The Fall is, above all, an ode to the transformative power of art. A film born from the urgency to create, but also from the melancholy of someone who no longer believes in anything. Tarsem Singh builds a work that doesn’t bow to time or to conventional narrative logic. Instead, he delivers a hypnotic visual spectacle, where a child’s imagination and an adult’s despair collide in a dance of beauty and sorrow.

The film opens with Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony — not coincidentally, a hymn to humanism. In a 1920s hospital, a paralyzed stuntman meets a foreign little girl, and she becomes his only listener. What begins as a sweet friendship gradually reveals a darker motive: his plan to manipulate the girl into stealing morphine so he can end his life. It’s this tension between fantasy as salvation and reality as destruction that fuels the film.

Two stories unfold: the one grounded in hospital beds, and the one born from make-believe, filled with warriors, mystics, and revenge quests. But these layers don’t just coexist — they blend, contradict, and complete one another. Alexandria, with her innocent view of the world, reshapes Roy’s tale from the inside out. Accents shift, faces change, motivations evolve — because imagination isn’t fixed. It transforms, just like the people who wield it.

Visually, the film is a marvel. Shot across 28 countries, it boldly avoids digital effects, relying entirely on the raw power of the real world to construct the impossible. Infinite staircases, vast deserts, swimming elephants, hand-painted palaces — everything exists, and because it’s real, it feels unreal. Like touching a flower so flawless you assume it must be fake. In a world flooded by simulations, reality here feels more unbelievable than CGI.

Tarsem, with almost obsessive formal rigor, directs with the precision of a painter. Every frame is meticulously composed, playing with architecture, reflection, symmetry, saturation, and seamless editing. You can feel the echoes of Jodorowsky, Dalí, Escher, and Tarsem’s own background in advertising, but the aesthetics are never hollow. Every choice serves one idea: the encounter between art and pain, between invention and despair.

At the center of it all is the fall. Literal, spiritual, mythic. A man broken, a child insistent on lifting him. Roy is shattered — not just physically, but morally; Alexandria is Sophia — not in the religious sense, but the gnostic one — the one who awakens the divine spark within the other. Redemption doesn’t come from outside, or from faith, but from the rediscovery of something lost within. It’s not the girl who saves Roy, nor the story itself. It’s the act of telling, of creating, of imagining. It’s art.

The Fall is not a film you summarize or explain. It’s a film you feel. It’s about the despair of adulthood and the purity of childhood, the beauty of the world and the pain of being in it. A fairy tale wrapped in grief, and perhaps the most honest one ever told.

What does it mean to be called a witch in the 21st century? Far from the caricatures of pointy hats and bubbling cauldrons, there are still places where that word carries enough weight to imprison, exclude, and silence women. This film begins with a harsh reality—women in rural areas accused of witchcraft and stripped of all rights—to craft a fable that blurs the line between the real and the surreal without ever losing its balance. Its power lies in transforming everyday absurdity into poetry—one that is beautiful, ironic, and brutal all at once.

From the opening scene, the viewer is faced with a disturbing spectacle: women sitting behind fences, observed by tourists as if they were part of some exotic attraction. It’s jarring and immediately sets the tone. The protagonist—a quiet, solitary young girl—is accused based on rumors and vague fears. Her isolation and lack of family make her an easy target. In this world, having no one to protect you is enough to be seen as a threat.

The myth surrounding these “witches” is portrayed through long white ribbons tied to their bodies, supposedly to keep them from flying. The metaphor is simple and striking: this is about complete control over their freedom, their desires, even their bodies. These ribbons, wound around spools like sewing thread, deepen the image of domestication and manipulation. The visual language extends beyond symbolism, revealing contrasts between city and countryside, tradition and modernity, the powerful and the powerless.

More than exposing an archaic practice, the film reflects on how systems of power—state, religion, and culture—interlock to keep these women on the margins. Forced labor, military-like discipline, and collective silence form an oppressive logic that doesn’t rely on prison bars to be effective. The violence lies not only in the shouts but in the silence and the rules everyone seems to accept without question.

The protagonist’s journey takes her from a dry, lifeless landscape to the corridors of power, where she becomes a symbol to be exploited. Even promises of salvation, like marriage to an influential man, are revealed as illusions. The label of “witch” sticks like a permanent scar. No matter how much someone adapts or submits, the stigma remains. The message is clear: there is no easy escape from a system built to prevent any.

The film’s strength lies in its ability to merge denunciation and lyricism. Without relying on heavy exposition or melodrama, it lets the images speak for themselves. Every scene carries the weight of injustice, but also the tenderness of someone watching with empathy. Though just a child, the protagonist represents many—and that makes her story even more devastating.

In the end, the film doesn’t offer easy answers or comforting resolutions. But it doesn’t surrender to despair either. In the final shot, there’s a breath—subtle, almost imperceptible—of resistance. A reminder that even when fenced in and tied down, some women keep looking toward the horizon.

G20 feels like the kind of movie that only exists because someone thought it’d be fun to see the President of the United States turned into a knockoff John McClane. It wasn’t.

Everything feels artificial — from the dialogue to the fight choreography. The direction tries to seem confident, but it’s constantly buried under a bloated, aimless script that wastes any chance at real tension or meaningful political commentary. Each scene seems designed to fake urgency, but it’s all so mechanical you can’t bring yourself to care.

There’s a clear attempt to lean on the protagonist’s image of strength — and that’s about it. What could’ve been a powerful character is reduced to an invincible caricature who can’t bleed, stumble, or hesitate. Not even for a second. As if showing vulnerability would betray the promise of entertainment. Ironically, that refusal to let the character break is exactly what breaks the film.

Visually, there’s some suggestion of effort, but nothing stands out. The setting becomes little more than background noise for punchlines and predictable explosions. Whenever the film tries to build tension, it leans on ridiculous exposition — explaining even what’s already obvious. And when it’s not explaining, it’s shouting.

In the end, G20 doesn’t entertain, doesn’t challenge, doesn’t even distract. It just exists. It’s streaming on autopilot: digestible, forgettable, and entirely disposable.

Matthias & Maxime is a film that sensitively explores the confusion of emotions and the difficulty of dealing with repressed desires. The story follows Matthias (Gabriel d’Almeida Freitas) and Maxime (Xavier Dolan), two childhood friends who, after agreeing to participate in a short film, find themselves having to kiss on camera. This moment stirs up unresolved emotions between them and deeply shakes their friendship. From there, the film unfolds around denial, anguish, and the fear of the unknown.

The film’s greatest strength lies in how it visually translates this emotional tension. The framing, often capturing the growing distance between the characters, and the use of color reinforce the duality between desire and repression. However, the narrative unfolds at an extremely slow pace, and the romantic tension between the protagonists takes too long to develop. Much of the film relies on suggestion and subtext, which might work for some viewers but can also make the experience feel drawn-out and not particularly engaging for others.

Another potential frustration is the lack of concrete events throughout the story. The film leans heavily on subtlety and introspection, but at times it feels like it revolves around emptiness. The relationship between Matthias and Maxime develops gradually and in a restrained manner, but the absence of more impactful moments makes the emotional payoff feel somewhat diluted. By the time something finally happens, the film’s slow rhythm has already softened its impact.

In the end, Matthias & Maxime is a sensitive and visually well-crafted film, but it requires patience. For those who appreciate contemplative and minimalist narratives, it may be an interesting experience. However, for those looking for a drama with more dynamism and emotional impact, it might leave the impression that it could have gone further. A solid film with good moments, but far from unforgettable.

Ford v Ferrari is one of those cinematic experiences that completely draws you in, making its two-and-a-half-hour runtime fly by. It maintains a seamless, engaging pace, delivering that rare sense of immersion and satisfaction throughout. There’s something about the way the narrative unfolds that reminded me of Air, directed by Ben Affleck—not necessarily in of subject matter, but in how both films transform a corporate-driven story into an emotionally gripping and compelling experience.

The film’s strength lies in its ability to balance a well-structured narrative with direction that highlights both the historical weight of the events and the deeply human element of its characters. Based on true events, the story brings to life one of the most iconic rivalries in the world of motorsports and business, exploring not only the technical and strategic battle between two industry giants but also the personal struggles and ambitions of those at the heart of the mission.

The performances are a major highlight. The cast delivers standout work, particularly in how the characters are given real depth and complexity. The protagonist, a determined and highly skilled man, is portrayed with intensity, making his vulnerabilities and convictions feel all the more authentic. His relationships—within the team and with his family—are developed in a way that enhances the film’s emotional impact. The movie strikes a great balance between high-adrenaline sequences and quieter, more introspective moments, ensuring that these characters feel like real people with dreams and struggles rather than just players in a high-stakes competition.

Another impressive aspect is how the racing sequences are filmed. The director’s choice to avoid excessive CGI adds a layer of realism that makes the experience even more immersive. The races aren’t just visually spectacular but are also structured with a sense of escalating tension, making every maneuver and risk taken by the drivers feel palpable. The editing is sharp and precise, creating thrilling sequences without sacrificing narrative clarity.

Beyond the spectacle of motorsports, the film also offers a sharp critique of corporate power struggles. The relentless pursuit of innovation and technical superiority clashes with political maneuvering and bureaucratic decision-making, highlighting how great achievements can be undermined by ego and internal disputes. This critique is handled with nuance—the script doesn’t simply villainize one side, but rather paints a complex picture of business dynamics and the fight for recognition.

Ultimately, Ford v Ferrari stands out as a film that seamlessly blends top-tier entertainment with a compelling, well-told story. It’s more than just a dramatization of a historic rivalry; it’s a celebration of determination, ingenuity, and the sheer ion for racing. Even for those who aren’t fans of motorsports, the film delivers an exhilarating and emotionally resonant experience that holds your attention from start to finish.

Querelle, Rainer Werner Fassbinder’s final film, is a stylized and provocative dive into a universe saturated with desire, repression, and violence. The director builds a world where masculinity is not only exalted but exposed in its most contradictory, fragile, and brutal form. The charged aesthetic—marked by intense colors and artificial sets—creates a dreamlike nightmare, where eroticism is not a form of liberation, but a destructive force driving characters into constant collisions with their own contradictions.

Sexuality here is both tool and language. Fassbinder doesn’t treat it as a peripheral element, but as the axis from which moral, emotional, and political tensions unfold. The male body becomes a stage for conflict and desire, and pleasure is almost always accompanied by guilt, denial, or aggression. Instead of offering answers, the film operates within discomfort and ambiguity, refusing easy explanations or linear readings. That refusal alone is already a political act—one that directly challenges the normativity that both suffocates and shapes the characters portrayed.

Formally, the film is both fascinating and exhausting. The intertitles, which serve as narrative breaks, initially lend a literary and fragmented tone to the story, but eventually disrupt the rhythm and create a repetitive sense of detachment. Still, the visual and sonic impact remains hypnotic: everything is meticulously crafted to build an atmosphere of excess and artificiality that reveals, with cruelty and beauty, the limits of freedom and identity.

Querelle is a film that dares. It’s not just about desire, but a symbolic dissection of what moves us—and what destroys us. In the end, it feels as if Fassbinder, aware of his own nearing end, closed his cinematic journey with a stifled scream—of love, of rage, of pain—wrapped in yellow lights and drifting bodies. so.

Breaking News in Yuba County is, without exaggeration, one of the strangest and most poorly made films I’ve ever seen. It’s almost unbelievable how a movie with such a star-studded cast manages to be bad in literally every single aspect. The premise could’ve worked as a solid dark comedy, but what we get on screen is a total mess, the kind that feels straight out of a Lifetime movie—or worse, an online film course project from Hotmart.

It even starts with an intriguing idea: a socially invisible woman who spins a web of lies to stay in the spotlight after her husband goes missing. But things quickly fall apart. The script is weak, rushed, and incoherent. Tate Taylor’s direction is so amateurish it’s painful to watch talented actors like Allison Janney stuck in such a terrible project. The film tries to emulate the style of the Coen brothers or Tarantino, with absurd situations and over-the-top violence, but fails on every level.

The editing is a mess, transitions are clumsy, the cinematography is lifeless, and the production design looks improvised. The soundtrack tries to cue comedic moments but only adds to the awkwardness. The performances—aside from Regina Hall and Janney—lack timing and direction. Some scenes are downright ridiculous, like Awkwafina headbutting Wanda Sykes in what looks like a poorly rehearsed school play.

On top of being badly directed and acted, the film is packed with uninteresting, underdeveloped characters. The cast seems willing to give something, but the material gives them nothing. In the end, it’s just a pile of meaningless deaths, forced twists, and a storyline that demands an impossible suspension of disbelief. A comedy that turns into a farce, and a farce that turns into complete chaos.

And no, I didn’t even laugh. I watched it while working out at the gym, and at least it made time go by faster—probably the only merit of this forgotten cinematic disaster buried deep in some streaming catalog.

Lamb (2021) is a film that misleads through its trailer. Perhaps marketed as a horror film, in reality, it unfolds as a much more atmospheric work, rich in symbolism and deliberately slow-paced. The horror here doesn’t come from jump scares or explicit tension but from a quiet unease that lingers throughout.

The opening already lays the groundwork for what’s to come. Director Valdimar Jóhannsson carefully frames each shot, subtly hinting at an inhuman presence lurking in the surroundings. A keen observer will notice that nature itself reacts to an external force from the very beginning—something beyond immediate comprehension but essential to the story’s unfolding.

At the heart of the narrative is the couple Ingvar (Hilmir Snær Guðnason) and Maria (Noomi Rapace), living in isolation on a remote farm, silently carrying the weight of grief. But rather than following a conventional horror structure, the film evolves into a drama about loss and the desperate attempt to rebuild something from it, centered around the arrival of Ada, a hybrid creature—half human, half animal. The couple’s near-instant acceptance of Ada isn’t portrayed as shock or horror but rather as an act of possession, a way to fill an emotional void.

What makes Sjón and Jóhannsson’s screenplay so compelling is precisely this shift in expectations. The film isn’t interested in explaining Ada’s existence or her purpose in the world. She simply is, and the story focuses on how humans respond to this anomaly. Maria and Ingvar attempt to mold Ada into their family, shaping her identity based on their emotional needs while ignoring the far greater implications of her origins.

This act of possession, however, comes at a cost. The film explores the idea of natural balance, suggesting that some forces cannot be tampered with without consequence. The turning point is the mother sheep’s death: by removing the being that had a legitimate claim to Ada, Maria directly disrupts that balance, assuming she can dictate the fate of this life. Nature’s response is not far behind.

The third act finally reveals what has been subtly hinted at all along. The mysterious presence that has been lurking since the opening sequence fully materializes, bringing with it an inevitable reckoning. There are no grand twists—just a bitter, fatalistic conclusion that reinforces the film’s central theme: for every human interference in something beyond their understanding, there is an equal and unavoidable consequence.

Lamb is not a conventional horror film, and perhaps that’s why it divides opinions. Those expecting jump scares or explicit terror might find the experience frustrating. But as a mythological tale about grief, possession, and the quiet wrath of nature, it becomes something truly memorable—a film that unsettles not by what it shows but by what it leaves behind, lingering long after the credits roll.

Compliance is one of those films that unsettle the audience by exposing the fragility of human morality in the face of authority. Inspired by real events, the film builds its tension from a simple yet deeply uncomfortable premise: how far will someone go in obeying orders without questioning them?

The story takes place in a fast-food restaurant, where the manager, Sandra, receives a phone call from a supposed police officer accusing one of her employees of theft. What begins as an improvised interrogation quickly escalates into a disturbing psychological game, pushing the boundaries of submission and abuse to increasingly extreme levels.

Written by Craig Zobel, the screenplay keeps the narrative contained in a limited setting, enhancing the claustrophobic atmosphere. Even though the plot developments might be predictable to the audience, the film still manages to hold attention—not through surprises, but through the sheer frustration of watching a series of mistakes snowball due to the characters’ inertia.

The performances play a crucial role in maintaining this suffocating tension. The restaurant manager struggles between her sense of authority and the pressure to cooperate with the police, while the accused employee shifts between disbelief and reluctant compliance. Meanwhile, the unseen villain orchestrating the manipulation over the phone exerts an unsettling control over the situation, proving just how easily people can be coerced in moments of vulnerability.

Visually, the film leans into a raw, unembellished realism, avoiding stylistic flourishes. The soundtrack is used sparingly, allowing silence to amplify the discomfort. This minimalist approach enhances the film’s impact, though at times, the slow pacing makes the experience feel a bit dragged out.

Compliance is an uncomfortable watch but not exactly a memorable one. It has an intriguing premise and raises thought-provoking questions about blind obedience, yet its somewhat repetitive execution diminishes its overall impact. Still, it’s a film that provokes discomfort and sparks discussion, even if its execution doesn’t fully live up to its premise.

We Need to Talk About Kevin is a film that delves deep into the mind of a mother tormented by guilt and the desperate need to understand her son’s actions, which ultimately led to tragedy. The narrative doesn’t just recount events; it raises an unsettling question: what makes someone a psychopath? Is it their upbringing, life experiences, or something innate? Though fictional, the story carries an eerie sense of realism, making it even more disturbing due to its parallels with real-life cases.

From the very first scene, the film establishes its suffocating atmosphere. The opening sequence, set in a festival where people are drenched in red sauce, immediately signals the symbolic weight of this color, which recurs throughout the film as a constant reminder of violence—sometimes subtle, sometimes overt. The protagonist, Eva (Tilda Swinton), is introduced as a broken woman, trying to piece together her past to make sense of how things spiraled out of control. The fragmented timeline, shifting between past and present, mirrors her relentless search for answers, pulling the audience into her disoriented perspective.

From the beginning, there’s an unshakable sense that something terrible is about to happen, though the details remain unclear. This growing tension keeps the audience engaged as the puzzle slowly comes together. The screenplay, written by Lynne Ramsay (who also directs) and Rory Stewart Kinnear, demands active participation from the viewer, who—like Eva—must work to connect the dots and extract meaning from the unfolding events.

One of the film’s most unsettling aspects is how society places the blame entirely on Eva. Her name, clearly symbolic, echoes the biblical figure associated with original sin, burdened with guilt that may not be solely hers to bear. Her relationship with Kevin was troubled from the start—he seemed to reject her with a level of awareness beyond his years, deliberately testing and manipulating her. Despite this, she never stopped trying to reach him, even as her attempts were met with hostility. The film refuses to offer clear-cut answers: was Kevin born this way, or did his dynamic with Eva shape him? This ambiguity is one of the film’s greatest strengths, leaving room for interpretation.

Swinton’s performance is essential in bringing depth to Eva. The woman seen in flashbacks is almost unrecognizable from the one in the present—once full of life, now reduced to a hollow version of herself, consumed by trauma. Yet, her love for her son remains evident, no matter how much pain he has inflicted. Ezra Miller’s portrayal of Kevin is equally haunting. Beneath his cold, calculated exterior, there are hints of a twisted bond with his mother—he seems to crave her attention, even if it means hurting her. The fact that he spared her while destroying everything else could be seen as a cruel gesture of attachment, a toxic connection that persists despite everything.

Ramsay’s direction plays a crucial role in shaping the film’s emotional impact. The camera remains almost entirely focused on Eva, emphasizing that everything is seen through her lens. Many moments deliberately obscure key details, suggesting that there are memories she still cannot fully process. The recurring use of red serves as more than just a representation of Kevin’s violence—it also symbolizes the hostility directed at Eva and the crushing weight of her guilt.

The film closes with one of its most striking moments: as Kevin faces his imminent transfer to an adult prison, a crack finally appears in his carefully constructed façade. For the first time, he allows a glimpse of genuine fear, revealing uncertainty about his own identity. We Need to Talk About Kevin doesn’t offer easy answers, but it forces us to confront unsettling questions about the origins of violence and the limits of guilt.

The documentary Sugarcane, directed by Emily Kassie and Julian Brave NoiseCat, delves into a brutally forgotten history: the disappearance of Indigenous children in residential schools run by the Catholic Church in Canada. The film’s starting point is the discovery of unmarked graves at St. Joseph’s school, uncovering a grim truth about the fate of countless children who were taken from their families and subjected to physical, psychological, and sexual abuse. What makes Sugarcane stand out is its intimate approach, giving voice to survivors and their families, making the documentary’s denunciation even more powerful and deeply personal.

The very existence of these institutions, created in the late 19th century to “re-educate” Indigenous children and force them to assimilate into white dominant culture, is already an act of violence. However, Sugarcane goes beyond this historical indictment to expose an even crueler reality: these children were not only stripped of their identities and family ties, but they also suffered unimaginable abuse, often paying with their lives. The documentary highlights how the cultural and physical genocide of these communities was systematically ignored, allowing injustice to persist across generations.

The narrative is structured around three central perspectives. The first is led by Willie Sellars, chief of the Williams Lake First Nation, who spearheads the investigation into the graves and seeks answers for his community. The second follows Rick and Anna Gilbert as they attempt to bring this issue to the Vatican, hoping for official acknowledgment and perhaps some form of reparation. The third focuses on the personal journey of Julian Brave NoiseCat and his father, Ed Archie NoiseCat, as they attempt reconciliation in the face of the deep wounds left by this past.

This approach gives the film a significant emotional depth. The field investigation, political advocacy, and personal pain intertwine to form a mosaic of interconnected horrors. Kassie and NoiseCat’s direction is both sensitive and precise, balancing justified outrage with the need to give space to the voices that matter most: those of the victims and their families. Though the introduction of the characters may initially seem confusing, the documentary quickly finds its rhythm, guiding the audience through a journey that blends mourning, the pursuit of justice, and cultural resilience.

One of the most striking moments is the audience at the Vatican, where the evasive response from religious authorities only reinforces the sense of impunity and neglect. In contrast, the conversation between Rick Gilbert and Louis Lougen, the man responsible for Catholic missions, offers a rare moment of honesty, albeit within controlled limits. Ultimately, Sugarcanemakes it clear that this story does not belong to the past. Institutional silence and the lack of effective reparations show that these wounds remain open and that the fight for justice is far from over.

As the credits roll, the outrage lingers. Sugarcane is not just a record of historical crimes but a living denunciation of a system that continues to erase the traces of its violence. The question that echoes is: how much longer?

“Deadpool 2” arrives with the difficult task of suring the resounding success of the first film, which established the Merc with a Mouth as one of the biggest names in superhero cinema. The irreverent humor, graphic violence, and constant breaking of the fourth wall became the franchise’s trademarks, making it unique within the genre. However, while the first film, despite some flaws, managed to balance these elements well, the sequel struggles to maintain that balance, resulting in a film that, at several points, gets lost between trying to take itself seriously and needing to be a satire.

The film starts off promisingly, bringing the character’s characteristic irreverence and setting the comedic tone well. The meta jokes and pop culture references work at first, and the dynamic between Deadpool and Colossus remains one of the film’s highlights. However, as the story progresses, the film starts to stumble over its own ambitions. The introduction of Cable (Josh Brolin) adds a dramatic layer to the story, but the way he is inserted feels abrupt and underdeveloped. The central conflict involving the mutant kid Russel (Julian Dennison) could have been a strong point, but the attempt to create a deep drama is undermined by the film’s insistence on constantly subverting any emotional weight with jokes.

This imbalance becomes even more evident in how *Deadpool 2* tries to resemble *Logan*, attempting to build a redemption arc for the protagonist. However, the narrative does not sustain this ambition, and Ryan Reynolds’ performance, as charismatic as it is, lacks the depth needed to carry these moments. The humor, which should be the film’s greatest asset, becomes predictable at times, and some jokes drag on longer than they should. Moreover, there is a particularly bad CGI scene that stands out negatively, raising doubts as to whether it was an error or an intentional choice within the satire.

Not everything is negative. The introduction of X-Force provides one of the film’s most hilarious moments, completely subverting the audience’s expectations of superhero teams. The character Domino (Zazie Beetz) stands out within the cast, and her superpower—luck—is used creatively in the action scenes. However, her origin story is introduced in a forced way, which slightly compromises her narrative construction. Another highlight is Deadpool’s interaction with Dopinder (Karan Soni), which brings well-placed comedic moments.

On a technical level, *Deadpool 2* showcases a larger budget compared to the first film, evident in the action scenes and the use of CGI—which, despite being a more prominent resource, does not always deliver a satisfactory result. David Leitch’s direction brings a more elaborate action style than seen in the first movie, but this approach does not always align well with the film’s tone.

In the end, *Deadpool 2* is a film that oscillates between satire and an attempt at deeper drama but fails to balance these elements effectively. There are fun moments and good ideas, but the execution does not always hit the right note. While the first film’s humor and action worked more cohesively, here there is an overload of references and a struggle to decide whether it wants to be just a superhero comedy or something more profound. The result is a film that, despite its merits, becomes tiresome at times and does not reach its full potential

The Substance remains an absurd and grotesque experience, but now, watching it again, certain details have become even more striking. Coralie Fargeat directs the story with relentless intensity, blending body horror, satire, and sharp humor that amplifies the discomfort. Demi Moore delivers a brutal performance, filled with irony and desperation, making her Elizabeth Sparkle both pathetic and tragic at the same time.

This time, what stood out the most was the sound. The score and sound design work as an extension of the body horror, building tension through subtle distortions and unsettling noises. Every transformation and physical decay of Elizabeth feels even more visceral because of it, making the sensory experience even more suffocating.

And, of course, the film remains merciless until the end. Fargeat fully embraces excess, handling everything with a precise eye, always playing with the grotesque and the absurd. It’s hard to come out of this experience unaffected—and maybe that’s exactly what makes The Substance so addictive.

Black Box Diaries is a documentary that defies conventions, balancing between investigative journalism and a personal diary, crafting a narrative as intimate as it is unsettling. At its center is Shiori Itō, both the survivor and the investigator of a rape case that shook Japan—not only due to the involvement of Noriyuki Yamaguchi, a former television executive with close ties to ex-Prime Minister Shinzo Abe, but also for the impact it had on the country’s archaic sexual assault laws, which had remained unchanged for over a century.

What sets this documentary apart is how Itō simultaneously takes on multiple roles—survivor, journalist, and filmmaker—blurring the lines between investigation and personal testimony. While exposing the corrupt and deeply misogynistic Japanese legal system, the film also dives into her trauma, reflected in every artistic and narrative choice. Itō places herself in front of the camera unfiltered, in confessional sequences that are as emotionally devastating as they are powerful, contrasting with her meticulous investigative work. The result is a film that shifts between a gripping journalistic thriller and a raw, deeply personal reckoning.

The first half focuses on the procedural aspects of the case, presenting an extensive collection of evidence—recorded police calls, security footage, interviews with officials, and discussions on Japan’s systemic legislative failures. As the film progresses, it becomes more introspective, allowing the audience to see not only a determined journalist but also a woman struggling to survive the scars left by violence and public scrutiny.

The editing by Ema Ryan Yamazaki stands out, skillfully structuring this duality: the relentless reporter fighting for justice and the vulnerable woman grappling with the consequences of her courage. Some aesthetic choices may feel unpolished at times, but this lack of refinement adds to the documentary’s authenticity, reinforcing the sense that we are witnessing a living testimony, a battle still being fought in real-time.

In the end, Black Box Diaries takes the viewer on a rollercoaster of emotions—from rage to hope, from anguish to the celebration of Itō’s resilience. Even when justice seems to be achieved, the underlying pain never fully fades. But by exposing herself with such honesty, Itō not only tells her own story—she also challenges a system that has long sought to silence women like her.

If Super Size Me (2004) had a clear impact in exposing the dangers of fast food, its sequel, Super Size Me 2: Holy Chicken! (2017), feels repetitive, shallow, and, at times, contradictory.

This time, Morgan Spurlock shifts his focus to the chicken industry, opening his own fast-food restaurant to expose how marketing deceives consumers and how big corporations exploit small farmers. The problem is that many of the film’s so-called “revelations” are anything but new—anyone remotely aware of advertising already knows that food imagery is manipulated and that labels like “natural” or “hormone-free” are often meaningless. Spurlock presents these points as if they were groundbreaking, making the documentary feel tedious and predictable.

Moreover, his approach to interviews is questionable. He pretends to engage with industry experts and business consultants, but his only real intention is to use them as props to reinforce his criticisms, leaving no room for actual debate. If the goal was purely to expose wrongdoing, it would have been more honest to embrace that perspective outright instead of putting on a facade of neutrality.

But the film’s biggest flaw is its own contradiction. After spending the entire runtime criticizing the fast-food industry, Spurlock opens a restaurant and sells the exact same kind of food, just with more “transparent” branding. The supposed irony falls flat, and by the end, the film feels less like a meaningful exposé and more like a cynical experiment that ultimately goes nowhere.

While the first Super Size Me at least sparked discussion, this sequel adds little to the conversation and even undermines the director’s own credibility. In the end, Super Size Me 2rehashes old criticisms without offering anything truly new or impactful.

The documentary Super Size Me (2004), directed and starring Morgan Spurlock, remains one of the most impactful films about food and public health. Even after two decades, its theme is still relevant, especially with the rise of fast-food culture and the worsening obesity crisis worldwide. The film’s premise is simple yet powerful: Spurlock decides to eat exclusively at McDonald’s for 30 days, following strict rules, such as always accepting the option to “super size” his meal when offered. The result is a shocking physical and psychological transformation that serves as a stark warning about the dangers of an ultra-processed diet.

What makes Super Size Me an essential documentary is not just Spurlock’s extreme experiment but the way he structures his narrative to tackle broader issues. He’s not just criticizing McDonald’s—he’s exposing an entire food and public health system that allows (or even encourages) this kind of consumption. In the United States, fast food is deeply ingrained in society, especially among the working class, for whom healthier options are often inaccessible, either financially or practically. This reality contrasts significantly with Brazil, where, despite the growing presence of fast-food chains, the culture around food is different and less dependent on daily fast-food consumption. When I moved to the U.S., I was shocked by how fast food wasn’t just a habit but almost a necessity for millions of people.

The film’s visual impact also adds to its effectiveness. Spurlock’s declining health is evident: he gains weight rapidly, his medical test results worsen, and his energy plummets. The documentary interweaves this personal journey with expert interviews, statistical data, and critical discussions on corporate food policies. The result is a dynamic, engaging, and, most importantly, thought-provoking film. It’s no surprise that many compare Spurlock’s style to that of Michael Moore, another documentarian who has mastered the art of transforming complex social issues into accessible and compelling narratives.

However, Super Size Me is not without its flaws. The film’s biggest issue is its exaggerated approach. Yes, fast food is unhealthy, but who actually eats McDonald’s for breakfast, lunch, and dinner every single day for a month? Spurlock’s experiment, while revealing, is an extreme scenario that doesn’t necessarily reflect the average consumer’s behavior. Additionally, the film focuses heavily on highlighting problems rather than proposing solutions. A deeper discussion on food education, affordable alternatives, and industry changes that could make healthy eating more accessible would have been valuable.

Still, the film’s impact is undeniable. It ignited a global debate about the consequences of the fast-food industry and, in some ways, even influenced changes within these corporations. McDonald’s, for instance, was pressured into rethinking its marketing strategies and introducing healthier menu options. But the fundamental question Super Size Me raises remains: to what extent should large corporations be held responsible for the population’s eating habits? There’s no simple answer, but the film plays a crucial role in bringing this discussion to the forefront.

By the end of the experiment, Spurlock proves his point: a fast-food-based diet can be devastating. Super Size Me is not just an exposé against a company or a product—it’s a portrait of a food system that, in many cases, prioritizes profit over public health. And for that reason, it remains an essential documentary.

Elton John is one of those figures who transcend music and become part of the collective imagination. His songs are anthems, his extravagant outfits defined an era, and his personal journey is filled with highs and lows. The documentary Elton John: Never Too Late, directed by David Furnish and R.J. Cutler, attempts to capture this complexity but delivers a portrait that, while moving, lacks boldness.

The film starts off on the right foot: Elton’s voice guides the narrative, creating the feeling of an intimate conversation. Over the course of 1h40, the documentary weaves together archival footage, vibrant animations, and clips from the Farewell Yellow Brick Road tour, which concluded at Dodger Stadium in Los Angeles. This mix of visual and musical elements reinforces the artist’s grandeur, but the lack of new insights may disappoint those already familiar with his story.

His relationship with Bernie Taupin, his songwriting partner for decades, takes center stage, highlighting how music served as a refuge for Elton’s pain. However, the film does not delve as deeply as it could into his artistic process, instead revisiting themes already explored in his autobiography and the biopic Rocketman (2019). Stories like his partnership with John Lennon and the struggles of fame are retold without much novelty, making the experience somewhat predictable.

The documentary succeeds in addressing his childhood traumas and distant relationship with his parents, themes that shaped much of his personality and choices. The sensitivity with which these issues are handled prevents the narrative from slipping into sensationalism, but Furnish’s closeness to Elton seems to limit the film. Rather than exploring the more complex and contradictory aspects of the artist, the direction opts for a safe, reverential approach, leaving the impression that much was left untold.

The linear structure, following Elton’s journey from childhood to retirement from touring, works but lacks innovation. The potential for a more critical perspective or a bolder editing style is wasted, resulting in a documentary that moves but does not surprise. Still, there are genuinely touching moments, such as the candid way Elton discusses his sexuality and his struggle to come out publicly, as well as the evident affection when speaking about the family he built with Furnish.

The film’s closing, featuring the previously unreleased song Never Too Late, is one of its highlights. The song encapsulates the documentary’s final message: it’s never too late to start over, to love, and to find happiness. In the end, Elton John: Never Too Late delivers a heartfelt and emotional portrait but could have been deeper and more revealing. For fans, it’s a nostalgic celebration; for those seeking a fresh perspective on the icon, it may feel like a missed opportunity.

Grand Theft Hamlet is a documentary that takes an unconventional route, merging classic theater with open-world video games. The project emerged during the pandemic when two British actors, facing a lack of job opportunities, decided to stage a Shakespearean play within GTA Online. The result is a curious hybrid that raises questions about the boundaries of documentary filmmaking and the potential of digital language for new forms of storytelling.

The concept itself is intriguing. In a virtual space defined by unpredictability, where any attempt at structure can be disrupted by the game’s inherent chaos, there is a fascinating clash between order and disorder, between classical text and digital anarchy. However, the execution of the documentary wavers between the originality of its premise and a certain lack of direction.

The first half works well in presenting the idea and exploring its inherent challenges. The contrast between the Shakespearean universe and the game’s chaotic mechanics creates genuinely interesting moments. However, as the documentary progresses, it becomes repetitive. There is an unnecessary elongation in the search for new participants and a tendency to reiterate the initial concept without introducing significant variations or deeper insights.

Moreover, there is an important conceptual question: to what extent can this be considered a documentary? While the film is entirely captured within the game, it follows a structured narrative, with dubbed dialogues and a carefully guided progression. This distances it from the idea of a purely observational record and brings it closer to something more staged.

Still, Grand Theft Hamlet stands out as an interesting experiment—not just for its fusion of theater and gaming, but for the questions it raises about the limits of documentary filmmaking and how new technologies can expand the concept of mise-en-scène. Despite its excesses and a conclusion that gets lost in its own unpredictability, the film is a compelling example of how cinematic language can be reimagined in times of digital transformation.

Watcher starts with an extremely effective build-up of suspense, exploring the protagonist’s vulnerability in a foreign environment. The sense of displacement and powerlessness is one of the film’s greatest strengths, amplified by the fact that she doesn’t understand the local language. This creates genuinely distressing moments where the viewer shares her frustration and paranoia, especially in the more intense scenes, like the one in the supermarket, which are masterfully crafted to induce discomfort.

However, as the story progresses, the narrative starts to lose momentum. The initial mystery and growing tension give way to a more predictable development, where the script leans on familiar psychological thriller conventions. The pacing slows down, and the film misses an opportunity to deepen the psychological game between predator and prey, resulting in a second act that feels less gripping than the first.

The ending, while dramatically intense, requires a suspension of disbelief that might not work for everyone. Some choices and twists feel too convenient, and the climax, though visually effective, doesn’t quite deliver the emotional and psychological weight it should. The film flirts with a more ambiguous conclusion but ultimately opts for a resolution that weakens part of the tension built earlier.

Overall, Watcher is a solid thriller with a well-crafted atmosphere and genuinely unsettling moments. However, its uneven execution prevents it from reaching greater impact. It starts with strong potential but loses steam along the way, resulting in an engaging yet not entirely memorable experience.

The Nickel Boys left me conflicted. On one hand, it’s a powerful film with a relevant theme and a unique approach, but on the other, certain aesthetic choices distanced me from the experience rather than immersing me in it. The direction takes an experimental route that, for me, ended up being more of an obstacle than an effective narrative tool. The use of subjective camera work, for instance, made me feel disconnected, especially in the moments where the protagonist’s face is deliberately hidden. I understand the intention behind creating identification and intimacy, but for me, it only made the experience feel more impersonal.

Additionally, some scenes felt random and didn’t seem to contribute much to the narrative, like shots of space or the sudden appearance of animals. This kind of approach can work to build an atmospheric experience, but here, it felt more like a distraction from the core story. The shift between the two protagonists also didn’t feel as fluid as it could have been, and at times, instead of pulling me deeper into the film, it took me out of it.

That said, the film has undeniable strengths. The way the main characters are constructed is compelling, and the contrast between hope and realism gives the story an emotional depth that carries much of the film. The way it explores the scars left by violence and injustice is powerful, even though, for me, the portrayal of the reformatory’s brutality wasn’t as impactful as it could have been. I felt that the film could have done more to make me truly feel the weight of the oppression. There are some undeniably striking scenes, but the choice to suggest violence rather than depict it directly—combined with a soundtrack that, to me, felt monotonous and somewhat out of place—ended up softening the impact.

The standout, for me, was Aunjanue Ellis’s performance. Every time she was on screen, she brought a genuine emotional depth that was sometimes missing elsewhere, making her presence one of the film’s strongest aspects.

Overall, The Nickel Boys tells a powerful story and has well-crafted elements, but its experimental approach didn’t fully work for me. Still, I recognize its strengths and can see how it could be an impactful film for those who connect better with this aesthetic. It’s not a bad film—far from it—but for me, it could have been more engaging with different narrative choices.

“So far, so good.” The phrase, repeated throughout La Haine, sounds like a desperate attempt to ignore an impending collapse. Spoken as someone plummets from a building, it encapsulates the logic of a world falling apart while refusing to acknowledge its own ruin. Released in 1995, Mathieu Kassovitz’s film was not just a reflection of a on the brink—it became a timeless portrait of oppression and inequality.

There’s something suffocating about La Haine, a constant unease that builds like a storm about to break. The black-and-white cinematography doesn’t just enhance the bleakness of the characters’ reality—it strips away any illusion of escape. Everything is dry, harsh, devoid of softness or relief. Time drags on like a relentless ticking clock, marked by hour intervals that signal an invisible countdown.

Paris, often romanticized as the pinnacle of European tourism and culture, reveals a different face—one where the suburbs function as segregated territories, no-man’s lands for those born on the margins. In the city center, they are met with distrust; in the outskirts, resentment brews like gunpowder waiting to ignite. The characters belong to neither world. They are merely pawns in a brutal game where defeat is inevitable, no matter the move.

The film’s tension is built on this sense of displacement and the looming threat of violence. The audience is dragged into a state of constant alertness, feeling that something tragic could happen at any moment. The idea that justice is unattainable is reflected in every dialogue, every confrontation, every weighted silence. When hatred becomes the only response to powerlessness, no one walks away unscathed.

The police presence is not just a narrative device but a reminder that the state operates as an enemy to the marginalized. The acts of police brutality depicted in the film mirror a reality that, nearly thirty years later, continues to repeat itself—whether in the streets of or anywhere else in the world. Repression is the rule, and any attempt at resistance becomes another excuse for punishment.

The Taxi Driver reference, in the iconic scene where the protagonist rehearses with a gun in front of a mirror, is not just a nod to cinema—it reflects a suffocated youth who sees violence as its only form of expression. The gun, a symbolic object of power, is also a burden, a trap, a sealed fate. There is no catharsis, no revolution—only the illusion of control, lasting until the very last second.

The city, the streets, the alleys, the trains—everything in La Haine is a labyrinth with no exit. When the characters venture into central Paris, the rejection is explicit. They do not belong to a society that hides behind art galleries and polished conversations. The scene where they awkwardly attempt to win over two women is tragicomic, exposing their role as outsiders in a city that should, in theory, be theirs.

What makes La Haine so powerful is not just its critique but the fact that it never truly ends. Its impact doesn’t lie in a linear storyline but in the feeling it leaves behind. There is no comfort, no resolution. The final scene doesn’t just conclude the film—it cements an open wound, a cycle doomed to repeat itself.

The fall is already in motion. But the problem was never the fall. It was always the landing.

Revenge cinema has always been a delicate field, especially within the rape-and-revenge subgenre, which is often accused of fetishizing violence against women under the guise of empowerment. However, Revenge, directed and written by Coralie Fargeat, emerges as an intelligent and visually striking approach to the theme, subverting conventions and transforming a problematic archetype into a powerful and feminist cinematic experience. 

The plot follows Jennifer, a young woman who travels with her boyfriend to a secluded house in the desert. When his friends arrive, the situation quickly turns into a nightmare, culminating in a brutal rape. Instead of graphically exploring the violence, Fargeat directs this sequence with extreme tension and subtlety. She avoids voyeurism and places the viewer in the position of a powerless witness, emphasizing the premeditation of the crime and the silent complicity surrounding it. The assault itself is not prolonged in a torturous manner, but its psychological impact is immense, built through silence, glances, and a suffocating atmosphere.

After Jen’s attempted murder, the film abandons any commitment to realism and embraces a stylized, almost mythological narrative. Her resurrection and transformation from victim to hunter follow a rite of age filled with symbolism, aligning with the tradition of exaggerated action films. The desert becomes a battlefield, and Fargeat uses this setting to amplify the sense of isolation and imminent danger. The cinematography explores striking visual contrasts, starting with vibrant, sensual colors and gradually shifting into a palette dominated by earthy tones and deep reds, reflecting the protagonist’s bloody journey.

The reversal of roles and the deconstruction of stereotypes are central to Revenge’s power. From the use of nudity—this time applied to the male characters rather than the protagonist—to the structure of the chase and final confrontation, Fargeat subverts the traditional logic of the genre. The climactic scene, in which the villain is completely naked, represents the removal of social masks, exposing his vulnerability and cruelty without the disguises of male civility. This confrontation is not just physical but symbolic: a reconfiguration of power dynamics between victim and aggressor.

The film also engages with action cinema in a satirical and self-aware manner. The way Jen survives—cauterizing a wound in an exaggeratedly dramatic fashion—directly recalls Rambosequences but also provokes a reflection on how audiences readily accept these solutions for male characters while questioning their plausibility when applied to women. This meta-commentary permeates the entire film, including the way the protagonist is initially framed: her first close-ups, evoking Lolita-like aesthetics, function as a trap for the viewer, exposing their own complicity in objectifying her.

Interestingly, I watched Titane and Revenge on the same day—and I hated Titane. Though both films fit within the brutal aesthetics of French New Extremism, Revenge stands out by turning its extreme violence into a cohesive and symbolic narrative tool, while Titane gets lost in shock for the sake of shock. Coralie Fargeat constructs a cathartic arc in which every wound and visual excess serves to subvert the male gaze and critique traditional portrayals of gendered violence in cinema, making brutality a means of empowerment. Titane, despite its aesthetic boldness, lacks a guiding thread to sustain its allegories, blending body horror and mechanical fetishism in a fragmented way, without a well-defined thematic purpose. Ducournau’s visual impact is striking, but her imagery often seems to exist solely to provoke, unlike Revenge’s visceral and meaningful journey, which redefines excess as an essential part of its critique and narrative transformation.

While the film demands a suspension of disbelief at times, this stylistic choice does not weaken its message. On the contrary, Revenge appropriates the conventions of the genre to transform them into a cathartic and subversive experience. Coralie Fargeat demonstrates full control over her cinematic language, delivering a work that challenges expectations and provokes thought. In the end, Revenge is not just a story of survival and retribution—it is a distorted mirror that exposes the hypocrisy of rape culture and the social complicity that sustains it. Jennifer’s direct gaze in the final scene is not just for her aggressors—it’s for all of us.

Titane is a film that seems more concerned with shocking its audience than telling a story with real substance. Director Julia Ducournau builds a film that leans heavily on the grotesque and the bizarre, but without a solid narrative foundation to justify these choices. There’s a clear intent to turn this into a cult film purely through shock value, relying on disturbing imagery rather than a meaningful artistic vision. Some films are difficult because they are profound, while others are difficult simply for the sake of being impenetrable—and Titane falls into the latter category.

The only aspect that comes close to having dramatic weight is the relationship between the protagonist and Vincent Lindon’s firefighter character, a man desperately searching for his lost son. This dynamic briefly suggests an attempt to explore themes of belonging and identity, but the film never delves deep enough to make it meaningful. Instead, it indulges in a series of gratuitously violent and absurd moments—such as the murders and the sexual implications with cars—that add nothing beyond surface-level shock. The body horror, which could have served as a medium for something more profound, ultimately feels like an empty gimmick, a provocation without real substance.

Ducournau seems very aware of how she structures the film, front-loading the most graphic scenes to grab the audience’s attention early on. However, this approach quickly loses momentum, as the movie struggles to maintain any sense of narrative cohesion. The storytelling choices feel arbitrary, and the initial violence functions more as a “bait” than an organic part of the film. While Titane flirts with themes of gender identity and bodily transformation, it does so in a superficial way, never committing to a fully developed discourse.

The protagonist, Alexia/Adrien, adopts a masculine identity as a means of self-preservation and finds refuge in an unexpected environment, yet the film never truly explores this conflict in a meaningful way. Everything boils down to a convenient sense of weirdness—an aesthetic of shock that masks its lack of depth. Even moments that hint at some tenderness, particularly in the interactions between Alexia and Lindon’s character, end up wasted because the film seems fundamentally uninterested in genuinely engaging with its own dramatic potential.

In the end, Titane comes across as a compilation of references to contemporary French arthouse cinema, but without a voice of its own. Ducournau recycles elements of a so-called provocative cinema that exists merely for the sake of provocation, without any real commitment to its story or characters. The film chooses a path of excess and empty symbolism, failing to construct a narrative that s its extreme stylistic choices. What remains is an ultimately hollow experiment, more concerned with momentary impact than with building something meaningful.

If Blink Twice already stood out as a sharp and stylish psychological thriller on the first watch, revisiting it only makes its precision even more evident. Zoë Kravitz’s direction, far from being an uncertain gamble, showcases a firm grasp on how to construct unease—whether through meticulously controlled aesthetics or a screenplay that weaves social commentary seamlessly into its tension. Every visual choice—the color palettes, the island’s rigid architecture, the uniform outfits—reinforces the feeling that something is off in this paradise, and Kravitz ensures we never forget it.

The use of red, from costume details to set design, isn’t just a stylistic flourish but a deliberate nod to The Matrix, signaling the thin line between illusion and reality. Slater King’s (Channing Tatum) overly polished charm feels even more unsettling on a rewatch, as do the eerily plastic smiles of his employees, reminiscent of Get Out’s psychological horror. Small details—unexplained injuries, snakes slithering through the island—become even more significant upon revisiting, adding layers to an already meticulous film.

One of the film’s most striking aspects is how it portrays the seductive nature of power. The script by Kravitz and E.T. Feigenbaum doesn’t just expose the mechanics of exploitation—it also highlights how oppression can disguise itself as acceptance and inclusion. Frida (Naomi Ackie, outstanding) isn’t just a victim of the system King represents; for a moment, she believes she belongs in it. And that illusion is precisely what the film methodically dismantles.

When the violence finally erupts, Kravitz doesn’t hold back. The brutality is graphic and unsettling, as it should be, yet the film shifts into something almost cathartic when the tables turn. The decision to stylize the victims’ revenge doesn’t diminish the horror of what came before—it amplifies the power shift. If anything loses strength on a rewatch, it’s the heavy-handed dialogue in the third act, which overexplains a message that was already crystal clear. Naming the protagonist Frida, for example, carries enough symbolism without needing further emphasis.

Despite this minor misstep, Blink Twice remains one of the most gripping thrillers in recent years. Its pacing never falters, and its aesthetic impact lingers. Kravitz proves she not only understands atmosphere but also how to craft a story where every scene contributes to the final gut punch. If this is just the beginning of her directing career, the future looks exciting.

Darren Aronofsky is a director known for his ability to explore human suffering with almost unbearable intensity. In The Whale, he takes this approach to the extreme, telling the story of Charlie, a reclusive, obese English professor, masterfully portrayed by Brendan Fraser. The film is a study of guilt, regret, and the desperate search for redemption, but it is also a painful portrait of the consequences of intolerance—particularly regarding religion and homophobia.

From the very first scene, The Whale is a film that suffocates and unsettles. Not just because of Charlie’s extreme physical condition, but because of what that condition represents. His morbid obesity is not the real problem—it is merely a symptom of a much deeper pain. He has allowed himself to wither emotionally after losing the man he loved to suicide—a tragedy that, in turn, was triggered by religious oppression and family rejection. Faced with unbearable grief, he found solace in food, turning his body into a shield against the world. Every movement, every struggle to breathe or speak, is a reminder of the prison he has built for himself.

The screenplay, adapted from Samuel D. Hunter’s play, unflinchingly explores the invisible scars left by a society that refuses to accept those who are different. Charlie was rejected by his family, judged for his sexuality, and, in a way, punished by the same religion that destroyed his partner’s life. His faith, which might have once been a refuge, became a destructive force. This is one of the film’s most striking aspects: the way religion, rather than offering comfort, can become a tool of oppression. The very doctrines that should bring solace and redemption instead push people toward despair, isolation, and, in extreme cases, death.

Despite all this emotional weight, Fraser delivers a performance that transcends suffering. Charlie is a complex character, full of contradictions. Although he has given up on himself, he still believes in the beauty and goodness of others—especially his daughter, Ellie (Sadie Sink), with whom he tries to reconnect before his death. The problem is, Ellie doesn’t want to be saved. She is cruel, aggressive, and filled with resentment. Her hatred extends beyond her father’s abandonment; she despises his very existence. She loathes him for being fat, for being gay, for being weak in her eyes. And yet, Charlie insists—perhaps because he sees in her his last chance to do something good before the end.

The father-daughter relationship is the heart of the film, and it is where the greatest tragedy lies. The audience feels every humiliation Charlie endures, but what truly devastates is his refusal to return hatred with hatred. Even when faced with his daughter’s relentless cruelty, he continues to love her. He believes she can be good, that she can be saved. His optimism is heartbreaking, because we know the world rarely rewards those who insist on seeing the best in others.

Visually, The Whale amplifies this sense of confinement and despair. The entire film takes place inside Charlie’s dark, claustrophobic apartment—a space that reflects his emotional and physical state. Aronofsky chooses a 4:3 aspect ratio instead of the traditional 16:9, a framing choice that makes every scene feel suffocating. Just as Fraser’s body fills the screen, the world around him feels small and oppressive—mirroring how Charlie perceives reality.

The film’s central metaphor—an essay about Moby-Dick that Charlie repeatedly reads—reinforces the idea that he is a man consumed by his own destruction. He sees himself as Melville’s whale, a massive, misunderstood being hunted by those who refuse to accept him. But there is a bitter irony: unlike the whale, Charlie is not a monster—he is a victim of the forces that pushed him toward this fate.

Some have criticized the film as fatphobic, but that interpretation overlooks its true intent. Charlie’s obesity is not portrayed as something grotesque but as a powerful symbol of the weight of trauma, guilt, and loneliness. The revulsion others feel toward him says more about them than about him. The film does not judge its protagonist—on the contrary, it humanizes him in a way that is painfully honest.

In the end, The Whale does not offer a comforting resolution. There is no full redemption, no happy ending. But there is something even more important: understanding. The film forces us to confront Charlie’s pain, to see not only his suffering but also his dignity. It reminds us that invisible scars are often more destructive than any physical wound. And that, in the end, the only thing that truly matters is the love we choose to give—even when the world insists on rejecting us.

Darren Aronofsky has crafted an emotionally exhausting but necessary experience. And Brendan Fraser delivers the performance of his career, breathing life into a character that will be ed in cinematic history. The Whale is not an easy film to watch, but it is impossible to forget.

Tim Fehlbaum delivers a tense, claustrophobic thriller with September 5, revisiting one of modern history’s most tragic episodes: the Munich Massacre during the 1972 Olympic Games. However, rather than focusing directly on the attack itself, the film takes an unusual perspective, exploring the behind-the-scenes chaos of ABC’s newsroom—the American network that, without precedent, broadcasted an act of terror live to millions worldwide.

The entire narrative unfolds within the network’s operations center, where producers, journalists, and technicians scramble to comprehend and report the unfolding crisis in real-time. Fehlbaum expertly uses this confined setting to create a growing sense of entrapment, not just mirroring the characters’ anguish but emphasizing the weight of their editorial decisions. Every shot within the dimly lit control room adds to the pressure, while the fragmented voices, overlapping radio static, and flickering monitors construct an atmosphere of controlled chaos.

Peter Sarsgaard leads the cast as Roone Arledge, the executive producer who finds himself facing unprecedented ethical and professional dilemmas. His team must decide not only whatto broadcast but how to present it, navigating the moral implications of showing a hostage situation that could turn into live murder at any moment. The script effectively captures the tension between the duty to inform and the temptation to turn tragedy into spectacle. Like the journalists inside that room, the audience is left questioning: is there a line that should never be crossed? Or does the right to information justify everything?

Fehlbaum deliberately avoids diving into the broader political complexities of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict or the roles of various actors, such as the German government or security forces. The focus remains strictly on the media coverage and its consequences. This keeps the film tightly wound but also limits its scope, reducing a multifaceted historical event to a single perspective. The decision to blend real archival footage with dramatized scenes enhances the film’s emotional impact, reinforcing the notion that, on that day, the world became a spectator to an unfolding horror that no one knew how to contain.

While the first half maintains an electrifying pace driven by the urgency of live broadcasting, the tension dissipates as the attack moves beyond ABC’s cameras. The gripping conflict between ethics and pragmatism gives way to a slower, less impactful conclusion.

Ultimately, September 5 stands out more for its form than its content. The immersive production design, oppressive cinematography, and meticulous sound work are the film’s strongest assets, while its critique of the media’s role in sensationalizing tragedy, though relevant, lacks deeper exploration. It serves as a stark reminder that in journalism, history does not belong solely to those who live it but also to those who shape its narrative. And that battle over the “definitive” version of events can be just as brutal as the events themselves.

The Brutalist, by Brady Corbet, stands on the grandeur of its concept and the meticulousness of its visual execution. Shot in VistaVision 35mm and boasting an exquisite production design, the film crafts a cinematic experience that flirts with the epic while revealing cracks in its narrative structure. With a commanding runtime of 3 hours and 30 minutes, it chronicles the journey of László Toth (Adrien Brody), a Hungarian Jewish architect who migrates to the United States after World War II in search of refuge and recognition. However, his journey turns out to be not just an architectural odyssey but a deep dive into shattered ambitions, vices, and power dynamics.

Corbet establishes a profound dialogue between brutalist aesthetics and the human condition. Brutalism, with its exposed concrete and austere geometric forms, becomes a metaphor for the protagonist’s struggle in a world that insists on shaping him by force. This concept is reflected in the rigorous framing by cinematographer Lol Crawley, who transforms doors and windows into confinements, symbolizing a society that excludes and a system that devours immigrants and visionaries. The visual precision is striking, and at times, it even overshadows the characters themselves, swallowed by an architecture that represents both power and oppression.

If there’s something undeniably captivating about The Brutalist, it’s its aesthetics. Every shot is meticulously composed, every space filled with meaning. The color palette, cold and calculated, reinforces the indifference of the world surrounding László. Daniel Blumberg’s score accompanies this atmosphere masterfully, starting with a striking, metallic sound reminiscent of a chisel against concrete. However, as the lengthy film progresses, it loses its edge and becomes predictable.

Yet, the film’s beauty also exposes its Achilles’ heel: a dramaturgy that, in many moments, gets lost in the grandeur of its aesthetics. There’s a constant pursuit of symbolism, metaphors, and historical references, but this doesn’t always translate into deep emotional development. The Brutalist aspires to be a study of art, immigration, and identity, but its fragmented and, at times, self-indulgent narrative hinders this ambition. Many scenes drag unnecessarily, compromising the pacing and resulting in a film that could have been leaner without losing impact.

On the other hand, there’s something that elevates the experience and prevents these flaws from completely undermining the film: Guy Pearce. He completely takes over the film with a magnetic presence, bringing charisma and eccentricity to his character, Harrison Lee Van Buren—an arrogant and narcissistic tycoon who exploits László’s talent to build a cultural center in honor of his deceased mother. With a blend of humor and arrogance, Pearce crafts an irresistible character, walking the line between ridiculous and menacing without ever losing credibility. He injects energy into the film, and whenever he appears, the narrative seems to regain its breath.

Adrien Brody, on the other hand, delivers a competent performance but never reaches the impact he could have. His László is a complex man, but Brody’s portrayal often feels excessively restrained, as if the character is always hiding behind an emotional wall. If pain and genius reside within him, they are present but never felt with the intensity the film seems to strive for.

The first half of the film is engaging. We follow László’s struggle to find a place in a country that promises opportunities but only accepts him under predetermined conditions. There’s a strong critique of the hypocrisy of the American Dream, and Corbet handles it skillfully. The relationship between Toth and his cousin Atilla (Alessandro Nivola), a man who abandoned his Jewish identity for social assimilation, is rich in subtext and presents one of the film’s sharpest moments.

However, as the film progresses, its script starts to stumble. The dynamic between László and Harrison becomes the heart of the narrative, but the way Corbet escalates this relationship leads to a violent scene that, rather than amplifying the film’s themes, feels gratuitous and exploitative. In a film that had already made the power imbalance between the characters clear, this moment feels like a cheap blow that adds nothing new to the story and instead weakens its cohesion.

Additionally, the subplot involving László’s niece, Zsófia, and her decision to move to Israel is introduced without proper depth, making it seem like an afterthought rather than an organic extension of the narrative. It’s one of those moments where the film’s ambition exceeds its ability to structure its ideas cohesively.

After hours of constructing a dense and symbolic narrative, the film concludes with an epilogue that attempts to tie up loose ends in an overly explicit and didactic manner. What could have been an open-ended conclusion instead turns into a summary of theses, weakening the cinematic experience by spoon-feeding the audience its themes. Corbet, who had previously relied on the power of imagery and suggestion, suddenly seems afraid of being misunderstood and opts for an almost academic explanation of his intentions.

Still, The Brutalist impresses more than it frustrates. Its impeccable cinematography, meticulous production design, and atmospheric score make it a remarkable cinematic experience. Even with narrative excesses and scenes that could have been trimmed, the film’s sheer ambition and visual strength uphold its significance.

It’s not a perfect film, and in some aspects, it may have promised more than it delivered. Some scenes overstay their welcome, certain characters aren’t fully utilized, and at times, the desire to be a grand manifesto overshadows the organic flow of the story. But despite these flaws, there’s something fascinating about its ambition. It may not be a perfectly calculated building, but neither is it a pile of ruins. What Corbet constructs is a structure that, despite its cracks, stands tall—imposing and full of personality.

In the end, The Brutalist is a film worth experiencing. If it falls short in certain areas, it also offers plenty to ire. It’s a grand work, with sublime moments and some frustrating missteps, but in the final balance, it holds its ground as a significant achievement in contemporary cinema. If some choices prevent it from reaching perfection, they at least ensure it will never be forgotten.

Watching MaXXXine for the second time only reinforced what was already clear: Ti West delivered exactly what this trilogy needed. I’m not sure what some people expected from this conclusion, but to me, it’s evident that West never intended to take an obvious route. Since X, he has played with genres and styles, and MaXXXine is no exception. If X paid homage to Tobe Hooper and Pearl embraced psychological melodrama with echoes of The Wizard of Oz, here West lets loose even more, leaning into neo-noir and giallo as the foundation for the final piece of this saga.

This time, the aesthetics and investigative suspense directly recall Body Double by Brian De Palma, but without being bound to it. 1980s Los Angeles serves as the stage for Maxine Minx’s definitive rise, with Mia Goth once again proving to be the soul of this trilogy. The camera moves through a saturated world of neon-lit clubs, film sets, and shadowy alleys—not just to create nostalgic atmosphere, but to establish the world where Maxine finally asserts herself as the star she’s always wanted to be.

One thing that struck me even more on rewatch was how West, despite drawing from his influences, never loses sight of what truly matters: his protagonist’s journey. He’s not interested in making obvious statements about the era or delivering a heavy-handed critique of the film industry. Religious persecution and the real-life Night Stalker case are referenced, but they exist as part of the backdrop, not as thesis statements. Just like in X and Pearl, the violence never feels gratuitous—it’s always tied to the context and Maxine’s relentless ambition. This time, she’s not just fighting to survive; she’s fighting to hold onto what she’s built.

What makes MaXXXine so effective is how it stands apart from its predecessors while still feeling like an organic continuation. If Pearl was about frustration and an unattainable dream, MaXXXine is about triumph and the weight of success. The alleyway scene, the tension on set, and the way the cinematography frames Maxine’s fierce pursuit of stardom all work because West fully trusts in his protagonist’s strength. And that’s exactly why the conclusion is so satisfying. Even with an unexpected ending—flirting with mockumentary elements and echoing The Sacrament—the film never betrays its essence. On the contrary, it reinforces the central irony of the franchise: Maxine Minx finally got what she wanted, and in doing so, she became unforgettable.

If closing a trilogy comes with immense pressure, West carries it with confidence. He doesn’t deliver a conventionally grand finale, but something that respects the journey of the previous films and, most importantly, does justice to his protagonist. If West and Mia Goth have anything to say about it, Maxine will continue to be watched, ired, and perhaps even revisited in the future. After all, stars never die.

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1. Dune: Part Two
2. Challengers
3. Anora
4. The Substance
5. The Brutalist
6. Civil War
7. I'm Still Here
8. Kinds of Kindness
9. Love Lies Bleeding
10. The Fall Guy

...plus 75 more. View the full list on Letterboxd.