Song of the Day: Falling (composed by Angelo Badalamenti, sung by Julee Cruise)

Posted on November 30, 2025 by Lisa Marie Bowman

Bless both of you, Angelo and Julee.

Review: The Hunt for Red October (dir. by John McTiernan)

Posted on November 30, 2025 by Arleigh

“I’m a politician. Which means that I am a cheat and a liar, and when I’m not kissing babies, I’m stealing their lollipops.” — Dr. Jeffrey Pelt, National Security Advisor

The Hunt for Red October glides into the tail end of Cold War cinema like a stealthy sub cutting through midnight swells, packing a smart mix of spy intrigue and nail-biting underwater showdowns that keep you locked in from the opening credits. Directed by John McTiernan, fresh from helming Die Hard, this 1990 adaptation of Tom Clancy’s doorstopper novel smartly distills pages of naval geekery into a taut, propulsive thriller where Soviet skipper Marko Ramius—Sean Connery in full brooding mode—pilots the formidable Red October, a behemoth sub with a hush-mode propulsion system that ghosts past detection like a shadow in fog.

McTiernan shines in wrangling the script from Clancy’s tech-heavy tome, slicing through the babble to propel the story with crisp momentum and unrelenting suspense, turning potential info-dumps into pulse-quickening beats that hook casual viewers and sub nerds alike. The premise grabs fast: Ramius’s bold maneuvers ignite a transatlantic frenzy, with U.S. and Soviet forces locked in a paranoid standoff over what looks like an imminent crisis. That ’80s-era distrust simmers perfectly here, crammed into a runtime that pulses with fresh urgency decades later, amplified by those dim-lit sub corridors in steely teal tones that squeeze the air right out of the room.

Alec Baldwin embodies Jack Ryan as the reluctant brainiac from CIA desks, sweaty and green around the gills yet armed with instincts that cut through official noise like a periscope through chop. Pulled from family downtime—teddy bear in tow—he injects everyday stakes into the global chessboard, proving heroes don’t need camo or cockiness, just smarts and stubbornness. Connery’s Ramius dominates as a haunted vet with a personal chip on his shoulder, steering a tight-knit officer corps including Sam Neill’s devoted second-in-command, their quiet bonds hinting at deeper loyalties amid the red menace.

Standouts fill the roster seamlessly: James Earl Jones lends gravitas as the steady Admiral Greer backing Ryan’s wild cards; Scott Glenn commands the American hunter sub with laconic steel; Jeffrey Jones brings quirky spark to the sonar savant whose audio tricks flip the script on silence. The dialogue crackles with shorthand lingo and understated jabs, forging a crew dynamic that’s as pressurized as the hull plates, pulling you into hushed command post vibes without a whiff of cheesiness.

McTiernan elevates the genre by leaning on wits over blasts—thrilling pursuits deliver without dominating, letting mind games and split-second calls drive the dread, all while streamlining Clancy’s minutiae into seamless propulsion. Gadgetry gleams without overwhelming: the sub’s whisper-quiet tech sparks clever cat-and-mouse in hazard-filled depths, ramping uncertainty to fever pitch. Pacing builds masterfully from war-room skepticism—Ryan battling brass skepticism—to heart-in-throat ocean dashes, every frame taut as a bowstring. Practical models and effects ground the peril in gritty tangibility, no digital gloss, evoking Ice Station Zebra‘s frosty traps but streamlined into a relentless machine that dodges the older film’s drag. It’s a clinic in balancing spectacle and smarts, where tension coils from isolation’s cruel math: one ping too many, and it’s lights out.

On the eyes and ears front, the movie plunges into submersed nightmare fuel—consoles pulsing crimson in battle stations, scopes piercing mist-shrouded waves, silo bays looming like sleeping leviathans. McTiernan tempers his action flair for thinker-thrills; Basil Poledouris’s great orchestral score surges with iconic power through the chases—those brooding horns, choral swells, and rhythmic pulses echoing engine throbs have etched into legend, pounding your chest like incoming cavitation and elevating every dive. Audio wizardry seals the immersion: hull groans, ping echoes, bubble roars craft a metallic tomb where errors echo eternally. Flaws peek through—early scenes drag with setup chatter, foes skew broad-stroked—but the core hunt erases them, surging to a sharp, satisfying close that nods to Ryan’s budding legend without overplaying the hand.

’90s tentpole lovers and thaw-era history fans find a benchmark here, as the film plays the long con of trust amid torpedoes, fusing bombast with nuance that reboots chase in vain. It bottles superpower jitters spot-on—frantic commands clashing with strike debates—yet softens adversaries via Connery’s world-weary depth and Neill’s subtle conviction. Endless rewatches uncover gems: crew hints dropped early, sonar hacks foreshadowing real tech leaps. Baldwin’s grounded Ryan—chopper-barfing, suit-clashing, chaos-navigating—earns triumphs the hard way, contrasting Das Boot‘s bleak grind with upbeat ingenuity that feels won, not waved. Poledouris’s motifs linger post-credits, a symphonic anchor boosting replay pulls.

Endurance stems from mastering sub-horror’s essence: solitude sharpening choices, where flubs invite apocalypse. Ramius embodies defector realism—war-weary idealist mirroring history’s turncoats—while Clancy’s specs (sub classes, velocities) anchor without anchoring down. McTiernan sidesteps flags; zero flag-waving, pure operator craft in dodges and climactic finesse that blends brains with boom. Quirks delight—the premier’s bluster, aides’ cool calculus—padding a 134-minute gem that exhales you surfacing, amped. Expands on score’s role too: “Hymn to Red October” choral rise mirrors Ramius’s quiet rebellion, threading emotional undercurrents through mechanical mayhem, a Poledouris hallmark outlasting the film.

Bottom line, The Hunt for Red October captivates via cerebral kick—shadow games in fluid physics, intellect over muscle, audacious plays punking empire folly. Sparks post-view chin-strokes on allegiances and risks. Connery’s gravelly “One ping only, Vasily” endures as gold; storm-watch it, trade sofa for sonar station—raw thrill spiked with savvy. Sub saga staple? This silent stalker nails every target.

Brad’s “Artwork of the Day” – a chilly morning on South Fourche!

Posted on November 30, 2025 by Bradley Crain

After an action packed Thanksgiving holiday with our family over the last few days, my wife and I retreated to our little slice of paradise in Central Arkansas for the weekend. It’s a chilly morning along the South Fourche River, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Now bring on Christmas! 🎅🎄

Artwork of the Day: Dallas In The Distance

Posted on November 30, 2025 by Dazzling Erin

by Erin Nicole

There’s my city, seen from White Rock Lake.

Late Night Retro Television Review: Saved By The Bell 1.5 “Screech’s Woman”

Posted on November 29, 2025 by Lisa Marie Bowman

Welcome to Late Night Retro Television Reviews, a feature where we review some of our favorite and least favorite shows of the past! On Saturdays, I will be reviewing Saved By The Bell, which ran on NBC from 1989 to 1993. The entire show is currently streaming on Prime and Tubi!

This week, Zach becomes Bambi and …. oh, you know the story.

Episode 1.5 “Screech’s Woman”

(Dir by Gary Shimokawa, originally aired on September 16th, 1989)

Screech isn’t working on Zach’s science project because he’s depressed about not having a girlfriend. Screech describes himself as being “snakespit.” That’s …. that’s really sad, to be honest. Zach attempts to teach Screech how to be cool. He attempts to get Jessie to go out with him. Finally, Zach….

Oh, you know what Zach does. If you’re reading this review, you’ve undoubtedly seen Saved By The Bell in syndication and you know that this is one of those episodes that seemed to air constantly. Zach calls up Screech and pretends to be Bambi. When Screech demands to meet Bambi personally, Zach puts on one of Jessie’s dresses, a wig, sunglasses, and he shaves his legs. Zach/Bambi shows up at the Max and tells Screech that, if they’re going to date, Screech is going to have to agree to no longer hang out with Zach. A despondent Screech says that he can’t betray his best friend.

Here’s the thing:

Even with the wig and the dress and the whispery voice, Zach is in no way convincing as Bambi. He’s obviously Zach, just wearing a wig and speaking in a slightly higher register. The fact that Screech, Kelly, and Slater are all fooled (albeit only temporarily in Slater’s case) can only lead me to suspect that everyone on this show is an idiot. Saved By The Bell always demands a certain suspension of disbelief but this episode really took it to the limit. (Or pushed it to the Max, if you want to show respect to that tacky place.)

This episode really made me feel sorry for both Screech and Dustin Diamond and that’s saying something how annoying I found both Screech and the actor playing him to be. Diamond was only 11 when he was cast on Good Morning Miss Bliss. In this episode, he’s 12 and he looks and comes across as being even younger. And yet, he’s acting opposite people who were a few years older and, by teen standards, considerably more mature. (In teen years, there’s a huge gulf between 12 and 15.) From the minute he shows up in this episode, Screech is out-of-place. That may have worked for Screech’s character but it also probably explains why Diamond himself never really seemed to grow up and never seemed to get over feeling like an outsider on the set.

Wow, this episode was depressing.

Lisa Marie’s Week In Television: 11/23/25 — 11/29/25

Posted on November 29, 2025 by Lisa Marie Bowman

A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving (Apple TV+)

Erin and I watched this on Tuesday. It’s one of our traditions! I swear, though, Peppermint Patty is so mean in this one. And yet, after all that he’s had to put up with, Charlie Brown still invites everyone to come to his grandmother’s house for Thanksgiving dinner. What a guy! You can read Erin’s thoughts here.

Saved By The Bell: The New Class (Prime)

Finally! The version of Saved By The Bell that I grew up with is available on Prime! I watched a few episodes on Friday and …. well, they weren’t very good. But maybe I just need to adjust my expectations. I look forward to watching all seven seasons!

Retro Television Review: Baywatch 1.6 “The Sky Is Falling”

Posted on November 29, 2025 by Lisa Marie Bowman

Welcome to Retro Television Reviews, a feature where we review some of our favorite and least favorite shows of the past! On Saturdays, I will be reviewing Baywatch, which ran on NBC and then in syndication from 1989 to 2001. The entire show can be viewed on Tubi.

This week, the ocean is full money!

Episode 1.6 “The Sky Is Falling”

(Dir by Kim Manners, originally aired on October 27th, 1989)

Baywatch was a show that was often known for being unintentionally funny.

Of course, it’s open for debate just how self-aware Baywatch may or may not have been. Some of the show’s writers and directors have claimed that the show was meant to be campy. At the same time, there are cast members who specifically left because they felt that there was no way to play some of the scenes they were expected to perform. Professional surfer Kelly Ward left the cast after he read a script that involved him fighting an octopus that tried to steal his surf board. Jason Momoa has said that appearing on Baywatch Hawaii early in his career made it difficult for him to convince other casting directors to give him a chance. That said, David Hasselhoff reportedly continues to swear that Baywatch was a sincere tribute to lifeguards and that it was responsible for people learning how to perform CPR and the Heimlich Maneuver. Once you’ve watched Hasselhoff tear up while talking about a girl who saved her little brother using a technique she saw on Baywatch, you’re left with little doubt that Hasselhoff took the show very seriously.

That said, I do think most of the humor on Baywatch was unintentional. That’s especially true of the first season, which was about as earnest as a network television show can be. With this week’s episode, Baywatch tried to be intentionally funny and the results were definitely mixed.

The humor came from Harv (James Sloyan) and Sylvia (Carol Siskind), two frumpy bank robbers who crashed their private plane in the ocean and subsequently lost a suitcase containing thousands of dollars. Throughout the episode, there are shots of the suitcase floating in the ocean. Finally, a boat collides with it and money goes flying everywhere. Soon, everyone is running into the water and getting trapped in a riptide. Lifeguards to the rescue! As for Harv and Sylvia, they were meant to be funny but instead, their constant bickering just got annoying. Watching them, I thought to myself, “If these two idiots can rob a bank, anyone can do it!” That’s not a Hasselhoff-approved message.

Slightly more successful was a storyline about Captain Thorpe (Monte Markham) deciding that he needed to get back on the beach. For Thorpe, this meant working a tower with Eddie and Shauni. For Eddie and Shauni, that meant having to spend hour after hour listening to Thorpe’s long-winded stories. Billy Warlock and Erika Eleniak actually did a pretty good job portraying the mind-numbing boredom of being stuck with Captain Thorpe.

As for the serious storyline, Gail has accepted a job in Ohio and wants to move there …. with Hobie! However, when Mitch helps Gail pack, they both get sentimental and end up sleeping together, leading Hobie to believe that his parents are going to get back together. Hey, divorced parents — DO NOT DO THIS! Seriously, divorce is hard enough on a child without giving them false hope. In the end, Gail decides to let Hobie stay in California after Hobie uses his junior lifeguard training to save the life of a drowned girl. Hobie’s a hero and his big reward is that he doesn’t have to go to Ohio. I’m going to say “Ouch!” on behalf of the Buckeye State.

In the end, this episode was pretty uneven. The thieves weren’t ever a credible threat but I did laugh at everyone running into the ocean to try to grab the stolen money. The important thing is that the show didn’t have to relocate to Ohio.

Guilty Pleasure No. 90: Ice Station Zebra (dir. by John Sturges)

Posted on November 29, 2025 by Arleigh

Ice Station Zebra, directed by John Sturges in 1968, slides into guilty pleasure territory like a submarine slipping under polar ice—full of big Cold War ambitions, shadowy spy games, and submarine peril that tease something epic, but so loaded with pacing hiccups, studio shortcuts, and earnest overreach that it ends up a lopsided, lovably messy ride. Sturges had already cemented his rep with crowd-roaring hits like The Magnificent Seven, where a ragtag posse of gunslingers delivered razor-sharp tension and quotable showdowns, or The Great Escape, a WWII breakout yarn crackling with clever schemes, sweaty escapes, and Steve McQueen’s motorcycle glory. Those films moved like a well-oiled engine, every scene stacking stakes and character beats into unforgettable momentum. By contrast, Ice Station Zebra feels like Sturges chasing that same high-wire ensemble vibe—a U.S. nuclear sub, the USS Tigerfish, barreling toward a trashed Arctic outpost—but bloating into a 148-minute sprawl that swaps tight plotting for endless red-lit corridor glares and withheld mission secrets. It’s not in the same league as his earlier triumphs, lacking their propulsive drive and lived-in grit, yet that very shortfall turns it into quirky comfort viewing for fans who dig flawed ’60s spectacle.

The setup hooks you quick: Commander James Ferraday, Rock Hudson’s square-jawed everyman at the helm, gets tapped for a hush-hush run to Ice Station Zebra after a satellite supposedly carrying spy photos crashes nearby. No full briefing for him, just orders to play it cool while three mystery passengers board—Mr. Jones, a buttoned-up British agent with evasive smirks; Boris Vaslov, Ernest Borgnine’s barrel-chested Russian turncoat oozing fake bonhomie; and Captain Anders, Jim Brown’s steely Marine barking orders over a squad of jarheads. As the Tigerfish dives under thickening ice floes, the sub’s innards come alive with flickering sonar pings, steam-hissing valves, and crewmen hunched over gauges in perpetual sweat. It’s claustrophobic gold at first, the hull creaking like it’s got a bad case of frostbite, echoing the trapped dread Sturges nailed in his POW camp classic but without the same spark of rebellion. Then sabotage strikes—a flooded missile bay, a wild plunge toward crush depth—and fingers start pointing. Who tampered with the ballast? Jones with his locked trunk of gadgets? Vaslov’s too-friendly vodka toasts? The Marines itching for a fight? The scene builds real sweat, divers suiting up in the nick of time, but Sturges lets the fallout drag, turning interrogation into a tea party of suspicions rather than the cutthroat blame game his best films thrived on.

These early stumbles set the tone for a film that’s promising yet perpetually off-kilter, far from the seamless revenge rhythm of The Magnificent Seven‘s dusty trails. Production fingerprints show everywhere: rumors swirl of Navy brass forcing script tweaks to glorify their boats, last-minute casting shifts from bigger names to Hudson, and a roadshow rollout with overture, intermission, and 70mm pomp that screams overambition. The Arctic plunge delivers tense highlights—the sub ramming upward through ice chunks like a whale breaching, sparks flying from shorted panels, crew barking damage reports—but lulls follow with tech jargon dumps and characters circling motives without committing to conflict. Hudson anchors it all with unflappable poise, barking commands like a TV dad in a crisis, but he lacks McQueen’s sly charisma or Yul Brynner’s brooding fire. Borgnine hams it up as Vaslov, his accent flipping from gravelly growl to vaudeville schtick during mess-hall ribbing, while McGoohan brings the sharpest edge as Jones, his dry barbs hinting at deeper layers. Brown’s Anders gets muscle but little nuance, leading a Marine crew that feels like stock tough guys waiting for their cue.

Pushing topside, the flaws bloom into full charm. The ice cap arrival unfolds in sweeping widescreen vistas—endless white expanses, howling gales whipping snow devils—but close-quarters betray the soundstage: actors plodding through “blizzards” in lightweight jackets, no puffing breath in the deep freeze, sets that wobble if you squint. It’s the kind of earnest cheesiness that sinks modern blockbusters but endears this relic, especially when the station siege erupts. Soviets drop from the sky in parachutes like deadly snowflakes, scouring the charred ruins for a buried film capsule packed with NATO missile coords. Americans fan out in white camo, trading potshots amid smoke grenades and collapsing tunnels, loyalties cracking as Vaslov’s true colors flash. Ferraday’s cool bluff seals a three-way stalemate, denying everyone the prize in a nod to mutually assured secrets. Michel Legrand’s score surges here, horns blaring over the chaos like a war drum, giving Sturges’ action chops a late workout. Yet even this payoff sprawls, talky standoffs eating screen time where his peak films would’ve sprinted to the finish.

What seals Ice Station Zebra‘s guilty pleasure status is embracing its dated quirks as features, not bugs—hammy all-male bravado, Cold War jitters turned quaint, plot gaps you could park a destroyer in. Sturges conjures submerged panic and frosty fireworks that nod to his glory days, the sub’s practical effects holding up better than some CGI today, but without the narrative steel of The Great Escape‘s tunnel triumphs or The Magnificent Seven‘s mythic standoffs, it coasts on atmosphere over precision. Clocking 148 minutes, it tests patience with filler like extended sail sequences and coy reveals, yet rewards surrender: grin at Borgnine’s bear hugs masking menace, chuckle at the Navy polish glossing gritty potential, savor the sheer balls of staging Arctic Armageddon on a backlot. Howard Hughes reportedly looped it endlessly in his casino screening rooms, and you get why—it’s hypnotic in its wonkiness, a time capsule of late-’60s Hollywood flexing before New Wave grit crashed the party.

Pop this on a stormy night with cocoa and zero expectations, and Ice Station Zebra shines as cozy flawed fun. Sturges’ touch keeps the chills coming amid the clunkers, delivering submarine squeezes, betrayals under the aurora, and a finale with enough brinkmanship bang to forgive the bloat. It’s no peer to his earlier masterpieces, more a quirky footnote, but that’s the hook: imperfect promise wrapped in icy spectacle, begging a rewatch to spot every goofy grace note. For ’60s thriller buffs, submarine nuts, or anyone needing a break from slick reboots, it’s a frosty, flawed feast worth the dive.

Previous Guilty Pleasures

Live Tweet Alert: Watch Dawn of the Mummy With #ScarySocial!

Posted on November 29, 2025 by Lisa Marie Bowman

As some of our regular readers undoubtedly know, I am involved in a few weekly live tweets on twitter. I host #FridayNightFlix every Friday, I co-host #ScarySocial on Saturday, and I am one of the five hosts of #MondayActionMovie! Every week, we get together. We watch a movie. We tweet our way through it.

Tonight, for #ScarySocial, I will be hosting the goriest mummy movie ever made, Dawn of the Mummy!

If you want to join us on Saturday night, just hop onto twitter, start the film at 9 pm et, and use the #ScarySocial hashtag! The film is available on Prime and Tubi! I’ll be there co-hosting and I imagine some other members of the TSL Crew will be there as well. It’s a friendly group and welcoming of newcomers so don’t be shy!