animated adaptation based on the works of Lewis Carroll, is, to me, one of the studio’s most unique and special films. Although it initially received mixed reviews, it has grown in appreciation over time and is now seen as a deeply influential piece.

The story follows Alice, a curious young girl who, bored with reality, follows a white rabbit and falls down a rabbit hole that leads her to a completely absurd world where logic doesn’t apply. There, she meets eccentric characters and unpredictable situations.

Even though the film was released in the 1950s, I’ve always felt it both reflects and anticipates the spirit of the 1960s—not only because of its more colorful and psychedelic aesthetic, but also because of its surrealist narrative. During the rise of counterculture, it’s no surprise that it was rediscovered and appreciated from a different angle.

What fascinates me the most about this film is how it dives into the world of dreams and the subconscious, much like surrealism itself. Everything takes place inside Alice’s mind, and that gives the story a strange mix of wonder and unease. At times, it’s charming, and at others, honestly a bit disturbing—especially if you imagine yourself in her place. There’s something powerful in witnessing a reality where nothing makes sense: cookies that make you grow or shrink, singing flowers, a rabbit always running late. That eccentric and colorful world perfectly captures the chaos of the subconscious and the beauty of the illogical. It strongly reminds me of the work of artists like Dalí or Max Ernst, and I think that’s where part of its brilliance lies.

I also can’t help but think about the connection between the film and the drug culture that emerged during the ’60s, especially when it comes to the character of the Caterpillar. The whole scene, with the smoke swirling, and the cryptic way he speaks, almost feels like a metaphor for altered states of consciousness. That idea is reinforced when Alice eats part of a mushroom he gives her and suddenly changes size—a moment that strongly echoes the effects of hallucinogens, where perception of one’s body and reality becomes distorted. This imagery even inspired Jefferson Airplane’s iconic 1967 song White Rabbit with lines like “Go ask Alice when she’s ten feet tall." Whether intentional or not, the film’s dreamlike atmosphere took on a new meaning in that era, and similar themes of madness and distorted perception are explored in Melanie Martinez’s Mad Hatter (2015).

I completely understand that some people might find the story empty or directionless—after all, Alice doesn’t have a clear goal like in more conventional movies. But I think that’s exactly where its value lies: this film is more about the experience, about how she moves through each obstacle without knowing exactly why or where she’s going. It’s an unpredictable journey, and that absence of logic is what makes it so rich in possibility and imagination.

Its impact is still noticeable today. Many works have reinterpreted its universe through darker or more psychological lenses, such as the video game American McGee’s Alice (2000), Tim Burton’s live-action film Alice in Wonderland (2010), or the series Alice in Borderland (2020). All of them explore themes like madness, identity, or the tension between chaos and order.

Alice in Wonderland doesn’t resemble anything else in the Disney catalog. It’s not a film that tries to deliver a clear moral or lesson. Instead, it leaves you with a strange feeling, and it makes you think, question your own reality, and accept that many times—even in our world—nothing really makes sense.

And that’s what I love most about it. The idea that Alice feels lost in Wonderland makes me think how one of its characters would feel if they suddenly landed in our world. In the end, you realize our own world is also full of absurd rules, of rigid expectations that often don’t mean much. For me, it’s a one-of-a-kind film that always inspires me and sparks my imagination far beyond what’s shown on screen.

“But I don’t want to go among mad people.” — “Oh, you can’t help that. Most everyone's mad here.”

This review may contain spoilers.

Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl introduces Jack Sparrow, an eccentric pirate who must face a cursed crew to recover his beloved ship, the Black Pearl. Based on the classic Disney theme park attraction, the film reinvents the pirate figure, blending adventure, action, romance, comedy, drama, fantasy, and pretty much any genre you can think of into a fresh and engaging cinematic journey.

One of the most interesting aspects of the plot is how it plays with your head, constantly giving you unexpected twists. There are small plot twists that make it truly addictive: like when Jack switches sides several times, throwing everyone off and adding this chaotic, almost vaudeville-like humor; or when Barbossa stabs him, and for a second you think it’s over—but no, Jack had stolen a medallion at the last second and is now immortal. Then there’s the ending, where Will saves Jack from the gallows, openly confirming his identity as a pirate. The film takes another turn, keeping the tension and emotion high until the very last moment. These unexpected twists are what make the movie’s rhythm never falter, keeping you glued to the screen.

I also think a huge part of the film’s success lies in the chemistry between the actors and how well-developed the characters are. Each one feels essential. They’re not just there to fill space—they all have defined personalities, clear motivations, and backstories that make them stand out. Even the villains feel memorable and, in their own way, likeable, which is not something every movie pulls off.

For me, one of the most enjoyable dynamics is the relationship between Jack Sparrow and Hector Barbossa. Their contrast—Jack’s chaotic unpredictability versus Barbossa’s stern pragmatism—creates this fantastic tension and humor. And that spark isn’t limited to them. The interactions across the entire cast feel alive. There’s even a surprisingly flirtatious chemistry between Jack and Elizabeth, which adds a fun layer of complexity to her relationship with Will.

The setting and costumes are another highlight. The roughness of the pirate world creatively blends with the sophistication of period costumes, achieving a visually impressive and well-executed fusion, along with the production design.

The action scenes, in turn, are clever and dynamic, choreographed to the rhythm of the music, which adds a humorous and fantastical touch. A great example of this is the famous sword fight between Jack and Will. The editing is agile and engaging, complementing this rhythm, ensuring that the film, despite being over two hours long, never loses its energy. Klaus Badelt’s score (produced by Hans Zimmer) ties it all together—one of the most iconic soundtracks of modern cinema, in my opinion.

Johnny Depp’s performance with his portrayal of Jack Sparrow is arguably the pinnacle of his career. He brings so much originality and charm to the role that it’s hard to imagine anyone else pulling it off. It’s hilarious, unpredictable, and deeply memorable—no wonder the character became such a cultural icon.

While I personally think other films in the franchise may sur this one in of artistic risk or experimentation, I still see this as the heart of the series—the one that started it all. What continues to impress me over time, alongside everything else, is the physicality of it—the way the characters move and act, the attention to detail. Its originality still stands out. Few films, outside of the franchise, can truly compare to it.

“I’m dishonest, and a dishonest man you can always trust to be dishonest. Honestly.” 

⊹ Links ⊹

Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man’s Chest
Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End

Lilo & Stitch 2: Stitch Has a Glitch is, for me, one of those sequels that you watch once and then kind of forget it ever existed. The plot feels flimsy from the start: apparently, Stitch wasn’t properly “charged” during his creation because Jumba got interrupted mid-experiment. This “glitch” causes him to lose control and fall back into destructive behavior.

The conflict around Stitch already felt resolved in the original movie, and this sequel doesn’t bring anything particularly new or emotionally compelling to the table. If anything, Stitch: The Movie (2002) did a better job, at least by expanding the universe with new characters and narrative threads. This sequel simply recycles what had already been addressed.

There was potential to focus on other storylines, like the relationship between Nani and David, or to delve deeper into the characters of Jumba and Pleakley. Even exploring Lilo’s parents’ backstory could’ve added depth—especially considering the hula competition is tied to Lilo’s memories of her mother. That could’ve been such a beautiful emotional anchor.

Instead, we get pretty flat dialogue, much like what happened in Stitch: The Movie, but without the novelty. It lacks the cleverness and heart that made the original so special.

That said, if there’s one thing I did genuinely enjoy, it was the animation style. It’s subtler, more polished, with a softer color palette and smoother transitions. The pastel tones give it a certain warmth I actually preferred to the first film’s bolder contrasts.

In the end, Lilo & Stitch 2 might entertain younger viewers for a while, but if you’re hoping for something meaningful or memorable, you’re not really missing out by skipping it.

“Stitch, I’m so sorry. I kept saying how I needed you. But you needed me more.”

⊹ Links ⊹

Lilo & Stitch
Stitch! The Movie

The Faculty begins when a strange parasite starts infecting students and teachers at a high school. Casey (Elijah Wood) and a group of classmates—including Zeke (Josh Hartnett) and Marybeth (Laura Harris)—discover they’re facing an alien invasion and must unravel the mystery and defeat the parasitic queen before everyone is controlled.

The film came out in the late ’90s, during that wave of teen thrillers with a sci-fi twist and flashes of humor. Looking at it now, I find it… pretty average, to be honest. It doesn’t exactly stand out among the flood of similar titles from that era—and definitely not when compared to the kind of variety we’re used to now.

That said, there’s still a kind of nostalgic charm to it. Watching young Elijah Wood, Josh Hartnett, Clea DuVall, Famke Janssen, and even Salma Hayek in early roles gives it a certain appeal—especially if you’re into late-’90s aesthetics and teen casts that now feel iconic in retrospect. The practical effects are also worth mentioning: that slimy slug creature and the alien gore still manage to be decently gross, in the best way.

The story keeps your attention and even delivers a small twist I didn’t see coming. But most of the runtime feels weighed down by flat dialogue and characters that feel like cardboard cutouts—overused archetypes without much soul. It’s hard to really care about what happens to them. The premise simply adds nothing new to alien-invasion cinema, recycling overly clichéd formulas.

Maybe I’m judging it too harshly through a modern lens, without fully appreciating it as a product of its time. While it’s often celebrated as a nostalgic icon for those who grew up with it, I neither grew up with it nor do I feel much nostalgic pull when watching it. Unfortunately, for me, it’s one of those films that won’t leave much of a mark.

“The truth is, you never know who’s really on your side.”

This review may contain spoilers.

Nine years after the release of Sin City (2005), its sequel, Sin City: A Dame to Kill For, came out—and to my surprise, I actually think it holds up pretty well in of both visual style and narrative tone. It was a pleasure to reconnect with the returning cast, and also refreshing to see new additions like Eva Green and Joseph Gordon-Levitt. Both fit perfectly into the Sin City universe, bringing a distinct yet coherent energy to the overall tone. Classic characters also return with new faces: Miho is now played by Jamie Chung instead of Devon Aoki, and there’s a brief cameo by Lady Gaga as the waitress Bertha.

While some people believe this second installment doesn’t quite reach the narrative quality of the first, I don’t share that opinion. In fact, I think some of the stories here are even more compelling than those in the original—with the exception of That Yellow Bastard, which remains the best story of the two films, in my opinion.

It’s also worth noting that A Dame to Kill For includes two completely original stories written by Frank Miller exclusively for the screen: The Long Bad Night and Nancy’s Last Dance. Neither of these appears in the original comics.

Although Johnny’s storyline might seem secondary—appearing only at the beginning and end, and not taking up much screen time—I personally found his arc really engaging—it totally subverted what I thought it was going to be about. Johnny comes off as a cocky, charming young man who just wants to win money, fitting well with Sin City’s superficial and cynical world. But that initial motivation turns out to be a façade: what he truly seeks is to challenge his father, Senator Roark.

One of the more negative points for me was the actor change in the character of Dwight. In the first movie, he was played by Clive Owen (post-surgery), while in this second one he’s played by Josh Brolin both before and after the operation. That really threw me off—at first, I wasn’t even sure it was supposed to be the same character, something I only confirmed after looking it up.

It may also be surprising to see Marv alive in this sequel, given that he dies in the first film—but the two Sin City movies are chronologically intertwined, and not everything in A Dame to Kill For necessarily happens after the events of the first installment.

Visually, A Dame to Kill For tries to take things a step further artistically. Some sequences struck me as absolutely stunning, leaving me speechless. I especially liked the handling of nudity, as in the first film, with elegant use of shadows that suggest more than they show, giving those scenes a lot of class.

I also noticed a significant change in visual style. The first movie had a more defined aesthetic: high contrast, dramatic shadows, hard lines, and that ink-on-paper effect that looked straight out of a comic book. In this sequel, the contrast is much softer, with a grayer palette and blurred outlines. In certain moments—like Ava Lord’s house—that classic comic-book style returns, but overall, the visual approach felt a bit uneven to me—some parts looked straight out of a comic book, while others leaned more realistic and didn’t blend as well.

That said, this sequel felt significantly less violent and explicit than the first. Some may see this as a positive change, but personally, I don’t. The extreme violence was an integral part of Sin City’s visual identity—just as much as the black-and-white visuals or selective use of color. With that rawness toned down, the film loses some of its impact.

I also felt that although most performances worked, many came off a bit weaker, perhaps because the dialogue has lost the poetic and punchy quality that characterized the first film. As a result, some characters feel less deep and memorable.

Finally, I appreciated how the stories are structured this time around. They’re more interwoven, with smoother transitions—unlike the first film, which separated each story with title cards. That structure had its charm, sure, but I actually enjoyed how this one flowed more smoothly—it made the whole thing easier to get into.

“Sin City’s where you go in with your eyes open, or you don’t come out at all.”  

⊹ Links ⊹

Sin City

This review may contain spoilers.

Edward Scissorhands is a modern fable about Edward, an artificial being created by an inventor who dies before finishing him, leaving Edward with scissors instead of hands. Edward lives in isolation in a mansion atop a hill until a kind Avon saleswoman finds him and brings him home to live with her family in a suburban neighborhood.

This film marked a turning point in Tim Burton’s career, consolidating his visual and narrative identity and opening the door to the enormous success of his later projects. Edward Scissorhands not only reaffirms Burton’s ion for gothic tales and misfit characters, but also draws audiences into his inner world with a rare honesty. It was here that the true Burton boom began: his dark, melancholic yet charming style became a trademark and a haven for anyone who has ever felt out of place.

What makes this film even more special is how deeply personal it is to Burton. The idea sprang from a sketch he drew as a teenager, inspired by his own feelings of misunderstanding and isolation. In many ways, Edward represents Burton himself: a boy who struggles to fit into a world governed by strict social rules that punish anything different. And for that very reason, I consider this film a masterpiece in Burton’s filmography—since I was a child, I connected with the very feelings his movies portray and found refuge in them as if they were my home, especially this one.

In of themes, the film delicately explores isolation, the fear of rejection, and the search for belonging. Edward had never lived among people before, and through his eyes the audience experiences emotions that are entirely new to him: the nervousness of being surrounded by strangers, the pain of being rejected, the relief of being understood, and finally, the love for those who embrace him as he truly is.

While Burton’s aesthetic is often defined by darkness, what stands out in this film is the contrast—a pastel color palette, vibrant tones, and a minimalist style that feels almost dreamlike. To achieve this effect, the house facades were painted in soft pastels and stripped of unnecessary adornments, creating the film’s signature uniform, almost surreal look. The interiors, reflecting late‑1980s suburban design, maintain a carefully curated sense of order and harmony. This same brighter, more colorful aesthetic reappears in other Burton works like Big Fish (2003), where that fantastic, emotional essence is also present.

Accompanying this unique visual style is the unforgettable score by Danny Elfman, which anyone who has seen the film will instantly recognize. His music wraps the story in a contemporary fairy‑tale atmosphere, amplifying both the beauty of the film and the melancholy surrounding Edward’s fate. It’s one of those compositions that, from the very first notes, can move you to tears. The Edward Scissorhands soundtrack is considered one of Elfman’s finest works and remains a benchmark in film music.

Finally, Edward Scissorhands inaugurated one of cinema’s most iconic and enduring collaborations: that of Tim Burton and Johnny Depp. This was no coincidence—Depp has become as integral to Burton’s style as Burton’s gothic aesthetic itself. An essential presence in his filmography, Depp may not inhabit a vast range of characters, but no one brings Burton’s creations to life with the same authenticity. His innate affinity for Burton’s imaginative worlds makes him an indispensable part of the director’s signature.

For its intimate vision, unmistakable aesthetic, and stirring score, Edward Scissorhands is, without a doubt, a masterpiece in its own right.

“Before he came down here, it never snowed. And afterwards, it did. If he weren’t up there now… I don’t think it would be snowing. Sometimes you can still catch me dancing in it.”

Sin City may be a movie you either like or don't, but it is undeniably one-of-a-kind. It’s an unparalleled visual experience, almost hypnotic in its bold, graphic aesthetic. Black and white, strong shadows, and contrasts that mimic Frank Miller’s original s. And it’s this black and white that occasionally breaks with vibrant colors, which feel less like decoration and more like bursts of meaning that stand out because of their originality, giving the film its own signature.

Sin City is one of those movies that, even if it doesn’t become one of your comfort favorites to watch a thousand times, it simply stays tattooed in your memory. With its unique and enigmatic aesthetic, the film perfectly captures the spirit of noir cinema. The black and white, the intense shadows and the strong contrasts not only imitate Frank Miller’s original s but also evoke that dark, mysterious tone filled with gray moralities that defines the noir genre. This visual style is not only striking, but like the best noir works, the city itself becomes a living, breathing character—cold, cruel, and unforgettable.

Although the dark and decadent aesthetic is the most enigmatic aspect of the film, Sin City also tells the story of a dystopian world called Basin City. A city that feels like a warped lovechild of Los Angeles, Las Vegas, and Chicago, where violence, corruption, and human misery reign. The comic (and the film) doesn’t tell a single story, but shows fragments of life from different characters trapped in that world. The key to Sin City isn’t so much the plot but its structure of “short stories.” It’s like opening a book of tales, where each story reveals a different corner of the city.

The characters share the common trait of having been dragged by the city into becoming what they are, and each one tries—in their own way—to redeem themselves, even if it’s through violence, revenge, or sacrifice. They always end up paying a high price. All the stories revolve around the same themes—revenge, redemption, sacrifice, corruption, and extreme violence—and all the protagonists (Hartigan, Marv, Dwight) seem like variations of the same archetype: broken men, hardened, solitary, with some kind of honor code, even though they live in a rotten world. In fact, at times, I couldn’t help but feel like they were all fragments of the same shattered soul. In some way, their worldview is quite similar, and this is clearly seen in the constant repetition of dialogues that, despite being repeated, carry a poetic quality.

The women in Sin City have that classic femme fatale aura, always surrounded by fatality and manipulation, as is the case with Gail (with an outstanding performance by Rosario Dawson). In a world where violence, corruption, and abuse are the norm, they represent both attraction and destruction.

The police, like the men who skirt the law, are equally corrupted, and justice seems to be within reach only for those willing to get their hands dirty. The plot constantly plays with the idea of law and disorder, blurring the lines between good and evil.

Although each story is independent, the characters end up crossing paths in one way or another. The perfect example of this is the character of Shellie (Brittany Murphy), who appears in all the stories (except The Customer Is Always Right, the briefest story of all). Furthermore, it’s for this same reason that one realizes, as the film progresses, that the stories aren’t ordered chronologically but instead appear with jumps in time.

Talking a little about each of the stories, That Yellow Bastard is my favorite. And it’s true that perhaps being the first, it makes sense, as both The Hard Goodbye and The Big Fat Kill are stories that resemble the first one quite a bit and have a very similar beginning and end. While I know it’s part of the style and world in which these stories were created, during the viewing, they started to lose their punch and became slightly repetitive for me.

Another great thing about this movie is the tremendous and surprising cast in each of the stories: Jessica Alba, Bruce Willis, Mickey Rourke, Clive Owen, Rosario Dawson, Elijah Wood, Benicio del Toro, Michael Clarke Duncan, Rutger Hauer… it’s insane.

The performances, moreover, are very interesting and striking, as they fit perfectly with this unreal world. They act in a theatrical and exaggerated way because they’re making it seem as if they’ve stepped out of a comic , not real life. This overacting is intentional, so it fits into that false, stylized world. In particular, Benicio del Toro delivers one of the most over-the-top performances, adding an unsettling and fascinating vibe to his villain character and the story as a whole.

The soundtrack oozes noir—a moody blend of jazz, rock, and industrial sounds that pulled me deeper into the shadows of Basin City.

Lastly, the ironic and dark tone that accompanies the stories is almost palpable. The film never takes itself completely seriously, which not only allows us to explore the darkest aspects of the city but also gives it a refreshing air of dark humor, contrasting with the brutality of the environment.

“I went to hell and back. And I’m still here.”

⊹ Links ⊹

Sin City: A Dame to Kill For

This review may contain spoilers.

The reason I ended up watching 40 Days and 40 Nights is quite curious: I’ve long held in a corner of my memory a scene that, though somewhat unsettling, has been etched in my mind since childhood. I think we’ve all experienced accidentally or out of curiosity seeing a movie with sexual undertones at too young an age. In my case, I vaguely ed a scene in which Josh Hartnett was flying above a sky filled with breast‑shaped clouds. That’s it. Simply that. With absolutely no context. It wasn’t even particularly hard to find: Josh Hartnett in a comedy on a boring Saturday afternoon at home in the early‑2000s. And, of course, rediscovering it made me realize it was probably the first time I saw Josh Hartnett—and the moment I had an instant crush—because more than that scene, what stayed with me was how incredibly handsome he looked in this film.

The truth is, the 2000s were a decade clearly influenced by the sexual liberation of the ’90s—there was no shortage of American movies that mixed comedy with a light erotic tone. Hollywood was experimenting heavily with the sex comedy genre, and a quick glance shows that the social norms and style of humor back then have nothing to do with what we accept today.

That said, I found the film quite enjoyable. It’s easy to digest, laughs come quickly, and the script isn’t overly clever, but its comedic tone is light enough to keep it entertaining. Honestly, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with enjoying a movie that, under today’s lens, might seem insensitive or inappropriate, as long as we understand it as a product of its time. After all, it’s impossible to judge any work based on today’s moral standards without completely stripping it of context. If we applied that criterion, countless films of the past would be labeled offensive or in poor taste.

This particular movie is built on a completely exaggerated premise: the characters are walking stereotypes, the performances verge on caricature, and the events could not be more implausible (Matt’s celibacy bet and the constant sabotages he suffers are proof). At no point does the film aim to validate or normalize situations like rape; it simply appeals to an internal logic of grotesque comedy, where everything is deformed and hyperbolic.

Moreover, I think Josh Hartnett fit this role perfectly because he naturally embodies the archetype of the attractive, kind—but somewhat innocent—guy. It’s precisely that innocence that makes the situations he faces during those 40 days even funnier, as he finds himself trapped in a sea of insecurities and temptations.

Is this film sexist or misogynistic? Possibly, yes. Does that make me think it’s garbage? Not at all. I believe a fundamental part of film history is its ability to show us not only the evolution of audiovisual storytelling but also how humanity’s mindset and culture have changed over the years. Social events have always influenced how cinema is made, and looking back with a critical yet curious perspective is one of the best ways to understand and learn from the past, so we can continue creating quality films in the present.

Of course, if this movie were released today, my review would be completely different. The mere idea of using sexual assault as a comedic device risks trivializing or minimizing the real trauma it entails. I fully understand that some people, due to their own experiences or sensitivities, choose not to expose themselves to films featuring such situations. That decision is as valid as it is necessary for their emotional well‑being.

“You can’t make someone fall in love with you. You can only be the person they’re going to fall in love with.”

This review may contain spoilers.

Pearl Harbor tells the story of the attack on Pearl Harbor during World War II. The film focuses on the conflict between Japan and the U.S. military, alongside a love triangle involving two pilots and a nurse. Now, rather than focusing on a war story with touches of melodrama, it honestly feels more like someone stitched together two completely different movies.

At the beginning, the film gives the impression that it’s going to be primarily a melodrama, until the attack on Pearl Harbor suddenly happens—and then you get an hour and a half of action scenes and explosions, only for it to switch back to melodrama again, with no real organic transition connecting both plots. After the success of Titanic (1997) and Saving Private Ryan (1998), it’s clear this film tried to follow the trend of the time: tragic love story, real historical catastrophe, and a soft ballad soundtrack. But the result feels like a poorly sewn collage.

It’s true that the action scenes are visually spectacular, and it’s obvious a large part of the budget went into them, but the same can’t be said for the story.

Now, moving on to the characters—and let me make something clear from the start: I’m not a fan of Ben Affleck at all. He’s simply an actor who’s never managed to make me feel anything, and I don’t consider his acting particularly remarkable. That said, I started the film with an open mind. But honestly, the character of Rafe doesn’t do him any favors: he’s an arrogant character, and even though the film tries to redeem him later, his reaction when he reunites with Evelyn—expecting everything to be just like before, completely ignoring the mourning period she had to go through—shows an extreme lack of empathy. He’s the typical American prototype: hero, brave, proud… but completely lacking depth or humanity.

As for Evelyn, let me be clear: it’s not that she seems like a character written by a man—she was written by a man, and it shows. I don’t want to sound condescending, but this character is absolutely disappointing. Everything she does or doesn’t do is clearly driven by the script’s needs, and her only real role is to be the love interest holding this weak melodrama together. I do understand the moment of vulnerability when she starts a relationship with Danny, but the film makes it clear that she did so out of pure need for emotional shelter—and later, it feels like the only reason she stays with him is because of the baby.

One thing that especially reinforces this is when she says: “I don’t want him to know. All he needs to think about is how to do this mission and get back alive.” Considering everything that had already happened with Rafe, and especially now that she was pregnant, the logical thing would have been to ask him to stay, or at least to give him the chance to decide whether to stay by telling him he was going to be a father. These kinds of things frustrate me so much because they make it hard to understand the character’s values and goals. I hope I’m explaining myself.

Lastly, there’s Danny. While he’s not perfect, his presence feels much warmer, more vulnerable and human. You can tell his love for Evelyn is much more sincere and genuine, less impulsive and much purer than Rafe’s. However, he makes the exact same mistake as his friend when he goes back to war, leaving the woman he loves behind, forcing her into another mourning cycle. Even so, I can understand this part, considering that at that time, duty and military pride were put above everything else, even family. First the country, then everything else.

I also want to say that, in general, I don’t really like love triangles. I feel like they’re just not necessary. You can create a huge emotional drama with just two characters; you don’t need to throw a third person into the mix to stir up problems. To me, it feels like lazy writing—cheap conflict, let’s call it—that avoids truly digging into the characters.

So of course, what you end up with is an extremely poor melodrama because the characters aren’t given enough depth, and at the same time, you’re mixing it with a war conflict that also isn’t deeply explored because the film never really gives it enough time. And the worst part is that all of this gets stretched out over three hours, which means neither the emotional drama nor the historical conflict land properly, and instead of making an impact, the story just drags on and ends up feeling like a badly assembled puzzle of mismatched ideas.

And finally, I have to say the ending is just absolutely anticlimactic, cold, and forced. Danny dies, and then suddenly we jump to the epilogue, where Rafe and Evelyn are raising Danny’s son like nothing ever happened, as if we were watching a life insurance commercial. 

So, even though I could easily give this movie a much worse rating, I won’t, because I recognize there are aspects I liked. The whole war conflict is very well executed on a visual level, the film is aesthetically beautiful, and the story itself isn’t that bad—it’s just the execution that’s honestly a complete disaster. So for me, this one falls into the “okay, fine” category: a movie to kill some time, although honestly, I probably would’ve fallen asleep if it weren’t for Josh Hartnett—because I absolutely love him.

“The battle was over in 30 minutes, but the war goes on forever.”

This review may contain spoilers.

I always end up thinking about how much this movie put Brangelina on the map, and even though I don’t think I have much to say, I always end up writing a Bible—so don’t mind me.

Mr. & Mrs. Smith is one of those classic movies with the typical enemies to lovers plot. It’s a film that almost everyone has seen, a pretty clear example of the spy thriller and hitman genre, and a movie that’s stuck around in pop culture—not only for the story, but also for all the drama surrounding it off-screen. Still, I have to it that it’s a pretty generic and predictable movie, with little to highlight beyond the obvious.

Honestly, I think that nowadays a lot of us watch it more to enjoy the eye candy than anything else. Back then, this was the couple of the moment, and the way both of them look in the movie only adds to the insane chemistry that jumps right off the screen. You can tell the actors had a great time making this movie and poured a lot of ion into it, which makes the whole thing much more enjoyable to watch. From start to finish, the sexual tension between them, mixed with the mystery surrounding both characters and that overly romanticized image of the “sexy hitman,” is the real hook. Even the tango-inspired rhythms used throughout the film help to reinforce that atmosphere of ion and seduction. I mean, you get the vibe.

That said, the movie has plenty of flaws. One of the most obvious is how the secondary characters are barely given any relevance—like John’s friend, Eddie, who is so flat that the only thing you about him is that he seems to resent women and lives with his mom. The action scenes are dynamic, entertaining, and even creative, but at the same time, that makes them feel less believable. The choreography is so polished and perfectly timed that it often looks more like a dance than a fight. While it’s clear the director was aiming for something aesthetically pleasing—and let’s be honest, probably wanted it to look sexy—it does make it hard to take seriously, and the movie ends up crossing that line between fiction and realism more than once.

On the other hand, the dialogues aren’t sharp or clever, sometimes they feel forced, and a few scenes even come close to being downright cringe. I get that this is a movie that practically sells itself thanks to its lead actors, but without them, the film would honestly be pretty mediocre. What really saves it is their performance and the sheer charisma and style they bring to their roles.

All in all, it’s a movie that’s perfect to the time and just enjoy for what it is: explosive, fun, and easy to watch. Even if my review sounds a bit negative, I still think it deserves a decent rating, simply because of the impact it had back when it was released—and the fact that people still it to this day.

“It’s amazing how much we really don’t know about each other.”

I came across Stitch! The Movie expecting something on par with Lilo & Stitch (2002), but quickly realized that it actually serves as the pilot for the TV series that followed. That status explains many of its limitations: the animation is noticeably cheaper and rushed, with a less rich color palette and almost no lighting or shading work. In some shots, the lighting is so poor that it’s hard to make out basic details, and in certain frames the characters even appear somewhat distorted—I noticed it especially in Nani—as if proportions were sacrificed to meet deadlines.

As for the story, Stitch! The Movie leverages the original film’s premise to introduce Stitch’s reunion with his experimental “siblings”: an endearing idea that unfolds with much more innocent, simplistic humor than the 2002 movie. It lacks those clever lines and darkly comic touches that gave us so many memorable scenes; everything here is clearly aimed at a young audience, which limits the engagement adult viewers can feel.

As a series pilot it does its job—introducing characters, setting up conflicts, and leaving the door open for future adventures. But anyone seeking the same technical detail, visual richness, or narrative spark of the original will feel like they’re watching “filler material.”

“We’ll catch them, one by one.”

⊹ Links ⊹

Lilo & Stitch
Lilo & Stitch 2: Stitch Has a Glitch

This review may contain spoilers.

Lilo & Stitch is quite a peculiar movie, if you stop to think about it. Somehow, it manages to blend two completely different worlds: an alien society from outer space and a place as earthly and vibrant as Hawaii. And it’s precisely this unexpected combination that sets the stage for a story about the friendship between a Hawaiian girl and an alien experiment who, by pure chance, ends up becoming part of her life.

From the very beginning, the film addresses the theme of being different—and this idea is present throughout the movie, especially in characters like Nani, Lilo, and Stitch. Lilo is, without a doubt, an incredible character. Even though her friends reject her and leave her out, she never lets it bring her down or questions if she’s the problem. She’s simply a joyful, quirky kid who doesn’t force herself to fit in, and who embraces her weirdness without a second thought. She’s also a child with absolutely no prejudice against others, always seeing people for who they are, not for how they look or behave on the surface. You can see it clearly in the way she chooses Stitch at the shelter, even though no one else likes him. Lilo is strong, full of personality, and without even trying, she teaches us the importance of embracing who you are.

The film’s heart beats around the concept of Ohana, which means family. It reminds us that, in the face of rejection and feeling out of place, there will always be a space where you are known, understood, and loved exactly as you are. It doesn’t matter if that space is small and a little broken—it’s still good. As Stitch says in one of the film’s most iconic lines: “This is my family. I found it, all on my own. It’s little, and broken, but still good. Yeah, still good.” This line captures the very essence of Ohana—that despite imperfections, we always have the ones who truly love us. 

"I'm lost." That same reflection about difference is present in Stitch’s journey too. He doesn’t know who he is or where he belongs. He was created for one single purpose: destruction. And throughout the film, you can see him struggling to figure out his identity, slowly finding his place in the world—and once he does, he no longer has a reason to be “bad.” His evolution shows that even something designed for chaos can change its purpose once it finds a home. 

As a kid, I wasn’t fully aware of the real conflict behind the so-called dysfunctional family that Lilo and Nani form. But as you grow up, you begin to notice the weight Nani carries on her shoulders. Even though her exact age isn’t mentioned, it’s pretty clear she’s too young to be dealing with such adult responsibilities. After losing their parents in a car accident, she’s forced to step up and become the guardian Lilo needs, giving up her own life and dreams. The film leaves subtle clues about this, like the surfing trophies in her room, or the way she keeps turning David down simply because she doesn’t have the time or emotional space for a relationship. Her only goal is to make ends meet and give Lilo the best life she can—even buying her a dog to cheer her up. That’s what being a true sister looks like. And honestly, I see a lot of my own relationship with my sister reflected in this film. It’s one of the many reasons why I find it so special.

Lilo & Stitch strikes a perfect balance between fun and depth, making it enjoyable for both kids and adults. It has thrilling action scenes, brilliant dialogues, iconic lines, unique and fascinating characters, and moments packed with adventure, drama, and pure heart. And of course, I can’t skip over some of the most hilarious quotes, like when Lilo justifies Stitch’s odd appearance saying: “He used to be a collie before he got ran over.” Or that unforgettable moment when she wishes upon a shooting star asking for the prettiest angel—and Stitch, at the height of his bad behavior, shows up instead. And who could forget Lilo’s sassy and fearless personality, like when she tells David: “Don’t worry. She likes your butt and fancy hair. I know, I read her diary.” And honestly, I can’t blame Nani—I think the same.

Speaking of David, I have to mention that he’s probably one of the most green flag characters in the entire Disney universe. Even though Nani keeps turning him down throughout the movie, he’s always there for both her and Lilo, offering his without asking for anything in return, and with a kind of patience and genuine care you rarely see.

And of course, I couldn’t leave out those unforgettable scenes that have become part of pop culture, like Stitch dres as Elvis, the record player scene, or Pleakley discovering femininity through dresses, makeup, and wigs—moments that everyone re and that give the film even more personality.

The soundtrack also deserves a mention, especially the way it blends classic Elvis songs with the sounds of Hawaii, giving the film a unique stamp.

Lilo & Stitch has been one of my favorite childhood films for as long as I can , and even today, it still manages to make me laugh out loud and cry like a river. It’s exciting, it’s unique, it’s iconic. For me, it’s one of the best Disney movies ever made—and one of those that people will always hold close to their hearts.

“Ohana means family. Family means nobody gets left behind or forgotten.”

⊹ Links ⊹

Lilo & Stitch 2: Stitch Has a Glitch
Stitch! The Movie

This review may contain spoilers.

En Fanfare is a film that explores the relationship between two brothers who were separated when they were adopted and reunite as adults. The story contrasts their different social backgrounds: both grew up with music as a constant presence in their lives, but in completely different worlds. One has become a renowned orchestra conductor, while the other plays as an amateur in a small-town marching band.

At first, their reunion feels forced and awkward for both of them. However, it’s precisely music—that shared language beyond any social context—that eventually brings them together. Along the way, as they try to build a bond from scratch, the film offers witty dialogues, lighthearted moments, and genuinely heartwarming situations.

Even though the narrative is simple and, in many ways, predictable, the film is still enjoyable for the sincerity and sensitivity with which it portrays how two people from such different lives manage to connect and form a bond so strong that they end up depending on each other in a positive and genuine way. Still, I would have liked the story to take more risks and to explore the brothers’ backgrounds more deeply, especially how their social realities shaped not only their relationship with music but also their way of seeing and facing the world. En Fanfare stands out for its honesty, sensitivity, and the warmth it conveys, but for me, it lacked the dramatic and comedic strength needed to become a truly memorable experience.

“La musique n’est pas seulement des notes, c’est l’âme qui les interprète.”

This review may contain spoilers.

We could say that Adolescence is the perfect series: made up of only four episodes filmed in one single take, it delivers a profound emotional and psychological impact. Each episode serves a specific narrative purpose: the first introduces the plot and characters; the second explores the school environment of Jamie, a 13-year-old boy who has committed a crime; the third delves into his emotional background during his final session with the psychologist; and the fourth examines the familial and social repercussions of his actions. This review focuses primarily on the third episode, which offers the most complete look at Jamie.

Jamie is a disturbing case study of how hatred toward women can take root in childhood. From the start of his session with the psychologist, he shows a defensive attitude toward topics related to masculinity or his father, betraying deep insecurity. Each mention of these concepts irritates him, suggesting that, on some level, he is aware that his crime was an act of misogynistic violence.

His father, emotionally distant and with a reductive view of women (“He loves my mom. His mates are his mates”), conveys the idea that women only matter for their utility—not for the iration they might inspire or the friendship they might offer. Jamie learns that women exist for one thing only. It doesn’t surprise him that his father has only male friends, and he sees no problem with it (nor should there be inherently), but the context makes it clear: when that mindset is paired with a systematic objectification of women, children absorb it too.

Jamie also accesses online hate-filled discourse—the manosphere, incels, red pill forums—where female rejection is interpreted as an injustice deserving punishment. His frustration boils over when Katie calls him an incel, a term he associates with public humiliation. That wound to his ego becomes the reason for his crime.

Jamie is desperate for his father’s validation. He its he rarely receives affection from him and that he feels distant—especially when he doesn’t meet his father’s expectations. One of the things Jamie worries most about is how his father sees him, but he shows little concern for his sister or mother. The parking lot scene, in which his father reacts violently to graffiti on his van and throws a bicycle along with a bucket of paint, demonstrates learned behavior: impulsive, aggressive, and emotionally repressed. Jamie’s father also avoids certain topics throughout the series, making it clear that he never learned how to communicate emotionally. And that, too, is ed down.

During his session with the psychologist, Jamie reveals how he views women. Of his mother, the only thing he highlights is: “She can cook a roast.” Regarding the psychologist, he first denies her authority (“You do not control what I do in my life!”), then seeks her approval (“Do you like me?”). This contradiction reveals how he sees women: not as equals, but as objects meant to be dominated or conquered. Jamie even requests that his father be his “appropriate adult,” despite having a closer relationship with his mother. Just observe how he treats male figures—his father, the security guard, the police officer—with respect, while he shows contempt toward female figures like the psychologist and his mother.

He shows no remorse after seeing topless photos of his classmate, because “everyone saw them.” He says he didn’t like Katie because she was “flat,” and really, how could he like someone who isn’t liked by others? For him, Katie is not a person, but an object whose value depends on collective male desire. He believes he has power over girls, as when he says his friend should’ve gotten more pictures before “screwing it up” with them. After Katie’s post about Jamie, he says, “I should’ve killed her, but I didn’t.” Even more disturbing: he asked her out right after the images spread, thinking her vulnerability would make her say yes. She rejected him. Then she posted online, calling him an incel. Jamie felt humiliated. But Katie wasn’t bullying him—she simply realized he was trying to take advantage of her.

Also, the psychologist reviews security footage to look for signs of remorse after her conversation with Jamie. What she sees is chilling: Jamie sitting, stretching his arms, yawning. Total indifference.

One of the most striking moments comes when Jamie, overwhelmed by his insecurities, confesses to the crime: “Don’t you go fucking telling them what I did!”

At only 13 years old, Jamie still doesn’t grasp the weight of death or its consequences. At that age, many kids don’t understand that death is irreversible, or that the lives they’ve destroyed—others’ and their own—can’t be repaired. He probably thought that, once things “got fixed,” he’d go back home as usual. But there’s no going back.

This series offers something rarely seen: instead of focusing on the victim, it focuses on the perpetrator. In the last eposiode, we see Jamie’s parents asking themselves if there was something they could’ve done to prevent what happened. The series doesn’t directly blame them, but it does point to critical omissions: the lack of clear boundaries, the normalization of misogyny at home, and the uncontrolled exposure to the internet.

Adolescence is an uncomfortable mirror reflecting urgent social problems: childhood isolation, the lack of emotional education, early exposure to hate speech and the normalization of misogyny. The performance of Owen Cooper and Stephen Graham is brutally realistic. The ending leaves a difficult question hanging: how do you rebuild a family after something like this?

This series doesn’t aim to entertain—it aims to confront. And that’s where its power lies. In a world where cases like Jamie’s are becoming less and less exceptional, works like this are essential to understanding—and perhaps preventing—the tragedies of tomorrow.

“I could’ve touched any part of her body. I really wanted to, but I didn’t. I just… Most boys would’ve touched her. So that makes me better. Don’t you think?”

This review may contain spoilers.

Black Swan could be considered one of the most influential psychological thrillers in contemporary cinema. Rewatching it, I was surprised I didn’t just how deeply unsettling and anxiety-inducing it can be. Heavily inspired by Satoshi Kon’s anime Perfect Blue (1997)—even featuring scenes that closely mirror its composition and tone—Darren Aronofsky’s film is a disturbing experience from start to finish: a claustrophobic descent into the broken mind of a protagonist divided between the desire for perfection and the complete loss of self.

One of the reasons Black Swan is so distressing is because the entire story is told from Nina’s perspective. By sharing her point of view, the viewer falls into madness alongside her: we don’t know what’s real and what isn’t, and some events are left entirely open to interpretation. This narrative choice traps us in the same mental spiral where she’s drowning.

Many of the film’s most intense scenes are pure delusion: the sexual encounter and stabbing of Lily, Beth’s self-harm, and the shocking visions of Nina physically transforming into the Black Swan. All of it is a hallucinated construction of her mind, reflecting her internal battle with perfection. What begins as a struggle against others becomes a brutal war against herself.
Nina doesn’t want to stand out—she wants to be perfect. And that pursuit consumes her. 

This is not an easy film to watch. It’s an immersive portrayal of perfectionism that sweeps everything in its path: anxiety, pressure, fear of rejection, eating disorders, paranoia, and eventually, schizophrenia—characterized by delusions and hallucinations. While not portrayed with clinical accuracy, the film effectively shows a distorted perception of reality.

Nina also shows clear signs of anorexia nervosa and a deep rejection of high-calorie foods, which is completely normalized in her environment. This isn’t presented as a problem within the ballet world, but rather as an implicit requirement of the profession. And there lies another subtle critique embedded in the film.

The movie goes beyond psychological portraiture. It also highlights a persistent and often silenced issue: abuse of power and sexual misconduct within art, acting, dance, and music academies. In these environments, talent, dedication, and hard work are often not enough. Toxic power dynamics, coercion, and deeply unfair systems have thrived for decades—especially affecting young women. Thomas Leroy, the company’s artistic director, perfectly embodies this type of abusive figure: manipulative and controlling, he exercises power over Nina not just professionally, but also intimately. Nina is not an isolated case; she represents many who have suffered—and still suffer—for following their ion.

That is precisely one of the reasons why this film hit me so hard. Not just because of its masterful execution, but because it struck something personal. It brought back memories of an artistic period in my life that, while I value, I have no desire to relive. 

Natalie Portman’s performance is nothing short of brutal. One of the most memorable roles of her career—and arguably impossible to top. Her preparation for the part—over a year of intensive ballet training—was so extreme that she suffered a rib injury. She didn’t just play Nina; she became Nina. In many ways, she personally experienced the pressure to reach perfection and the physical and mental toll that comes with it. 

Symbolism in Black Swan 

Mirrors
Mirrors appear constantly as symbols of duality, and obsessive self-surveillance. Sometimes, the reflection moves slightly out of sync—as if it has a life of its own—making it clear there’s a struggle between two “selves”: the innocent Nina and her darker alter ego, the Black Swan.

Physical Transformation
Nina doesn’t perform the Black Swan—she becomes it. Her bodily transformation isn’t just a hallucination; it’s a metaphor for her psychological metamorphosis. She isn’t “evolving”; she’s ceasing to be human. 

Visual Symbolism 
The contrast between white and black is present from the start, symbolizing the tension between purity (White Swan) and destructive freedom (Black Swan). Nina begins dressed in soft pastels, surrounded by a childlike bedroom filled with stuffed animals and naive decor—symbols of a stolen adolescence and emotional repression, largely imposed by her overbearing mother. As Nina begins to break away, darker tones take over her appearance and she dismantles that safe, innocent world.

Beth Macintyre
Beth represents the “after” of success—the price of having once been perfect. Her fall from grace, her despair… all foreshadow Nina’s fate. She’s a tragic figure serving as a mirror.

“I was perfect”
Nina’s final line represents the climax of her obsession. She doesn’t want to live if she’s imperfect. She only allows herself to exist once she has reached total perfection—even if it costs her life.

“Perfection is not just about control. It’s also about letting go.”

This review may contain spoilers.

The story of The Virgin Suicides is told from an intelligent, intriguing, and uncommon perspective: a group of young men who, now in adulthood, attempt to reconstruct the mystery of the Lisbon sisters. To them, the girls were angelic, idealized, and unattainable figures, adored almost mythologically. However, while these boys idolized them from afar, the Lisbon sisters endured the strict control of their parents.

Not only were they isolated in the very home where their younger sister had died, but they were also denied the opportunity for a social life typical of any teenager. At a crucial stage for human development, where socialization is essential, they grew up under suffocating overprotection. Their parents, fearful that their daughters would lose their purity and be corrupted by the earthly desires of society, imposed an even stricter confinement following Cecilia's tragedy and the incident with Trip Fontaine.

This film marks Sofia Coppola's directorial debut, where she established a cinematic style that she would continue to develop in her subsequent works. The Virgin Suicides addresses themes such as sadness, loneliness, and depression, but does so with a dreamlike aesthetic, creating an almost ethereal atmosphere that seems to evoke an idealized past. Perhaps for this reason, the story is set in the 1970s—a decade often romanticized as a golden era in popular culture. Coppola manages to convey a persistent melancholy amidst visual beauty, leaving the viewer with a subtle but lingering sense of emptiness. Her cinema not only tells stories but also creates atmospheres filled with contradictory emotions, balancing beauty, nostalgia, and unease.

The boys narrating the story construct their own of the Lisbons, based more on their adolescent fantasies than on reality. Ignorant of the sisters' true pain, they idealize them and turn them into figures of desire and mystery. They never managed to see beyond the image they projected onto them, unaware that beneath that ethereal beauty lay a profound suffering they never fully comprehended.

The music plays a fundamental role in building the film’s ethereal atmosphere. The soundtrack, composed by the French duo Air, doesn’t just accompany the story—it enhances the feeling of dreaminess, nostalgia, and, above all, deep sadness. It feels like music made for a memory that was never real, and yet it lingers. The repeated use of the track Highschool Lover throughout the film reinforces the sense of something being reconstructed from emotion rather than fact. When the film ends, what stays with you is not so much the weight of what happened, but a kind of inexplicable emptiness. Personally, I’m not sure if I had seen it before, but watching it gave me a strangely familiar feeling. Maybe it’s because the soundtrack evokes such strong nostalgia that it makes you wonder whether the memory is real or just something stirred by emotion. Maybe that’s the point.

One of the most striking aspects of The Virgin Suicides is that, although the film doesn't hide its outcome at any point—from the title to the first line, “Cecilia was the first to go...”—the ending remains impactful and chilling. Coppola doesn't play with suspense but with transparency, and yet she manages to deliver an emotional blow when the climax arrives.

Although the film stands out visually and succeeds in evoking emotion at times, I personally felt a lack of connection with the story. The combination of an unclear narrative and the decision not to provide the protagonists’ direct perspective made me feel lost and disconnected from the plot at times. Perhaps I’ll give it a second viewing in the future, but during this initial encounter, it didn’t fully captivate me.

In conclusion, The Virgin Suicides is a visually stunning film, with a dreamy tone and a constant aura of melancholy. It’s a tale that not only speaks of youth, repression, and suffering, but also of how we and reconstruct the past—often through fantasy, never fully reaching the complete truth.

“You’re not even old enough to know how bad life gets.” — “Obviously, doctor, you’ve never been a thirteen year old girl.”

This review may contain spoilers.

From the very beginning of Pride and Prejudice, I identified with Elizabeth. Like her, I’m attracted to men with a sepia face (it’s a Spanish expression that, well… just means they have a face). Is that a red flag?

Speaking of expressions, I hate the saying “those who fight, love each other.” But damn, it’s true. The chemistry and extreme tension between Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy are unmatched and truly define the film’s success. I’ve never seen another fictional couple convey something like this. The scene of the second dance, where the camera makes it seem like they are momentarily dancing alone in the room, perfectly captures what it feels like to fall in love. You don’t see anything or anyone else. And the rain scene… I’ve watched it so many times, knowing how toxic it is, and yet still wanting to experience it myself. The way Mr. Darcy stretches out his hand after brushing Elizabeth’s—like he just got a shot of dopamine—is a brilliant detail of body language. And I absolutely love how he gradually unravels from his impenetrable facade to the nervous wreck he becomes as he falls in love. Interpretations are delightful.

I was surprised to learn that Matthew Macfadyen felt insecure during filming and doubted his own work. My God, the tension generated on screen could be cut with a knife. Even I feel my pulse racing when I watch these two. I’m also impressed by Tom Hollander’s ability to play equally insufferable characters in both Pride and Prejudice and Pirates of the Caribbean (2006–2007) ... and how, in both movies, it’s Keira Knightley’s character who rejects him. Coincidence or fate? We’ll never know.

That said, the film also knows how to bring in some humor. Mr. Darcy claims to ire women who read, and Elizabeth immediately slams her book shut and sets it aside—determined not to please him in any way. I just die.

The visual aspect is a masterpiece in itself. The settings, the landscapes, the atmosphere, the costumes—every shot looks like it belongs in an art gallery of English neoclassicism. The sunsets, the early mornings in the countryside, the sound of birds… Simply beautiful. The scene of Elizabeth on the swing, spinning as time es around her, reminds me visually of Bella staring out of her window watching the seasons change in The Twilight Saga: New Moon (2009)—though Elizabeth’s solitude feels more reflective than devastating.

The soundtrack is another major success. Just hearing it instantly brings the warmth and comfort that the film exudes. It also makes me desperately want to go back to the kind of ballroom dances they had in the past—but without the requirement of being rich or socially relevant lmao.

If I have to nitpick something about this movie, it would be the occasional aggressive zoom-ins that completely break the film’s carefully crafted aesthetic of smooth transitions and elegant cuts. It gives off The Office (2005) vibes that absolutely don’t belong here. But oh well, I’ll forgive it.

“You have bewitched me, body and soul, and I love, I love, I love you.”

This review may contain spoilers.

Fourteen years have ed since the first installment, and although Incredibles 2 preserves the original essence in of rhythm, animation, soundtrack, and character design—now even more polished—the impact of the original concept is somewhat diminished. The story is very similar to the first, which is typical in animated sequels, and the same aura of mystery and tension when unmasking the villain is noticeably lacking.

One of the main differences lies in character development. In the first film, Syndrome offered an intriguing and nuanced background, based on his history with Mr. Incredible, which explained the grudge and malice that drove him. In contrast, the new antagonist, Evelyn, fails to match that depth and complexity, and this difference is quite apparent.

Nevertheless, the film remains extremely entertaining, delivering vibrant moments and paving the way for future installments. The action scenes, which combine familiar heroes with new characters, are very fun and dynamic, as each one displays very distinct powers and personalities, generating truly humorous situations. Personally, I hope that a third installment—perhaps centered on little Jack-Jack, who steals every scene—will overcome some of these shortcomings. If it were called Jack-Jack vs. Racoon, I’d definitely say: take all my money.

In summary, Incredibles 2 is a high-quality sequel that I thoroughly enjoy, even if it doesn’t reach the masterpiece status of the first film. Still, it’s a very solid movie that leaves me hopeful for even more innovative and surprising offerings in the future.

“Done properly, parenting is a heroic act… done properly.”

⊹ Links ⊹

The Incredibles
Jack-Jack Attack
Auntie Edna
Mr. Incredible and Pals

There’s no film I’ve seen more times in my life than The Incredibles. Every line, every scene, and every note of its soundtrack is etched in my mind. Even though I’m not a fan of superheroes, there’s something about this film that makes it unique, as its story, characters, and aesthetics set it apart from any other in the genre, creating a visual and narrative experience that continues to captivate regardless of how many times I watch it. 

One of the film’s greatest strengths is the construction of its world, where superheroes have been part of society for generations and are a completely normalized presence; however, it doesn’t limit itself to following a single protagonist, but rather presents an entire family with believable dynamics and well-developed relationships, and even the ing characters have such distinctive personalities that they become memorable.

The visual design is another of its shining points. The mid-century aesthetic, perfectly integrated with the advanced technology seen in places like Edna Mode’s house, creates a retrofuturistic style reminiscent of the 1960s, and every set is crafted with an impressive level of detail, from the architecture to the everyday objects. The animation stands out for its extreme attention to detail: the textures of fabrics, the food, and the small movements of the characters are so meticulous that, at times, one might fear blinking in case any detail is missed. The way sound and animation work together to create an immersive sensory experience is remarkable.

Had The Incredibles not featured Michael Giacchino’s jazz-influenced soundtrack, the film’s impact would have been entirely different, as the music reinforces the retro ambiance while adding mystery, emotion, and tension at the right moments (like in the scene where we see Bob entering Syndrome’s computer). This music gives genuine goosebumps. 

The narrative structure is impeccable, balancing action, comedy, suspense, and emotional depth in a fluid manner; the relationships between characters, unfold with genuinely tender and moving moments combined with real conflicts that make them even more human and relatable. Additionally, it is a film that can be enjoyed at any age: for a child, it is an exciting adventure, while for an adult, it is a story with layers of meaning that address themes such as the search for identity, the acceptance of our differences, the importance of family, and the challenges of adult life, all presented in a way that anyone can understand and appreciate.

In short, The Incredibles is not just a superhero film, but a masterpiece of animation—ingenious, sensitive, and timeless. For me, it is the film I always return to when I want to relive the nostalgia of childhood.

“The real enemy is not the one who destroys you, but the one who makes you doubt yourself.” 

⊹ Links ⊹

Incredibles 2
Jack-Jack Attack
Auntie Edna
Mr. Incredible and Pals

This review may contain spoilers.

Brave is a surprisingly underrated film, much like Merida is within the Disney princess universe. Despite this, I personally enjoyed it immensely. With that characteristic Pixar imprint—a blend of high-quality animation, profound storytelling, and intelligent humor—the film clearly delivers numerous laughs and memorable moments. The setting, the era, Scotland, and its folklore create a fascinating backdrop; watching it in its original version with the Scottish accent adds a touch of authenticity that, at times, effectively heightens the humor.

Moreover, the plot is particularly intriguing: few other princesses would have accidentally turned their mother into a bear. Merida is portrayed as an intelligent and resourceful character, with a strong personality and notable empathy, though not without flaws, which makes her feel real and human. The animation of her hair, similar to that of Rapunzel in Tangled (2010), is so distinctive that it gives her a relaxed and unique aura.

I love that the story focuses on the relationship and communication between Merida and her mother, and that the solution to break the spell lies in their reconciliation. It is, without a doubt, an incredibly enjoyable film that also conveys a beautiful message about family. Although I’m aware that the direction was handled by two different people at separate times, the production worked perfectly,

Fun fact: Will-o’-the-wisps actually exist, and I love that they included something so eerie in this movie. In my opinion, Brave is an incredibly underrated work.

“I am Merida, firstborn descendant of Clan Dunbroch, and I’ll be shooting for my own hand!”

This review may contain spoilers.

Breakfast on Pluto is a wonderful, beautiful, and at the same time, heartbreaking story. I enjoyed it a lot, although at times it also made me suffer. However, something that bothers me is seeing how some people feel the need to politicize everything.

The film was released in 2005, and while that may seem recent, the truth is that 20 years have ed. At that time, the trans community did not have the visibility it has today, so it saddens me to see some criticisms focusing solely on the fact that a cis actor played the role of a trans protagonist. Personally, I believe Cillian Murphy did an extraordinary and very respectful job portraying Kitten. His chameleon-like ability is impressive, and witnessing the transformation between such different characters as Patrick “Kitten" Braden in Breakfast on Pluto and Thomas Shelby in Peaky Blinders (2013) is simply astonishing. His performance is truly something to be recognized, as stepping into such a complex and nuanced role must have been a significant challenge.

What I loved most about Kitten is that despite all the misfortunes she faces, she remains steadfast in her thoughts and identity. There wasn't a single moment of doubt. This is something I especially appreciate, as many films about trans women focus almost exclusively on their identity struggles or gender dysphoria, whereas Breakfast on Pluto delves into the protagonist’s psyche without reducing her solely to that. The script is deeply engaging and builds a complex and endearing character.

However, there are some factors that didn’t quite sit well with me, like the chapter-based structure, which had an excessive number of chapters, giving the feeling of being a bit chaotic. Also, I think the film stretches a bit too much towards the end—perhaps 30 minutes could have been trimmed without losing its essence. Because of these reasons, the film ended up feeling a little drawn-out at times.

“But did true love save Kitten from the hands of the beast, in that worst of all fairy tales? No. What saved Kitten was her precious perfume spray, bought for £2.99 in Roches Stores on Henry Street before she left her beloved Emerald Isle.” 

This review may contain spoilers.

To my surprise, while rewatching Hercules after so many years, my mother told me it was the very first movie I ever saw in a cinema. And while I wouldn’t call it iconic just for that reason, it truly is iconic. Greek mythology has always fascinated me, and this film presents it in a way that is not only incredibly fun but also ingeniously reimagined, even if it takes creative liberties with the original myths. For instance, he isn’t the son of the goddess Hera, and the traditional story doesn’t even have a happy ending. Yet, despite these changes, the film’s unique take on the legend is anything but disappointing.

The songs in Hercules are absolutely phenomenal. It’s one of the few films I allow myself to watch in Spanish, as the voice actors did an outstanding job, and the soundtrack adaptation is just as impressive. Go the Distance, The Gospel Truth III, and I Won’t Say (I’m in Love) are undeniable highlights.

Additionally, the character designs stand out significantly from the typical Disney style of that era, with angular lines, exaggerated proportions, and highly stylized shapes. The characters don’t have the smooth, rounded contours typical of Disney but instead feature more geometric and expressive traits. Also, I have to mention Hades, who steals nearly every comedic scene. And though he’s undeniably evil, his charm makes him impossible to dislike.

Ultimately, Hercules delivers a story with a message that resonates deeply;

 “A true hero isn’t measured by the size of his strength, but by the strength of his heart.”

I watching The King’s Speech for the first time when it was released, back when I was a child. Visually, it left a strong impression on me: the sets are stunning, the direction is impeccable, and the cast’s performances are truly outstanding.

Colin Firth masterfully portrays the struggles of a monarch with a stutter, capturing not only his efforts to overcome his fears and insecurities but also the immense social pressure that comes with his role. His suffering, frustration, and anxiety transcend the screen, allowing the audience not just to understand his pain but to truly feel it.

The film’s visual composition is meticulously crafted, particularly in its use of distinctive shot compositions and a color palette that, beyond being iconic, enhances the emotional depth of each scene. Rewatching this film was a special experience for me—now, with a broader perspective, I was able to connect with the protagonist on a much deeper level. Having experienced social anxiety and stage fright myself, his journey resonated with me in a profoundly moving way.

“If I am King, where is my power? Can I form a government? Levy a tax? Declare a war? No! And yet I am the seat of all authority because they think that when I speak, I speak for them. But I can’t speak.”

This review may contain spoilers.

The infamous Snow White live-action. Honestly, I had some hopes for this. I wouldn’t say this movie is completely horrible, but it doesn’t come close to being good either. No matter how you look at it, there are catastrophic mistakes that are hard to ignore. It’s not an impossible movie to enjoy, but I still wonder—where did the budget go? Its biggest problem is inconsistency: it tries to modernize Snow White while holding onto nostalgic elements from the original, but the result is a chaotic script full of questionable decisions.

Rachel Zegler, despite the controversy and undeserved hate, is one of the few redeeming aspects. Her performance feels a bit theatrical at times (at least for my taste), but she’s charismatic, and her singing elevates the film. Honestly, without her, I don’t think this movie could have worked at all. I just hope that in the future, she chooses projects that are more worthy of her talent. On the other hand, Gal Gadot as the Evil Queen is completely flat—it feels like she was forced into this role. Her performance is utterly underwhelming, full of clichés, and lacking any depth. I didn’t see any connection to the character I once feared as a child. However, I did enjoy Andrew Burnap’s performance as Jonathan, but the scene where he and Snow White "almost kiss" felt incredibly forced. I suppose they decided that was better than the “non-consensual” kiss where the prince saves Snow White’s life.

Now, let’s talk about the sets—they looked cheap, lifeless, and honestly, low-budget. And the costumes… what was that? Not even the original Snow White dress looked like that. If you’re going to make a replica, at least make it well and with good taste. Otherwise, I’d rather see something that simply evokes the original design instead of a poorly executed attempt at imitation.

Lastly, I don’t have much to say about the CGI dwarfs. Honestly, they looked a bit creepy—they gave off that uncanny valley feeling—but I’m not sure if casting real actors would have distanced this version too much from the original. Plus, some scenes might not have worked as intended.

In the end, this remake feels like yet another sign that Disney should rethink its live-action strategy. Recycling old material might seem like a safe bet, but most of these remakes have proven that this isn't working.

This review may contain spoilers.

Although Moana 2 is not particularly memorable, I don’t think it’s much worse than the first one either. However, something I had already noticed in the original is that Moana doesn’t have many flaws, which makes her development feel stagnant. In this sequel, that issue becomes even more apparent: at the beginning of the movie, Moana is already a heroine, and by the end, she remains one, making her arc almost nonexistent and leading to a loss of interest in her character. Both the character development and the narrative feel too shallow.

However, there were aspects I did enjoy. I really liked the character of Matangi, and especially the song Get Lost, which I consider the best in the entire franchise so far (and there will likely be a third installment). In fact, I believe the songs in this sequel are generally better than those in the first movie, although they may not have the same nostalgic impact.

Ultimately, Moana 2 follows the same formula as its predecessor, introducing new characters but maintaining a structure and storyline that feel too similar. It’s another Disney film that will likely fade into obscurity over time.

“I spent my whole life learning our people’s stories, because of you, I get to live one.”

⊹ Links ⊹

Moana

This review may contain spoilers.

Moana tells the story of a young girl who, guided by the ocean, embarks on an epic quest to save her people. This film presents an extraordinary narrative rooted in a creation myth that captivated me from the very beginning—one of the film’s most remarkable strengths. The movie offers a vivid and imaginative introduction to Polynesian mythology, blending cultural depth with accessible storytelling in a way that feels both educational and deeply entertaining.

One of the most emotionally resonant moments is the tender portrayal of Moana’s grandmother’s ing. Her spiritual presence continues to guide and comfort Moana throughout the journey, adding a touching layer to the story’s emotional arc.

Another compelling aspect of Moana is the way it approaches cultural identity and personal growth. Moana’s journey is deeply symbolic—it’s a process of reconnecting with her heritage and reclaiming a cultural history that had been forgotten or suppressed. Through her determination to restore her people’s voyaging tradition, the film celebrates the resilience and wisdom of Polynesian cultures without falling into cliché or simplification.

Additionally, I absolutely loved the character of Tamatoa. His hilariously over-the-top scene, paired with his catchy musical number, stands out as one of the film’s most iconic and unexpected highlights.

“Sometimes our strengths lie beneath the surface.”

⊹ Links ⊹

Moana 2