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98

"Childhood is a knife stuck in your throat… you can’t cough it out, and you can’t swallow it."

Incendies is the kind of film that doesn’t ask for your attention—it seizes it. It grabs your face, drags it down into the ashes of generational trauma, and doesn’t let go until your soul is burned bare. Denis Villeneuve didn’t just direct a movie—he unearthed a curse, wrapped it in mystery, and played it over two goddamn Radiohead tracks like he was conjuring the end of the world.

There’s a moment in this film—you’ll know it when it hits—where the floor just caves in. Your jaw? Dropped. Your breath? Gone. It’s not a twist, it’s an obliteration. The kind of revelation that leaves you staring at the credits like a ghost of yourself. And then… silence. No one speaks after Incendies. They just sit there. Ruined.

Villeneuve crafts pain with surgical precision. Every frame bleeds. Every silence screams. The twin storylines unfold like a cracked-open ribcage, exposing love, war, religion, vengeance—layer after layer of grotesque beauty. You follow these siblings into the heart of the Middle East, and you leave with your guts in a bag and your mind upside down. The horrors are unflinching. The human cost? Unbearable.

And those two Radiohead tracks? They haunt. They linger like smoke in a war-torn cathedral. They don’t underscore emotion—they curse it. There’s something so eerie, so out-of-body about how “You and Whose Army?” seeps into the bones of this movie that you’ll swear it’s still playing hours later, tucked behind your ribs.

There are great films. There are unforgettable ones. And then there’s Incendies—the kind that makes you feel like you’ve seen something you weren’t supposed to.
Villeneuve isn’t just a director. He’s a destroyer.

And I don’t know who I was before this film.
All I know is—I’m not coming back whole.

97

“You told me not to think.”
“That was your first mistake.”

Top Gun: Maverick is what every sequel dreams of being when it grows up. It doesn’t just fly—you feel it scream through your ribcage like a missile locked onto your nostalgic heart. It’s been over three decades since Pete “Maverick” Mitchell first took to the skies, and somehow, this movie still has the audacity to break the sound barrier again—but this time with more wrinkles, more trauma, and way more G-force.

Tom Cruise isn’t acting anymore—he is Maverick. Man’s sprinting on tarmacs, flying his own jets, and probably filed the movie’s taxes himself. The film has all the ingredients of a midlife crisis but turns them into a symphony of redemption, mentorship, and shirtless beach football. It’s beautifully absurd and absurdly beautiful.

But beneath the thunderous jet engines and precision dogfights, there’s a soul here. It’s about letting go, ing the torch, and still choosing to fight when the world tells you you’re done. The dynamic between Maverick and Rooster (Miles Teller with the most emotionally devastating mustache of 2022) hits harder than an ejector seat at Mach 10. It’s a legacy story, sure, but it’s also a film about reconciliation—with the past, with guilt, and with yourself.

Honestly? I went in expecting a victory lap. What I got was a goddamn eulogy for old-school blockbusters and a love letter to everything sequels forget to be.

Top Gun: Maverick doesn’t just stick the landing—it barrel rolls through it, lights a cigar, and salutes the sunset.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go stare meaningfully at a jet while Lady Gaga plays in the background.

100

“Let everything that’s been planned come true. Let them believe. And let them have a laugh at their ions. Because what they call ion actually is not some emotional energy, but just the friction between their souls and the outside world.”

You don’t just watch a movie —you dissolve into it.

Stalker is a film that seeps into your bones like rainwater on iron. It’s a slow, relentless descent into the psyche, the soul, the very soil beneath our feet. Andrei Tarkovsky didn’t just direct this—he bled for it. It’s the kind of film that reshapes your definition of cinema itself. A behemoth from Russia that didn’t just alter the landscape—it sank it. Quietly. Majestically. Fatally. Some even say this is the film that killed Tarkovsky. And watching it… you believe it.

Each frame is a painting rotting at the edges. Mossy walls, muddy water, wind cutting through silence like a scalpel. He draws out time until it suffocates you. There are no explosions, no crescendo—just the persistent hum of something ancient, crawling beneath the Zone. The camera doesn’t move—it glides, as if it’s afraid to breathe too loudly. The result is hypnotic. Meditative. Maddening. A spiritual excavation of man’s crumbling faith in science, truth, and himself.

The beauty of Stalker isn’t loud. It’s buried deep—under debris, under time, under grief. Tarkovsky paints a world where hope is a burden, and belief might just be a sickness. It’s not a film for answers—it’s a ritual for the soul. The Zone doesn’t grant wishes. It reveals who you really are when the noise stops.

This is not entertainment. This is a surrender.

99

“We must learn to love each other so much, to forgive each other so completely, that we would be capable of forgetting everything.”

If The Sacrifice were a flame, it would burn slow—but it would never go out. Tarkovsky’s final breath in cinema isn’t a farewell, it’s a whisper to God carried on the wind, a prayer scorched into celluloid. He doesn’t shout—he aches. And in that aching, he leaves behind something that doesn’t just haunt you… it purifies you.

This is a film that crawls like time itself. Every frame is carved from stillness, and every word feels like it was spoken under the weight of eternity. It’s poetry, but not the romantic kind. It’s soaked in dread, soaked in silence, soaked in sacrifice. A man offers everything to save what’s already crumbling. And Tarkovsky makes sure you feel every breath, every creak of the floorboards, every thunderous silence before the world implodes—or doesn’t.

As a slow-burner, it tests your pulse and your patience. But it also transcends them. There’s no rush here, just meditation. The end of the world, filtered through candlelight and wind-chimes. Faith isn’t handed to you—it’s demanded. Russian cinema rarely feels this still, and yet this violent, this spiritual.

Tarkovsky’s camera floats like a ghost through the wreckage of ideology, religion, family. And when the fire comes? You’re not shocked. You’re grateful.

A final masterpiece. A funeral and a rebirth. The Sacrifice doesn’t end. It just leaves you there—naked, aching, transformed.

98

Last night I met God.
He gave me permission to call Him by His name.

You don’t watch The Brutalist—you drift through it, pulled along by a current that’s as delicate as it is crushing. It flows like rushing water, spilling off the Vistavision negative with such velocity, you’re left grasping at its edges, trying to hold on to something solid. But that’s the point—it’s not supposed to be easy. It’s not meant to offer clarity on first glance. You need time. Distance. Maybe even a third viewing just to begin to understand.

This is cinema at its most formally majestic and emotionally decimating. A deep, melancholic inversion of the American Dream, stitched together with the quiet devastation of assimilation, loneliness, and legacy. And it does all of this under the veil of architecture—a towering metaphor that shapes not just buildings, but identities. Every structure in this film feels like a tombstone of someone’s dream. A mausoleum for who they wanted to become.

It moves with the force of something mythic. Half commercial in momentum, half abstract art installation. Its detours into visual poetry—disconnected from plot, but tethered to feeling—are some of the most arresting moments I’ve seen all year. The second half doesn’t just shift tone—it redefines the film entirely, turning every earlier moment into a haunted echo. And the ending… God, that ending. It’s the kind that lingers like a bruise. The kind that earns its place beside Tár and Killers of the Flower Moon in how profoundly it recontextualizes everything that came before.

The Brutalist doesn’t build—it carves. Into stone. Into memory. Into the architecture of who we are.

98

“I wear $150 slacks, I wear silk shirts, I wear $800 suits. I wear a gold watch. I wear a perfect, D-flawless three-karat ring. I change cars like other guys change their fucking shoes. I'm a thief.”

There’s something about Thief that bleeds like real life but glows like a neon fever dream. Michael Mann’s criminal underworld isn’t stylized for the sake of cool—it is cool, because it’s cold. It’s precise. It’s lonely. And it’s honest.

Frank isn’t just a safecracker. He’s a man clawing at the idea of normalcy with bloody fingers, trying to build a future from broken pieces. And you feel that. You feel it in the rain-soaked streets, the tangerine glare of a dying streetlamp, the pulsating heartbeat of Tangerine Dream’s score that sounds like a machine humming in pain.

This is the kind of film you put on during a storm, when the world is quiet but your mind isn’t. It’s a masterclass in restraint, intensity, and melancholy. One of the most underrated films in all of cinema. You could call it a crime film, a neo-noir, a gritty thriller—but really, it’s a life lesson in shadows and sparks. And yeah, I’d probably survive if you liquefied this movie and injected it into my bloodstream.

Because Thief doesn’t just play—it stays.

98

“All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.”

Some nightmares end when you wake up. The Shining begins when you realize you're not dreaming.

Stanley Kubrick didn’t just make a horror film—he made a maze of madness. One that feels like it's been waiting for you, patiently, in the frozen halls of the Overlook. Every frame is cold, clinical, cursed. A carpet pattern seared into your brain. Blood that moves like memory. A man unraveling so convincingly you wonder if Jack Nicholson ever really came back from it.

At its core, this is not just a ghost story—it’s a story about abuse, about the slow rot of a man who loses control of himself and turns into something far worse than any spirit haunting that hotel. And once he’s gone, there’s no coming back. Jack doesn’t descend into madness; he slips, like it was always waiting underneath his skin. By the end, he’s not a person. He’s a presence. A force. A curse.

Kubrick’s choices still baffle scholars and filmmakers to this day—those lingering 4th wall stares, the two stuffed animals silently watching, tucked away in a frame like silent observers of madness. No one really knows what Kubrick meant by them, and maybe we’re not supposed to. But with Kubrick, nothing is accidental. These aren’t set dressing—they're invitations. Subconscious triggers. Quiet, unsettling reminders that in this place, everything means something, even if it refuses to explain itself. Every rewatch is another descent into a maze that was never meant to be solved.

And the score—god, the score. A constant scream underneath the film. Like the Overlook itself is wailing. Pair it with those fluid, stalking Steadicam shots, and you’re not watching the movie anymore—you’re inside it. You’re just another ghost doomed to walk the halls, forever.

This isn’t horror you run from. This is horror that sinks its claws in and waits. And somehow, it still feels more alive, more prophetic, more real than most horror made today.

The Shining isn’t a film. It’s a mirror—and once you look into it, something looks back.

98

"They teach you silence, but they can’t make you forget."

Great books don’t make Great films, but Nickel Boys is a Glorious Exception.

A Picture so bold, so singular in its vision that it doesn’t just tell a story; it forces you to live inside it. It’s not a ive experience. There is no comfortable distance, no cinematic barrier to soften the blows. This is first-person filmmaking at its most audacious—every frame locking you inside the perspective of a past that refuses to be forgotten. We don’t see this in cinema. We’re so used to the illusion of objectivity, of storytelling that places us as mere observers. But Nickel Boys refuses to let you look away. It grips you by the collar and drags you through every wound, every injustice, every buried memory clawing its way back to the surface.

RaMell Ross crafts every shot like a painter, layering history onto the screen in a way that feels tactile, almost too real. The camera isn’t just a lens—it’s a set of eyes, unblinking, relentless. Every movement is deliberate, every silence deafening. It’s creatively jaw-dropping, an ambitious way to tell such a heartbreaking story, one that rarely allows for emotional distance. It’s raw, intimate, and sometimes almost unbearable. The first-person perspective creates an eerie, disorienting effect—sometimes you’re watching, sometimes you’re trapped inside it. A ghost wandering through the past, powerless to change anything, only to witness.

And then, there’s the weight. The kind that seeps into your bones and lingers long after the final frame. Nickel Boys doesn’t just haunt—it devastates. It’s a film that forces you to sit with its pain, to acknowledge what so many would rather forget. Every second feels like a bloody punch to the soul, every frame a mesmerizing tapestry of sorrow and survival.

This isn’t just cinema—it’s a reckoning, a film that doesn’t simply want to be seen but demands to be felt.

86

"You’ll float too."

Pure nightmare fuel. A film that doesn’t just creep under your skin—it burrows, sinking its claws deep into the primal fear of childhood, the kind of terror that lingers in dark corners long after the credits roll. It: Chapter One isn’t just a horror movie; it’s a goddamn rite of age, a wickedly funhouse mirror reflecting the trauma, thrill, and brutality of growing up.

Andy Muschietti directs with the precision of a lunatic surgeon, slicing between heart-wrenching nostalgia and outright horror without missing a beat. The Losers’ Club? They’re not just kids—they're survivors, navigating a world that’s just as cruel as Pennywise himself. And that clown? Jesus. Bill Skarsgård doesn’t just play Pennywise—he embodies him, a grotesque, slithering nightmare that shifts and twists like he crawled straight out of the deepest, blackest corner of your childhood mind. His grin alone could freeze your blood.

And the cinematography on the other hand, makes Derry feel like a dream turned sour—warm summer days curdling into something sinister, every sewer drain and flickering bulb dripping with wrongness. The scares aren’t just jumps—they linger, hanging in the air, waiting, festering. And yet, somehow, it still holds onto that Spielbergian heart, that Stand by Me soul, making the fear hit even harder when it comes crashing in.

And that ending? A gut punch wrapped in blood and sorrow, a promise of horrors yet to come. Because Pennywise isn’t just a monster. He’s time itself, the creeping, inevitable dread of growing up, of forgetting, of realizing that some nightmares never really go away.

97

"You give me a time and a place, I give you a five-minute window.
Anything happens in that five minutes and I’m yours. No matter what.
Anything happens a second before or after—you're on your own."

Neon-drenched, blood-soaked, and cool as hell—Drive is a symphony of violence and silence, a film that pulses like a heartbeat and crashes like a head through glass. Nicolas Winding Refn doesn’t just make movies; he crafts moods, and this one grips you by the throat from the first frame and never lets go.

The Driver isn’t a man—he’s a ghost behind the wheel, an echo of every outlaw, every cowboy, every lone warrior who ever carved a path through cinema. He speaks in glances, moves in shadows, and when the time comes, he erupts like a goddamn explosion. The tension builds like gasoline pooling at your feet, and when the match drops—Jesus Christ. The violence isn’t just brutal. It’s poetic, a ballet of broken bones and crimson splatter under the glow of an LA skyline.

But here’s the real trick—Drive isn’t just about blood and bullets. It’s about longing. Isolation. The dream of something better, flickering just out of reach. The music swells, the city lights blur, and for a moment, just a moment, you believe in something pure. And then—reality. Cold. Merciless. Unforgiving.

And that ending? That slow, agonizing fade into the unknown? It’s like watching a legend disappear into the night, headlights vanishing down an endless road. You sit there, staring at the screen, heart pounding, ears ringing, wondering if you just watched a movie—or if you just felt something you’ll never shake.

96

"I will avenge you, Father.

I will save you, Mother.

I will kill you, Fjölnir."

Cinema isn't just images and sound—it's fury, it's blood, it's myth. And The Northman is all three, hammered into steel and drenched in the fire of vengeance. Robert Eggers doesn’t just direct films—he resurrects them from the dirt, carves them from bone, chants them into existence. This isn’t a movie you watch. It’s a saga you survive.

This is pure Viking madness. A brutal, fever-drenched descent into the howling abyss of fate. The kind of film that feels unearthed rather than made, pulled straight from the frostbitten skull of some long-dead warrior-poet. The war drums hit like thunder in your chest, the wind howls through the screen, and every frame—every single goddamn frame—feels like it was scrawled onto an ancient scroll, meant to be sung around a roaring fire.

Eggers locks you in the cage of this world, forces you to kneel at the feet of prophecy, to bow before the unrelenting hand of destiny. The battle cries echo through the mountains, the steel clashes like divine judgment, and through it all—through the smoke, the slaughter, the mythic dreamscapes—you can feel the weight of something eternal. A cosmic tide dragging this savage fable toward one singular, inescapable end.

And that end—Valhalla itself, burning bright on the horizon, the gates wide open—welcomes you with arms of flame.

A cinematic experience everyone must feel.

97

"On a long enough timeline, the survival rate for everyone drops to zero."

***** **** isn’t a movie—it’s a full-body experience. A fever dream of blood, sweat, and nihilism, soaked in equal parts rage and exhilaration. David Fincher doesn’t just direct this film; he sculpts it out of cigarette ash, split lips, and fluorescent-lit insomnia, dragging you into the filth with no way out. And you won’t want one.

It’s a film that pulses with raw, unhinged energy, its every frame dripping with a kind of primal chaos that feels both intoxicating and repulsive. The cinematography traps you in dimly lit basements and crumbling apartments, the soundtrack thumps like a heartbeat on the verge of collapse, and the dialogue? Razor-sharp, slicing straight through the bullshit of modern existence.

And then—boom. What a f*cking mindf*ck of a movie. Just when you think you have a grip on the chaos, it yanks the rug from under you, leaving you breathless with one of the most impeccable mindfuck plot twists in cinema history. It doesn’t just rewire the entire story—it rewires your brain, making you question everything you just watched, everything you thought you knew.

By the time the final scene rolls in, you're left gasping for air, staring into the abyss as the world crumbles around you.

What ***** **** achieves isn’t just a film—it’s a cultural reckoning. A beautifully deranged, sweat-stained middle finger to everything comfortable, everything artificial. And the scariest part? It still hits just as hard today.

99

“An idea is like a virus. Resilient. Highly contagious. And the smallest seed of an idea can grow… it can grow to define or destroy you.”

Inception isn’t a film—it’s an experience, a riddle wrapped in a dream, tangled in time, and locked inside a mind that refuses to let go. Nolan engineers every second with surgical precision, pulling you deeper and deeper until reality itself feels negotiable. The heist isn’t just about breaking into a mind—it’s about breaking the audience, warping their perception, making them question whether they ever truly woke up.

Visually, it’s stunning. Cities fold onto themselves, physics bends at will, and time becomes elastic, stretching and snapping with breathtaking intensity. Zimmer’s score is relentless, each note hammering like the ticking of a subconscious time bomb, a sound that lingers long after the credits roll.

And then, the ending. That final image, that impossible, infuriating, perfect moment. Nolan leaves you hanging on the edge of a cliff, unsure if you’re falling or flying, your mind screaming for resolution as the screen cuts to black.

Inception isn’t just a movie—it’s a test, a challenge, a paradox. A cinematic magic trick that only gets deeper with each watch.

The question isn’t whether you understand it.
The question is—do you want to?

97

“As far back as I can , I always wanted to be a gangster.”

Goodfellas isn’t just a film—it’s a relentless, intoxicating plunge into the rise and fall of the American Dream, Scorsese-style. A cinematic symphony of excess, violence, and consequence, where the camera moves like a hungry predator, the dialogue crackles with raw, lived-in energy, and every moment feels like it’s teetering on the edge of either triumph or total collapse.

Scorsese directs with surgical precision, making Goodfellas feel less like a movie and more like a memory—blurry, exhilarating, terrifying. The editing defies convention, the pacing never lets you breathe, and the cinematography pulls you so deep into Henry Hill’s world that you can almost taste the blood, the sweat, the paranoia. It’s pure, kinetic storytelling, fast enough to thrill, brutal enough to leave scars.

The soundtrack isn’t just a backdrop—it’s a time bomb ticking under every scene, each needle drop amplifying the highs and lows of the criminal life. And then there’s the ending—paralyzing, inevitable, the crushing weight of reality hitting like a death sentence.

Goodfellas isn’t just Scorsese’s magnum opus—it’s a benchmark in cinema, a film that doesn’t just depict a world but traps you inside it. Once you’re in, you don’t walk away. You stumble out, shaken, exhilarated, and forever changed.

59

I came for the monkey but, I stayed for the torment.

Every time those tiny cymbals clashed, my soul aged a decade. Stephen King adaptations can be hit or miss, but this? This is it. Pure, relentless dread wrapped in something oddly personal. The horror isn’t just in the monkey—it’s in what it knows.

Also, absolute hater. Didn’t take a single request. Just like every club DJ who’s ignored my perfect song picks. Its loss, I guess.

I expected a fun little horror flick. I left emotionally wrecked.

97

"You know how many foods are shaped like dicks?
The best kinds."

Seventeen years later, Superbad still hits harder than McLovin getting checked into a cop car. This isn’t just a coming-of-age movie—it’s the coming-of-age movie. A profane, chaotic, deeply relatable masterpiece that captures teenage desperation with pinpoint accuracy.

It’s the perfect storm of awkwardness, bad decisions, and that one friend who always takes things too far. Jonah Hill and Michael Cera’s chemistry is so painfully real that you’d swear they were plucked straight from your high school’s lunch table. Every interaction is a mix of unfiltered teenage ego and pure hormonal catastrophe. And then there’s McLovin—the single greatest third-wheel to ever grace cinema. A fake ID, a bottle of booze, and a couple of rogue cops later, and he’s more iconic than half the presidents on our actual IDs.

But the what really makes Superbad so magical is that, beneath all the F-bombs, the phallic artwork, and the questionable life choices, it’s about something real. It’s about growing up, realizing things won’t stay the same, and panicking at the thought of your best friend moving on. And somehow, between the dick jokes and cheap vodka, it finds the kind of heart that makes you nostalgic for your own dumb teenage years.

Would I trade my left kidney to experience this movie for the first time again? Possibly. Is Superbad still the greatest coming-of-age comedy ever made? Absolutely.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some phallic-shaped food to appreciate.

Even Bob the builder can't fix this.

"Honey, why is there an earthquake here??"
"It's Walt Disney rolling in his grave."

94

"Do you see milk in the fridge?"

Sean Baker doesn’t just tell stories—he drags you into them, kicking and screaming, until you forget you’re watching a movie. Anora is no exception. It’s a film that moves like a bad decision at 3 AM—reckless, electric, impossible to look away from.

Mikey Madison is nothing short of hypnotic. As Ani, she’s both the dreamer and the doomed, a Brooklyn stripper who stumbles into a marriage with a Russian oligarch’s idiot son. What starts as a chaotic whirlwind of indulgence and hilarity quickly warps into something darker, something suffocating. You feel the walls closing in, the inevitable crash waiting at the end of the high. And yet, Baker makes you laugh—gut-busting, almost painful laughter—before he rips the ground from under you.

Visually, Anora is a masterclass in street-level filmmaking. The handheld shots breathe and pulse like the city itself, every neon sign and cigarette ember burning into your retinas. The pacing is relentless, trapping you in the same rush of euphoria and terror Ani feels as she hurtles toward her fate. There’s no time to catch your breath—just a growing, inescapable weight pressing down on you.

And then it happens. The moment when it all shifts. The comedy dies in your throat, and what’s left is the cold, brutal realization that this was never a fairy tale—it was a trap. The sorrow isn’t loud; it’s suffocating, the kind that lingers long after the credits roll.

Sean Baker has delivered one of the most staggering, gut-wrenching films of the year. Anora isn’t just a story—it’s an experience. A fever dream of ambition, survival, and consequence, where fate isn’t a grand design, just a series of bad choices leading to one inevitable conclusion.

100

I have seen reflections of my own past, my own fears, my own longing staring back at me. Wild Strawberries is not just a film—it is a mirror, held up to the soul, revealing everything we try to forget. Bergman crafts something so delicate yet so heavy, a quiet storm of nostalgia and regret, of warmth and sorrow entwined.

Memories slip through like whispers, faces of the past drift in and out like ghosts, and time—relentless, indifferent—marches on. This film does not ask for understanding, only that you feel it. And I did.

I don’t know if I watched it, or if it watched me.

98

"Love is the one thing that transcends time and space."

Time slips through our fingers like grains of sand, love stretches across galaxies, and the vast emptiness of space feels achingly full. Interstellar isn’t just a film—it’s a heart beating in the void, a whisper echoing across time, a story that reminds us that even in the face of oblivion, love is the one thing that transcends it all.

Christopher Nolan crafts a sci-fi odyssey that isn’t just about wormholes and black holes, but about the gravitational pull of a parent’s love. Cooper (Matthew McConaughey) isn’t just an astronaut—he’s a father who leaves behind the one thing he loves most, not to conquer the stars, but to save the future for his daughter. Every second he spends drifting through space is another second stolen from Murph’s childhood, another memory lost to the relentless grip of time. And yet, his love remains, stretching across dimensions, reaching through time itself, desperate to find a way back to her.

Hans Zimmer’s score doesn’t just accompany the film—it breathes with it. Every organ swell, every delicate note feels like a heartbeat, as if the universe itself is alive, mourning, hoping, yearning. The music doesn’t just make you feel—it pulls you in, makes you weightless, makes you ache in ways you never thought possible. When the docking sequence hits, when the No Time for Caution cue roars to life, it’s not just a scene—it’s pure cinematic transcendence.

And then there’s that moment. That cruel, shattering moment when Cooper watches decades of his children’s lives before his eyes, stolen by relativity, by duty, by time itself. He left to save them, and in doing so, he lost them. McConaughey doesn’t act in this scene—he unravels. The sobs, the gasps, the devastation in his eyes—it’s the sound of a father realizing he has become a ghost to his own children.

But Interstellar isn’t about loss. It’s about faith. It’s about the kind of love that endures past lifetimes, past universes, past the event horizon of existence itself. It’s about the idea that no matter how far we go, no matter how lost we become, love is the one constant—unquantifiable, immeasurable, yet undeniably real.

The stars may be cold, but Interstellar is warm, radiant, human. A cinematic gem? No. It’s a pinnacle—one that reminds us that even when the universe is silent, love still speaks.

This review may contain spoilers.

97

"You need more than just guts to be a good gangster. You need ideas."

Some films depict violence. City of God breathes it. It stinks of sweat, gunpowder, and desperation. Every frame pulses with life, every cut slashes like a knife. This isn’t just a film—it’s a warzone trapped on celluloid, a grotesque yet mesmerizing descent into the slums of Rio, where children wield pistols like toys, and kings are crowned in blood.

Fernando Meirelles and Kátia Lund don’t just show the rise and fall of Brazil’s most notorious drug lords—they drag you through it, kicking and screaming. This isn’t some sanitized gangster epic. It’s survival carved into raw flesh, an unflinching look at a world where power shifts at the barrel of a gun and mercy is a foreign concept.

The cinematography? Ruthless. The shaky handheld shots, the scorching golden hues, the frenetic cuts—it’s all designed to make you feel trapped, suffocated by the chaos of the favelas. The camera doesn’t just observe; it hunts, darting through the labyrinth of Rio’s underworld, capturing life and death with the same brutal honesty.

Rocket, our reluctant storyteller, isn’t a gangster—he’s a witness, a survivor in a place where innocence is a myth. He stands on the fringes, camera in hand, watching as war erupts between Li’l Zé, the sadistic kingpin with a child’s face and a devil’s appetite for destruction, and Knockout Ned, a man who learns too late that vengeance is just another currency in the slums.

There are no heroes here. No redemption arcs. Just kids playing god with bullets, and the inevitable truth that power in the City of God is never held—it’s borrowed, moments before the next hungry wolf takes a bite.

City of God isn’t just underrated—it’s essential. A film that doesn’t just depict violence, but understands it, exposes it, lives it. It doesn’t ask for your approval. It doesn’t beg for sympathy. It just stares back, unblinking, daring you to look away.

This review may contain spoilers.

98

"I will cast abominable filth upon you, make you vile, and make you a spectacle."
— Nahum 3:6

Jordan Peele didn’t just make a film—he summoned something, something ancient, something cosmic, and something that lingers in the sky, watching, waiting. Nope is a cinematic anomaly, a beast of a movie that dares you to stare directly into its abyss. And, unlike the ill-fated souls of Jupiter’s Claim, you won’t be able to look away.

This isn’t just Get Out’s weird cousin. This is Peele fully unleashed. Bigger, bolder, and, dare I say, better. While Get Out meticulously peeled back layers of social horror, Nope doesn’t just peel—it devours. It’s Spielbergian grandeur dipped in Lovecraftian terror, an extraterrestrial nightmare where the sky itself is the predator.

Daniel Kaluuya’s OJ is the embodiment of stoicism, his silence louder than any scream, while Keke Palmer’s Emerald crackles with energy, a fire against the looming storm. Steven Yeun’s Jupe? A man forever haunted by the sins of spectacle, a walking, grinning eulogy to Hollywood’s insatiable hunger for horror.

And then there’s the thing in the sky. The creature. The monster. Not just a UFO but an organism, a living, breathing nightmare that consumes and contorts in ways that defy human understanding. Jean Jacket is no cold, metallic saucer—it's a being, an evolution of terror itself.

Cinematographer Hoyte van Hoytema paints the California desert with eerie vastness, turning the open sky into a prison. The sound design? Guttural. Distorted screams twisting in the wind, like ghosts being chewed and swallowed whole.

Now, let’s talk about that cunning little word. Would I recommend this movie? Nope!—because recommending would imply it’s just another film. Nope is an experience, a beast that breathes down your neck, making you feel small, insignificant beneath the cosmos.

Jordan Peele didn’t make a film. He made something that stares back. And if you dare to look up, just —some things don’t want to be seen.

96

I'm Still Here– A Ghost That Refuses to Fade

"Martha, you gotta help me. My husband is in danger!"
"Everybody's in danger, Eunice."

Some films through you—I'm Still Here lingers, haunts, clings. This is not just a film; it is a presence, something that seeps into your bones, wrapping itself around you with a quiet, suffocating intensity. If I had to describe it in three words: melancholic, sublime, spellbinding.

The film exists in a dreamlike purgatory, where time blurs and memories flicker like dying embers. Every frame is steeped in loss, in longing, in the unbearable ache of something that was once whole but now remains only in echoes. The protagonist is not merely living—they are haunting their own past, trapped between who they were and who they can never be again.

The cinematography is achingly beautiful, every shot composed like a fading photograph—soft, distant, unreal. Shadows stretch long, light bends like it’s ing something, and silence is louder than words. The pacing is deliberate, hypnotic, refusing to let you drift away. It holds your head in place, like an unseen hand pressing gently against your skull, making you watch, making you feel.

And then, the ending—an ending that doesn’t end, a question that will never be answered. A lingering breath, a whisper of something just out of reach. It doesn’t release you. It doesn’t let go. It stays, waiting, watching.

I'm Still Here is not just a film—it’s a ghost, an elegy, a dream half-ed and never forgotten.

98

"You cannot change fate.
However, you can rise to meet it"

Some films enchant you—Princess Mononoke consumes you. Hayao Miyazaki’s most visceral, untamed vision is not just a fantasy epic but a feral force of nature, roaring with beauty, bloodshed, and a quiet, aching sorrow. This is not the gentle, whimsical Ghibli of Totoro or Kiki’s Delivery Service—this is something wilder, something primal, a masterpiece that stands as arguably the best film the studio has ever produced. And yet, somehow, it remains underrated, a shadow among Ghibli’s more celebrated works.

From the first frame, it grips you—Ashitaka, cursed by hatred itself, rides into a world on the brink of ruin, torn between gods and men, nature and industry, survival and destruction. San, the wolf-girl raised by the wild, is both warrior and ghost, a living wound slashing against humanity’s greed. There are no heroes here, no villains—only beings fighting desperately to exist in a world that is devouring itself.

Miyazaki’s hand-drawn animation is staggering, alive in a way that few films ever achieve. The forests breathe, ancient and sacred, their spirits watching in silence. The battle sequences are swift, unflinching, yet heartbreakingly beautiful—limbs severed, blood spilled, and yet every moment feels like poetry in motion. And then there’s the score—Joe Hisaishi’s sweeping, haunting orchestration, a soundscape that lifts you into the clouds and buries you in the earth all at once.

But it is the ending that lingers, a quiet devastation that refuses easy answers. No victory, no absolution—only the fragile hope that something lost can still be rebuilt. Princess Mononoke does not offer comfort. It does not let you look away. It holds your head in place, forces you to watch the beauty and brutality of a world at war with itself, and asks you, in the end—what will you choose to save?

This isn’t just a film. It’s an elegy, a warning, a dream carved in myth and shadow. And like the forgotten gods of its story, it remains—waiting, watching, alive.

This review may contain spoilers.

100

"Spare him. He has a dream."

Some films tell a story—Close-Up dissolves the line between reality and fiction, pulling you into something far more intimate, far more unsettling. Abbas Kiarostami doesn’t just present a film; he *unfolds* one, stripping away the artificial, leaving only raw, fragile humanity. This is not a reenactment, not a documentary, not a drama—it is all of them at once, a blurred masterpiece where truth itself is put on trial.

At its center is Hossein Sabzian, a man who pretends to be a famous director, not for money or malice, but for the sheer, desperate need to be seen. Played by himself, in a film that reconstructs his real-life deception, Sabzian is neither hero nor villain—just a man suffocating under his own insignificance. His longing, his delusions, his sorrow—they aren’t scripted. They *are* him.

Kiarostami's direction is hypnotic in its simplicity. No tricks, no manufactured tension—just lingering frames, stolen glances, quiet confessions. The pacing never falters, because Close-Up does something extraordinary: it doesn’t let you watch from a distance. It holds your head in place, forces you to look into Sabzian’s eyes, to feel his shame, his yearning. It never lets go.

And then, the ending. A moment so heartbreakingly delicate, so unbearably real, it leaves you paralyzed. Forgiveness and sorrow, cinema and reality, all collapsing into a final, trembling frame. Close-Up isn’t just the pinnacle of Iranian cinema—it’s a quiet revolution, a film that doesn’t just blur the line between life and art, but erases it entirely.

You don’t just watch Close-Up. You witness it.

This review may contain spoilers.

97

"People say they know everything, but when they open their mouths, they say nonsense."

Some films let you breathe—Memories of Murder does not. Bong Joon-ho’s first masterpiece is less a crime thriller and more a slow, merciless asphyxiation. It grips you from the first frame, and like the unseen killer lurking in the darkness, it never lets go. There is no escape. No moment of relief. It holds your head in place, fingers tightening, forcing you to witness something grotesque, something that feels all too real.

Set in 1980s South Korea, the film follows two detectives—one a brute who beats confessions out of suspects, the other an idealist clinging to reason—as they stumble through a case too big for them, a mystery that only grows darker the closer they get. Song Kang-ho delivers a performance that is both magnetic and pitiful, a man unraveling under the weight of his own inadequacy. This isn’t about solving a crime—it’s about the slow, crushing realization that some things may never be solved at all.

Bong crafts each scene with suffocating precision. The rain never stops, the shadows stretch too long, and every shot feels like it’s closing in on you. The film is masterfully paced—there’s no moment to detach, no room to lose interest. It drags you through the dirt, holds you down, and whispers in your ear: Keep watching.

And then there’s the ending. One of the most haunting in cinema. No grand reveal, no triumphant justice—just silence. An open wound that festers long after the credits roll. The gaze, the uncertainty, the weight of time pressing down. Memories of Murder doesn’t just stay with you—it follows you, lingers in the corners of your mind, waiting.

An underrated pinnacle of South Korean cinema, standing alongside Oldboy, proving that true horror isn’t in the crimes themselves—but in knowing they were never stopped.

I don’t think I have to Ken-splain how rewatchable this movie is.

98

“Be it a rock or a grain of sand, in water they sink just the same.”

Oldboy is not a film—it’s a prison sentence. A merciless, suffocating descent into madness where vengeance is neither justice nor salvation, just another link in an unbreakable chain.

Park Chan-wook doesn’t just tell a story—he carves it into your bones, bending the very fabric of cinematic language to create something as hypnotic as it is horrifying.

Choi Min-sik is nothing short of feral as Oh Dae-su, a man locked away for 15 years without reason, his sanity gnawed away by solitude and time. When he’s released, the world is no longer his own. It’s a labyrinth of cruelty and deception, where every step toward the truth is a step deeper into damnation. His fight isn’t just for answers—it’s for the last scraps of his soul.

Park’s direction is fearless. The film’s editing is jagged, jarring, constantly shifting between frenzied urgency and unbearable stillness. The infamous hallway fight? A single, unbroken take of exhaustion and brutality—no flashy cuts, no cinematic trickery, just raw survival. Each blow lands with the weight of years lost, every frame suffocates with the inevitability of fate.

The cinematography drowns you in shadows. The score twists the knife. The violence? It’s not just in the fists and the blood—it’s in the words unspoken, in the truths better left buried. Oldboy didn’t just redefine South Korean cinema; it detonated expectations, proving that true suffering isn’t inflicted by others—it’s the horror of realizing you were never free to begin with.

And in the end, as the snow falls and the past refuses to loosen its grip, one question lingers: 

Was it all worth it?

This review may contain spoilers.

100

"I watched a snail crawl along the edge of a straight razor.
That's my dream. That's my nightmare.
Crawling, slithering, along the edge of a straight razor... and surviving."

A Picture forged in chaos, birthed from madness, and left to linger in the depths of cinematic legend. Apocalypse Now wasn’t just made—it was survived. A production hell where everything that could go wrong did, but somehow, through sheer force of will, Francis Ford Coppola delivered a war epic that doesn’t just depict insanity—it becomes it. This isn’t a film; it’s a descent into the abyss, where the line between reality and nightmare dissolves in the thick, humid air of the jungle.

The 4K Blu-ray edition doesn’t just restore Apocalypse Now—it resurrects it. The colors bleed with haunting vibrancy, the shadows swallow you whole, and the heat of napalm nearly scorches through the screen. That legendary opening? The whirling blades of helicopters slicing through a golden haze, The Doors crooning

"This is the end..."

—it has never looked more immaculate, never felt more alive. And when the jungle burns in a bright, bloody red inferno, you feel like you’re standing right there, engulfed in the madness.

Coppola is the most fearless director to ever exist. He didn’t just tell a story—he lived it, bled for it. His vision is relentless, hypnotic, dragging us through the muck and fire of war, where morality is a joke and survival is a cruel, twisted game. Martin Sheen embodies a man unraveling before our eyes, and Marlon Brando’s Colonel Kurtz? He’s less a character and more a ghostly whisper in the dark, a presence so overwhelming it seeps into your bones.

Every frame is a masterpiece. Every note of the score, from the pounding war drums to Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries, is a call to arms, a march toward something unknowable and horrifying. This film is war, it is madness, it is cinema at its most raw and untamed.

A pinnacle of filmmaking. An impeccable restoration. A fever dream that never fades. In Apocalypse Now, Coppola takes you to the edge of the world and leaves you there, staring into the darkness. And when you finally emerge, you don’t feel victorious.
You feel changed.

more like Megaflopolis

I never thought a place like this could change my life. But here I am—less than a year in, 8,000+ of you by my side, and somehow, this dream that once felt distant is now something I wake up to every day.

Every like, every list, every review you’ve taken a moment to read—it all matters more than I can say. You’ve been a part of this journey, whether you’ve been here since the beginning or just stopped by once.
And that’s something I’ll never take for granted.

The next milestone? 10,000 before the year ends. But numbers aren’t what drive me. It’s the love for cinema, the endless conversations, the way film has this strange power to connect us.
This is just the beginning.

And as one great storyteller once put it:

"A dream is not reality, but who’s to say which is which?"

And thank you—for every second you’ve spent here, for every list, every like, every fleeting moment you chose to share in this journey. None of this exists without you.

Film is forever, but so is gratitude.

93

"Don't try to understand it. Feel it."

Tenet: the fluidity of time, is a labyrinth. A film that doesn’t just challenge time—it tears it apart, wraps it in on itself, and then shoves you through the pieces. It’s not a movie you watch; it’s a puzzle you surrender to. From the very beginning, Nolan pulls you into a world where time is not a straight line but an ocean, flowing in every direction, and you are simply caught in its currents.

The film is relentless, but not in an aggressive way—it's relentless in its quiet persistence, drawing you deeper into its layers with each ing moment. As we follow Washington’s protagonist, a man with no name but everything at stake, we realize that this is not just a journey through space—it’s a journey through the very fabric of existence itself. The rules of time bend and twist with every action, every decision, leaving you suspended between moments, unable to fully grasp where the past ends and the future begins.

John David Washington gives a performance that feels both grounded and distant—he is a figure of stoic determination, an agent who is pushed into the unknown, forced to navigate a world where understanding is secondary to instinct. It’s not about answers; it’s about moving forward, even when every step feels like stepping backward. Robert Pattinson complements this energy perfectly, his character weaving through the narrative with the calm assurance of someone who knows more than he lets on, yet whose loyalty and intentions remain ever elusive.

What Tenet does with action is pure artistry. Each sequence is designed not only to excite but to bewilder, to remind you that every movement has a counter-movement, every cause a consequence. The precision of these sequences—the way they play with the reversal of time—creates a rhythmic tension, as if every bullet that flies forward might just as easily fly backward. It is cinema where every moment is not just a scene, but a reflection of the universe’s constant motion.

The score, composed by Ludwig Göransson, is a heartbeat—both slow and thunderous, echoing through the film’s most intimate and chaotic moments. The music doesn’t simply accompany the action; it amplifies it, guiding you through the chaos and somehow making you feel the weight of time itself pressing down on you.

Tenet is not meant to be understood; it’s meant to be felt. It is a meditation on the nature of time and existence, where nothing is ever as it seems, and everything is a possibility. As the final moments unfold, you are left with the haunting realization that time is not linear, but cyclical, and we are simply caught in its pull, forever moving forward, always backward, but never truly in control.

"Trust me. It’s all backwards."

In the end, the film isn’t about time at all—it’s about the choices we make, the lives we touch, and the infinite ways in which the past and future shape who we are. Time is fluid, and Tenet is a dance with it, a reflection of our deepest desires and our most unspoken fears.

99

"Love is the space between moments, where silence speaks louder than words."

Wong Kar Wai’s In the Mood for Love is a journey into the quiet spaces of the heart—where desire lingers, and love, though never fully realized, is felt in every ing glance, every delicate gesture. This is a film not about what is said, but about what isn’t. In the moments of fleeting intimacy between Su Li-zhen and Chow Mo-wan, you see love, you feel love, but you never truly touch it. The distance between them becomes the space where love exists—not in the union, but in the absence of it.

The world that Wong Kar Wai creates is one of sublime melancholy—a dreamlike version of Hong Kong in the 1960s, bathed in a muted, melancholic glow. Every shot is infused with a kind of longing, a yearning that’s unspoken but present in the air. Doyle’s cinematography is both haunting and beautiful, the tight frames, the lush, saturated colors pulling you into a world where every moment feels too precious to exist for long. The images of corridors, windows, and doors closing and opening, echo the barriers between these two characters, their lives separated by invisible walls but drawn together by a quiet, undeniable pull.

Maggie Cheung and Tony Leung play these characters with a quiet intensity, capturing the essence of restraint. In their eyes, in their movements, there is a kind of contained ion that cannot be released. They move through each other’s lives like ghosts—close enough to feel, but never close enough to be fully understood. And it’s in this space of restraint that the beauty of their love unfolds. Their connection is never overt; it’s built in the delicate spaces between them. Their silences speak louder than their words. The pauses, the looks, the way their hands almost meet but never do—this is where the truth of the film resides.

The score itself, becomes the heartbeat of the film, a haunting waltz that mirrors the rhythm of the characters’ longing. It builds, slowly, tenderly, weaving itself into the emotional fabric of the film until you realize that the music itself has become as essential as the silence in which the characters exist. Each note is like a breath, drawing you deeper into the story, making every glance between them feel like a weight you can’t escape.

What’s so mesmerizing about In the Mood for Love is its refusal to give you the easy answers. This isn’t a film where love is neatly packaged, where every thread is tied up by the end. It’s a film that exists in the gray areas, the spaces between certainty and uncertainty. In the end, it’s not about whether these characters will end up together. It’s about the lingering effect of their love—how it shapes who they are, how it leaves a mark on them that can never fully fade, even if they never speak of it again.

In the Mood for Love is not just a film—it’s an experience, a meditation on longing, on the beauty of love lost and the quiet pain of never being able to hold it. It is haunting in its stillness, mesmerizing in its simplicity, and devastating in its truth. It reminds us that sometimes, the most profound love is the one we never get to live.

This review may contain spoilers.

100

"This is how I win."

Uncut Gems isn’t a movie—it’s a goddamn anxiety attack stretched over two hours of pure, unfiltered chaos. The Safdie Brothers don’t give you a second to breathe. From the first frame to the last, it’s relentless, it’s sweaty, it’s f*cking suffocating. And at the center of it all? Adam Sandler, delivering the best fucking performance of his career—no jokes, no goofy voices, just a desperate, reckless, fast-talking degenerate sprinting toward his own destruction.

Sandler's Howard Ratner is a walking disaster, a man addicted to the thrill of the gamble, drowning in debts, ducking loan sharks, making deals he has no business making—all while believing, somehow, that he's untouchable. He’s not just betting money—he’s betting his life, his sanity, his f*cking soul. And every decision he makes, every bad choice, just tightens the noose around his neck. Watching him is like watching a car crash in slow motion—you know it’s not gonna end well, but you can’t fucking look away.

The Safdies shoot this thing like a goddamn fever dream. The camera stays locked in, shoving you into Howard’s world of neon-lit jewelry stores, crowded streets, and high-stakes sports betting. The sound design? Jesus Christ. It’s a f*cking assault—people screaming over each other, phones ringing, doors buzzing, chaos piling onto chaos until it feels like your skull is gonna crack open.

And the tension? Holy f*ck. This movie doesn’t just build tension—it strangles you with it. Every second feels like a gamble, every conversation a negotiation with death. One wrong move, one missed opportunity, and Howard is fucking finished. The final act? It’s one of the most stressful, exhilarating, heart-pounding sequences ever put to film. You’re gripping the edge of your seat, sweating, cursing at the f*cking screen, because you know this isn’t gonna end well—but Howard thinks he’s got it all figured out. He thinks he’s about to win.

But that’s the thing about Uncut Gems—it doesn’t give a f*ck what you think should happen. It just barrels forward at full speed, dragging you through the filth, the greed, the desperation, and then—BANG. It leaves you shell-shocked, staring at the credits, wondering what the f*ck just happened.

This isn’t just Adam Sandler’s best performance—it’s one of the greatest performances of the last decade. It’s raw, it’s ugly, it’s f*cking perfect. Uncut Gems doesn’t let you breathe, doesn’t let you relax—it just grabs you by the throat and doesn’t let go until the second it’s all over. And even then, you’re still f*cking shaking.

This review may contain spoilers.

97

"You know what they call a quarter pounder with cheese in ?"

"A Royale with Cheese."

That’s the kind of film Pulp Fiction is—it takes the ordinary, twists it, flips it on its head, and makes it cool as hell. Tarantino didn’t just make a movie; he rewrote the damn rules. This isn’t some neat, structured crime flick—it’s a bullet-riddled, adrenaline-fueled, dialogue-drenched masterpiece that bleeds attitude and reinvents storytelling one scrambled timeline at a time.

The violence? Brutal. The dialogue? Sharper than a straight razor. The soundtrack? Cooler than a hitman in a black suit sipping a milkshake. Every scene drips with energy, from Jules and Vincent’s casual discussions about fast food and foot massages to Mia Wallace’s hypnotic, drug-laced descent. Tarantino lures you in with his signature blend of casual wit and impending chaos—one minute you’re laughing, the next you’re watching a guy’s brains get splattered all over the backseat.

And the characters? They don’t just talk; they own the screen. Samuel L. Jackson’s Jules isn’t just a hitman—he’s a philosopher with a gun, spitting scripture like he’s delivering a sermon straight from hell. Travolta’s Vincent is smooth yet reckless, Uma Thurman’s Mia is dangerously magnetic, and Bruce Willis’ Butch is the kind of guy you don’t want to cross unless you’ve got a katana handy. Every performance is gold, each character a walking, talking icon.

The cinematography is Tarantino at his peak—long takes, intense close-ups, and an unmistakable rhythm that pulls you in and refuses to let go. The dialogue-driven scenes build tension like a ticking time bomb, making the sudden bursts of violence hit even harder. There’s a reason these lines are quoted decades later—they don’t just stick, they brand themselves into pop culture history.

But beneath all the chaos, the violence, the needle drops, Pulp Fiction is a film about redemption, about fate, about the thin line between the absurd and the profound. When Jules says,

“I’m trying, Ringo. I’m trying real hard to be the shepherd,”

it’s not just a great line—it’s the soul of the movie wrapped in one moment of clarity.

Tarantino made crime movies feel alive again with Pulp Fiction—a film that doesn’t just entertain, but grabs you by the throat, laughs in your face, and makes you love every second of it.

98

"No hay banda! There is no band! It is all an illusion.."

It’s hard to write this, knowing that David Lynch is gone. The man who gave us dreams within dreams, nightmares wrapped in beauty, and stories that never stopped haunting us—gone. Today, as the news broke, I found myself returning to Mulholland Drive, the masterpiece that feels like peering into the fragmented soul of Hollywood itself.

An unsettling enigma, Mulholland Drive is Lynch at his most devastatingly beautiful. It’s not a film you watch—it’s a dream you fall into, one that unravels as you sink deeper into its shadows. Every scene feels like a memory you can’t quite place, every line of dialogue like an echo from another life.

Naomi Watts delivers a performance that’s both tender and terrifying, her transformation from wide-eyed dreamer to a woman consumed by despair leaving you breathless. Lynch doesn’t just direct her—he exposes her, laying bare the fragile hopes and devastating heartbreak of someone crushed beneath the weight of their own delusions.

Los Angeles isn’t a city here—it’s a labyrinth of illusions, a shimmering mirage where dreams are bought, sold, and destroyed. Lynch paints it with a surreal, almost tactile beauty, where every shadow hides a secret and every light feels just out of reach. The club Silencio sequence alone is enough to shatter you—a moment so haunting, so painfully perfect, it feels like the very fabric of the dream is tearing apart.

And now, with Lynch’s ing, the devastation of his work cuts even deeper. Watching Mulholland Drive today isn’t just an experience—it’s a goodbye. It’s knowing that the man who dared to peel back the layers of reality, who gave us characters as broken and human as ourselves, is no longer here to guide us through the maze.

The music, an aching score, feels heavier now. Every note echoes like a eulogy, every refrain like a final whisper from Lynch himself. It’s as if the world he created—this dark, mysterious, beautiful world—has grown quieter in his absence.

Mulholland Drive was always a tragedy, a tale of love, loss, and the things we can never truly understand. But today, it feels like more than that. It feels like a part of Lynch’s soul, a fragment of his dream that he left behind for us to hold onto.

Goodbye, Mr. Lynch. Thank you for the dreams, the nightmares, and the worlds you gave us.
Rest in peace, wherever your own dreams have taken you.

100

Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you David Lynch’s magnum opus—Twin Peaks.

"Through the darkness of future past, the magician longs to see. One chants out between two worlds: Fire... walk with me."

Twin Peaks isn’t just a TV show—it’s the reason TV grew up. Before Walter White knocked, before Tony Soprano whispered, before Rust Cohle drew circles in time, and before Hawkins was swallowed in shadow, there was a quiet little town shrouded in fog. A town where nothing was what it seemed, and everything you thought you knew unraveled the second you dared to look closer.

David Lynch didn’t create a story—he conjured a world. This is a place where the line between dream and nightmare doesn’t just blur; it evaporates. Twin Peaks is a surreal fever dream, a hypnotic descent into the darkest corners of the human psyche, where every damn cup of coffee hides a secret, and every shadow whispers a name: Laura Palmer.

Kyle MacLachlan’s Dale Cooper is the hero you never knew you needed—pure-hearted, sharp as a knife, and somehow both a detective and a mystic. His pursuit of the truth isn’t just a whodunit; it’s a journey into the heart of the cosmos, where the answers don’t just lie in evidence but in visions, owls, and dreams that refuse to stay silent.

The writing? It’s not just storytelling—it’s alchemy. Lynch and Mark Frost wove a tapestry that’s as haunting as it is absurd, mixing the banal with the bizarre until you can’t tell which is which. And yet, every strange twist, every eerie moment, feels right. Like it couldn’t have been any other way.

Visually, Twin Peaks is pure poetry. The dense woods, the eerie mist, the haunting glow of neon lights—it all breathes life into a town that’s as much a character as any person in it. Angelo Badalamenti’s score drips with melancholy, pulling you into a world that’s equal parts beauty and dread.

And the performances? They’re a masterclass in contrast. Every character feels like they belong to a different genre, yet together they create something that transcends them all. From Sheryl Lee’s devastating portrayal of Laura Palmer to Ray Wise’s chilling descent into madness, it’s a symphony of raw, unfiltered emotion.

Twin Peaks isn’t just a show—it’s the blueprint. Without it, there’s no Breaking Bad, no The Sopranos, no True Detective, no Stranger Things.

This is where television stopped being safe and became art.

Bro should've made another Hangover movie.

How can you not be romantic about baseball?

This review may contain spoilers.

96

"In space, no one can hear you scream."

An Alien film done right—Alien: Romulus is a brutal return to the nightmare, a descent into terror that reminds us why this franchise once reigned supreme. Director Fede Álvarez doesn’t just honor Ridley Scott’s original vision; he evolves it, plunging us into a story that’s as horrifying as it is unforgettable.

This isn’t a grandiose spectacle—it’s claustrophobic, primal, and relentless. The corridors are narrower, the darkness is deeper, and every sound echoes like a heartbeat in the void. It’s survival stripped down to its rawest form, with a cast that feels vulnerable, not invincible.

The xenomorph is back, and it’s more terrifying than ever. This isn’t just a monster—it’s an apex predator, a relentless force of nature that stalks its prey with surgical precision. Álvarez uses every frame to remind you of its lethality, keeping it in the shadows just long enough to let the terror seep into your bones.

The crew isn’t full of action heroes—they’re survivors, clinging to life in the face of an unimaginable horror. The performances are raw and human, making every death feel personal, every decision fraught with consequence. This isn’t about winning—it’s about not dying, and even that feels like a distant hope.

Visually, Romulus is stunning in its despair. The cinematography captures the cold, metallic loneliness of space, while the practical effects bring every slimy, grotesque detail of the xenomorph to life. It’s not clean, it’s not polished—it’s filthy, visceral, and terrifyingly real.

Fede Álvarez understands what made Alien iconic— Dread. He brings back the fear, the tension, the relentless dread that made the original a masterpiece. Romulus isn’t just another entry in the franchise—it’s a rebirth, a film that re what it feels like to be trapped in the dark with no escape.

In the end, Alien: Romulus doesn’t try to reinvent the wheel—it sharpens it, making every edge cut deeper. It’s a haunting, suffocating triumph that leaves you gasping for air, a reminder that some nightmares never die.

This review may contain spoilers.

97

"Nothing is written."

Lawrence of Arabia, an epic like no other, is David Lean’s towering magnum opus—a film that redefined cinema itself. It’s not just a movie; it’s an odyssey into the soul of a man who dared to conquer the unconquerable and found himself lost in the process.

T.E. Lawrence is no ordinary hero. Peter O’Toole’s mesmerizing portrayal strips away the romanticism and exposes the raw, fractured psyche of a man torn between ambition and identity. He’s not the fearless leader the desert tribes see, nor the loyal officer the British military expects. He’s something in between—a paradox, caught in the shifting sands of his own creation.

The desert is both a battleground and a mirror, reflecting the magnitude of Lawrence’s hubris. Freddie Young’s cinematography captures it in breathtaking detail—vast, unforgiving, and indifferent. The endless dunes swallow men whole, while the shimmering horizon tempts them forward, promising salvation but delivering torment.

The ing cast is just as powerful. Omar Sharif’s Sherif Ali brings quiet dignity, a stark contrast to Lawrence’s erratic brilliance, while Alec Guinness as Prince Faisal commands with political cunning. Together, they create a mosaic of loyalty, betrayal, and the relentless pursuit of something greater than themselves.

Maurice Jarre’s iconic score is the heartbeat of the film, swelling with the grandeur of Lawrence’s triumphs and falling silent in his moments of despair. It’s not just music; it’s the desert itself—majestic, overwhelming, and deeply haunting.

Lean doesn’t just tell a story—he crafts a journey, one that doesn’t glorify Lawrence’s accomplishments but questions their cost. The victories are hollow, the alliances fragile, and the legacy a bitter reminder of a man consumed by his own myth.

In the end, Lawrence of Arabia isn’t about glory—it’s about the heavy price of ambition and the emptiness that follows. David Lean and his team didn’t just create a masterpiece; they created a cinematic monument, one that stands unshaken, even after decades of changing landscapes.

99

You can practically smell the rot clinging in The Batman—this isn’t some clean-cut hero story. Bruce Wayne isn’t the billionaire playboy here; he’s a nasty, stringy, pale goth who spends his days hunched over in a damp, decaying bat cave, bloodshot eyes glued to surveillance footage from the night before.

As Batman himself puts it,

“They think I’m hiding in the shadows. But I am the shadows.”

That line doesn’t just describe his method—it’s his entire existence. This isn’t a man saving a city—this is a freak barely holding himself together in a city that’s rotting from the inside out.

Gotham is a cesspool, soaked in filth and corruption, where every alley reeks of death and decay. Matt Reeves doesn’t just show us a city in chaos—he pulls us into it, makes us feel every grimy corner, every breath of polluted air. The visuals are perfect in their ugliness—rain-drenched streets, shadowy underes, a place where hope’s been dead for a long time. It’s a waking nightmare, and Batman is right in the middle of it, wading through the filth like a living shadow.

Pattinson’s Batman is a disaster in the best way possible. He’s not suave, not charming—he’s a barely functioning mess. His Bruce Wayne is so far from the surface he might as well be buried. He’s awkward, brittle, uncomfortable in his own skin. And when he’s around Selina Kyle, he’s like a teenage boy who’s never been near a woman before—fumbling, unsure, totally out of his depth. This Bruce Wayne is not the playboy billionaire—he’s a broken, introverted freak who’s more at home in the darkness.

The violence in this movie is relentless, nasty. Every punch lands with a sickening thud, every fight feels like a brutal, dirty struggle for survival. Batman doesn’t just fight—he mauls his enemies, driving fists into their skulls like he’s trying to exorcise his own demons. And the Batmobile? It’s not some sleek, high-tech car—it’s a beast, roaring like a demon, tearing through the streets like it’s out for blood. The action is impeccable, visceral, leaving you feeling battered and bruised just from watching.

And the score is like the heartbeat of the city, a slow, pounding pulse that pushes the tension until it snaps. It’s not just music—it’s a sonic assault that drags you into the abyss with Bruce, suffocating in its intensity.

But beneath the grime and the violence, there’s a tragedy playing out. Every time Bruce Wayne steps out into Gotham’s streets, he’s not just fighting criminals—he’s waging war against the darkness inside him. He’s not trying to save Gotham; he’s trying to survive it.

All in all, The Batman is dark, twisted, and utterly relentless. It’s a brutal, haunting look at a man who’s as broken as the city he’s trying to protect. There’s no clean ending here, no hopeful sunrise. It’s just Gotham, festering in its own rot, and a man who’s barely hanging on. A dirty, bloody masterpiece that shows just how far a hero can fall.

95

The Wild Robot is DreamWorks at its best—an animated movie that does more than entertain; it reaches out and pulls at something deeper. It’s not just about a robot on an island—it’s about survival, connection, and what it really means to be alive.

From the moment Roz opens her eyes on that lonely, rugged shore, you feel like you’re right there with her, learning to navigate a world that’s as hostile as it is breathtaking. When Roz says,

“I don’t understand nature... but I want to learn,”

it’s a moment that captures her entire journey—a machine discovering life, bit by bit, learning that the line between nature and machine isn’t as clear-cut as we might think.

DreamWorks poured everything into this film. The visuals are stunning, each frame a beautifully rendered landscape that feels both wild and haunting. The world Roz explores is vibrant and raw, filled with creatures that are wary of her, yet eventually find a place in their lives for something so different. It’s storytelling that’s both gentle and intense, pulling you into every challenge she faces and every connection she makes.

Roz’s interactions with the animals are honest, even moving. She doesn’t fit in at first, but as she learns and grows, there’s this warmth that sneaks up on you, a feeling that maybe, just maybe, she’s becoming part of this world. And when she stands between danger and those she cares for, you realize this story is about more than just survival—it’s about sacrifice, about finding purpose in the most unlikely places.

The Wild Robot is one of DreamWorks’ finest. It doesn’t rely on cheap laughs or flashy scenes; it takes its time, making every moment count. By the time the credits roll, you’re left with something rare—a sense of wonder, a bit of sadness, and a reminder of how fragile, and beautiful, life can be.

The coolest Marlboro commercial ever!!

97

Back to the Future isn’t just a film—it’s pure, cinematic magic. From the moment that DeLorean hits 88 mph, you’re hooked. It’s the perfect blend of adventure, humor, and heart, wrapped in one of the most clever time-travel stories ever put to screen. There’s a reason people still talk about it decades later—it’s timeless. When Marty asks,

“Wait a minute, Doc. Are you telling me you built a time machine... out of a DeLorean?”

you can’t help but feel the absurd genius of the entire adventure.

The entire film is filled with that same sense of wonder and excitement. Marty McFly is a teenager we can all relate to, thrown into a past that’s as much a reflection of his future as it is a challenge to get back to it. His journey isn’t just about saving the day—it’s about making sense of where we come from, and where we’re going.

The chemistry between Michael J. Fox and Christopher Lloyd is just perfect, effortlessly blending humor and heart. And the tension? You feel every second ticking down as Marty races to get his parents back together, not just to save himself but to save his entire existence.

This isn’t a film about complicated sci-fi mechanics. It’s about adventure and human connection, a story that reminds us how every little action shapes our future. And that score—Alan Silvestri’s music soars, pulling you into the pulse of the film. It’s an anthem to adventure and hope, making every moment feel larger than life.

All in all, Back to the Future is a masterclass in storytelling. It’s funny, it’s smart, and it’s packed with more energy than a flux capacitor. Even after all these years, it still holds up as one of the greatest films ever made. This isn’t just a trip through time—it’s a trip straight into the heart of everything we love about movies.

This review may contain spoilers.

100

Breaking Bad isn’t just a TV show—it’s the best series ever made. From the moment Walter White declares,

"I am the one who knocks"

you know you’re witnessing something bigger than television. This is a descent into hell, one step at a time, with each choice pushing you further into the abyss.

Vince Gilligan crafted a story that’s raw, relentless, and unflinchingly real. It takes you from a mild-mannered chemistry teacher to a meth kingpin whose every decision leaves blood on his hands. The transformation of Bryan Cranston’s Walter White is a masterclass in character development—by the end, he’s unrecognizable, a man completely consumed by power, greed, and the lies he tells himself.

And Jesse Pinkman? Aaron Paul delivers one of the most heartbreaking performances ever seen on TV. He’s trapped in Walter’s world, constantly trying to claw his way out, but there’s no escape. His pain is palpable, and every time he thinks he’s found a way out, the universe—or more likely, but Walter—keeps pulling him back in.

The writing is flawless, every scene a tightly woven thread that unravels with devastating precision. It doesn’t waste a second. Every moment, every line, every action has consequences. The tension builds with every episode, and when it explodes, it leaves you gasping.

Visually, it’s a masterpiece—New Mexico becomes a character in itself, the desert landscapes reflecting the barrenness of Walter’s soul. The show’s use of color, the way it contrasts the beauty of the world with the ugliness of what’s happening, is genius.

Breaking Bad is the perfect show with impeccable writing, exceptional acting, and meticulous direction. It’s brutal, it’s beautiful, and it never lets you off the hook. This isn’t a story with happy endings—it’s about choices and consequences, and how far a man will go when he’s got nothing left to lose.

This isn’t just a show. It’s the show. Nothing else comes close.

Danny Ocean’s at it again, gathering the crew for another heist. This time, though, it’s just a bunch of crafty animals robbing the lunchboxes of farmers!

This review may contain spoilers.

97

You can just taste the bittersweet nostalgia in every ing moment—Chungking Express isn’t just a film, it’s a dream soaked in neon, sweat, and aching hearts. Wong Kar-Wai's underrated masterpiece takes you through the cramped, buzzing streets of Hong Kong, where love isn’t a grand gesture but a fleeting moment you can barely hold onto. When Cop 663 says,

"If memories could be canned, would they also have an expiry date?
If so, I hope they last for centuries."

you realize this isn’t about finding happiness—it’s about surviving the emptiness.

Wong Kar-Wai’s world is cluttered, fast, and claustrophobic. It’s not the polished, perfect vision of love you see in most romances. Here, it’s messy, fleeting, a chase through alleys where everything is temporary. The characters? They’re lost, drifting through the chaos, clinging to broken routines, expired pineapple cans, and unspoken words. There’s no closure, only the ache of what could’ve been.

Takeshi Kaneshiro’s Cop 223 is numb, going through the motions after being dumped, and he eats his way through cans of expired pineapple like they’ll fill the hole left behind. Faye isn’t much better—obsessed with Cop 663 but too scared to make a real connection. Instead, she breaks into his apartment, rearranging his life like she’s trying to fix something in herself. It’s desperate. It’s wrong. It’s the kind of love that hurts more than it heals.

And that’s the point. Wong Kar-Wai isn’t interested in neat endings or big romantic gestures. He’s showing us the quiet moments—the missed chances, the empty streets, the long nights where you lie awake and wonder what went wrong. His Hong Kong isn’t just a backdrop; it’s alive, suffocating the characters, pushing them together only to tear them apart again.

Visually, Chungking Express is a fever dream. The shaky camera, the vibrant colors, the constant motion—it’s dizzying, like you’re caught in the middle of a city that never stops to breathe. And that soundtrack, man—The Mamas and the Papas’ “California Dreamin” looping like a broken record, echoing the endless search for something better, something that’ll never come.

In the end, Chungking Express isn’t about falling in love—it’s about picking up the shattered pieces of yourself and learning to move through the world, even when those pieces don’t quite fit anymore.

This review may contain spoilers.

97

You can hear the silence before it strikes—Alien is not just a sci-fi film, it’s Ridley Scott's magnum opus that crawls under your skin and festers there, turning every inch of the Nostromo into a rotting coffin floating through the dead vacuum of space. When Ripley says,

"This is Ripley, last survivor of the Nostromo, g off."

you know there’s no rescue coming—just the deafening silence of space and the monstrous thing lurking in the dark.

Scott’s Alien is a brutal, slow-burn descent into terror. The Nostromo isn’t just a ship; it’s a steel coffin, every corner filled with shadows, every creak a warning. It’s an industrial hellscape, where the crew is isolated, abandoned, and slowly picked off like prey. There’s no flashy action, no heroic last stand—just pure survival against something they can’t comprehend.

Sigourney Weaver’s Ripley starts off as just another cog in the machine, but as the horror unfolds, she becomes something else—something raw, unbreakable. She’s not a superhero; she’s a survivor, scraping by in a nightmare where every shadow hides death. The rest of the crew? Dead before they even know it. The way they’re picked off, one by one, is methodical, brutal, and utterly devoid of mercy.

And that creature... the Xenomorph isn’t just a monster—it’s a living nightmare. A perfect killing machine, born from human flesh, dripping with acid blood and death. The way it moves, the way it waits, the way it toys with its prey—this isn’t just survival of the fittest. This is survival of the cruelest.

The violence is horrifyingly intimate. The chestburster scene is legendary for a reason—one moment you’re watching a casual dinner, the next you’re witnessing a man’s insides explode in the most grotesque display of alien birth imaginable. The tension doesn’t let up from there. Every step through the ship is drenched in dread, every turn feels like a countdown to death. You’re trapped with them, waiting for the inevitable.

Scott’s direction makes space feel like a tomb, silent and indifferent, while the score pulses like a cold heartbeat, amplifying the dread with every ing second. It’s not a film that comforts—it chills. There’s no warmth in space, no escape. It’s just you, the darkness, and the thing that wants you dead.

You don’t just watch Alien—you survive it. And It's a bloody, suffocating masterpiece that crawls into your psyche and tears it apart piece by piece. It doesn’t need cheap tricks or overblown effects. It uses silence, shadows, and that primal fear of the unknown to craft something timeless and terrifying.

My top favourite 155 films of all time and are always changing.

[The making of this list was inspired by Benjigotfried]

1. Oppenheimer

   100/100

2. 2001: A Space Odyssey

   100/100

3. The Dark Knight

   100/100

4. La La Land

   100/100

5. Uncut Gems

   100/100

6. Apocalypse Now

   100/100

7. Stalker

   100/100

8. Close-Up

   100/100

9. La Haine

   100/100

10. Whiplash

    100/100

...plus 144 more. View the full list on Letterboxd.

🌌 Inspired by the haunting grandeur of Denis Villeneuve—where silence speaks volumes, tension lingers in every frame, and the unknown feels both terrifying and beautiful. 🎥✨🚀

⚡ Appreciate all solid ! Here’s to a master of modern cinema. 🖤🎞️

1. Dune: Part Two
2. Incendies
3. Prisoners
4. Blade Runner 2049
5. Sicario
6. Arrival
7. Dune
8. Enemy
9. Polytechnique
10. Next Floor

I've ranked these films from personal favorites to must-sees, each showcasing Nolan's unparalleled storytelling and visual prowess.🎥✨

1. Oppenheimer
2. The Dark Knight
3. Inception
4. Interstellar
5. The Prestige
6. Tenet
7. The Dark Knight Rises
8. Dunkirk
9. Batman Begins
10. Memento

...plus 3 more. View the full list on Letterboxd.

Inspired by the ୭ definition of girly classics 🎀 ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ and the modern gems, just films that I believe resonate with a lot of guys (including myself).
⚡Appreciate all solid !

• The Dark Knight
• Whiplash
• Fight Club
• Se7en
• American Psycho
• Prisoners
• Oppenheimer
• Nightcrawler
• Shutter Island
• Inception

...plus 206 more. View the full list on Letterboxd.

🔥 Inspired by the wild, blood-soaked poetry of cinema—where razor-sharp dialogue, unforgettable characters, and explosive chaos collide. Just films that capture the raw energy, wicked humor, and cinematic bravado of Quentin Tarantino. 🎬💥🔪

⚡ Appreciate all solid ! Here’s to a true legend. 🖤🎞️

1. Inglourious Basterds
2. Kill Bill: Vol. 1
3. Once Upon a Time... in Hollywood
4. Pulp Fiction
5. Django Unchained
6. The Hateful Eight
7. Reservoir Dogs
8. Kill Bill: Vol. 2
9. Jackie Brown
10. Death Proof

🌿✨ A journey through magic, wonder, and the quiet poetry of everyday life—just films that I believe capture the heart, spirit, and breathtaking artistry of Studio Ghibli. 🎥🍃 A studio that paints dreams, tells stories of courage and longing, and reminds us of the beauty in the smallest moments. 💫🏡💕

1. Princess Mononoke
2. Spirited Away
3. Grave of the Fireflies
4. Kiki's Delivery Service
5. Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind
6. Whisper of the Heart
7. The Boy and the Heron
8. The Tale of The Princess Kaguya
9. Ponyo
10. Howl's Moving Castle

...plus 9 more. View the full list on Letterboxd.

I have put together movies that will be perfect for your top 4 favorites.

Note: [Please view in groups of 4]

• La La Land
• 10 Things I Hate About You
• (500) Days of Summer
• How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days
• Portrait of a Lady on Fire
• Little Women
• s Ha
• Phantom Thread
• Brokeback Mountain
• Call Me by Your Name

...plus 154 more. View the full list on Letterboxd.

Double feature movies ranked from must-see pairings to ultimate cinematic combos—two films, one unforgettable experience. 🎬🍿

• Kill Bill: Vol. 1
• Kill Bill: Vol. 2
• Barbie
• Oppenheimer
• Death Proof
• Planet Terror
• 21 Jump Street
• 22 Jump Street
• The Batman
• Joker

...plus 22 more. View the full list on Letterboxd.

Rocky movies ranked from best to worst—heart, grit, and the fights that defined a legacy. 🥊🏆

1. Rocky
2. Rocky II
3. Creed
4. Rocky Balboa
5. Rocky IV
6. Rocky III
7. Creed II
8. Creed III
9. Rocky V

A ranked list of all 97 Best Picture Oscar winners, based on the average rankings from Rotten Tomatoes, IMDB, Stacker, Vulture, IndieWire and Collider.

1. The Godfather
2. Schindler's List
3. Casablanca
4. Lawrence of Arabia
5. Parasite
6. The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King
7. Oppenheimer
8. Gone with the Wind
9. One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest
10. All About Eve

...plus 87 more. View the full list on Letterboxd.

🔻 Inspired by the cold precision and haunting brilliance of Stanley Kubrick—where every frame is a masterpiece, every moment a puzzle, and humanity is dissected with chilling clarity. Just films that reflect his meticulous craft, fearless storytelling, and unshakable influence. 🎥🔺⏳
A master of control, a visionary of the mind, a filmmaker who redefined cinema itself. 🌓🎭🚬

⚡ Appreciate all solid ! Here’s to arguably the greatest director to ever live. 🖤🎞️

1. 2001: A Space Odyssey
2. The Shining
3. Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb
4. Barry Lyndon
5. A Clockwork Orange
6. Paths of Glory
7. Full Metal Jacket
8. Eyes Wide Shut
9. Spartacus
10. Lolita

...plus 6 more. View the full list on Letterboxd.

Inspired by the 🌀 haunting beauty of dreams and nightmares, where reality bends and meaning slips through your fingers—just films that I believe capture the hypnotic, terrifying, and deeply human essence of David Lynch. 🎭✨
A master of the surreal, a poet of the subconscious, a filmmaker who made us question everything. 🎥💭💙

⚡ Appreciate all solid ! R.I.P. to a true visionary. 🖤🕊️

1. Mulholland Drive
2. The Elephant Man
3. Blue Velvet
4. Twin Peaks: Fire Walk with Me
5. The Straight Story
6. Lost Highway
7. Wild at Heart
8. Eraserhead
9. Inland Empire
10. Dune

...plus 1 more. View the full list on Letterboxd.

Marvel movies ranked from best to worst—heroes, battles, and everything in between.

1. Spider-Man: Across the Spider-Verse
2. Logan
3. Captain America: Civil War
4. Avengers: Endgame
5. Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse
6. Spider-Man 2
7. Iron Man
8. Spider-Man: No Way Home
9. Loki
10. Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 3

...plus 74 more. View the full list on Letterboxd.

Hooked by the First? This Next One’s the Upgrade You Need.

• Se7en
• Cure
• Drive
• Thief
• The Dark Knight
• Heat
• Shutter Island
• Prisoners
• Zodiac
• Blow Out

...plus 80 more. View the full list on Letterboxd.