Welcome to Late Night Retro Television Reviews, a feature where we review some of our favorite and least favorite shows of the past! On Tuesdays, I will be reviewing Pacific Blue, a cop show that aired from 1996 to 2000 on the USA Network! It’s currently streaming everywhere, though I’m watching it on Tubi.
This week, the bicyclists continue to get in everyone’s way.
Episode 3.6 “Sandman”
(Dir by Terrence H. Winkless, originally aired on Sept. 21st, 1997)
A hitman named Robert “Sandman” Enright (John Michael Bolger) has been released from prison. Because Enright was previously arrested by TC, TC decides to start harassing him as soon as he gets out of jail. For a bunch of dorks on bikes, the Pacific Blue folks sure do enjoy abusing their power.
Anyway, Sandman is out for revenge against the three men who framed him. And, since TC is tailing him everywhere, Sandman is able to manipulate TC into basically becoming his bodyguard. The main theme of this episode is that TC is an idiot.
Speaking of idiots, Cory’s boyfriend, FBI Agent Tim Stone (David Lee Smith), confessed that he was thinking of getting back together with his ex. With Chris’s support, Cory fought for her man. Myself, I just struggled with the fact that Stone, TC, Palermo — and their actors, Smith, Jim Davidson, and Rick Rossovich — all basically looked like the same guy at different stages of his life.
Finally, Palermo, TC, and Victor played volleyball! That was at the end of the episode and it went on for a while. The whole scene felt like the show’s way of saying, “Hey, remember when Rick Rossovich was in Top Gun? That was cool.”
As usual, this episode featured a lot of tough talk and intense looks, all of which were negated by the presence of grown-ups on bicycles. Even when TC was spying on the Sandman, he did while sitting on his bicycle. It just looked dumb.
Welcome to Retro Television Reviews, a feature where we review some of our favorite and least favorite shows of the past! On Tuesdays, I will be reviewing the original Fantasy Island, which ran on ABC from 1977 to 1984. The show is once again on Tubi!
This week, an acquaintance returns to the Island.
Episode 7.18 “Mermaid and the Matchmaker/The Obsolete Man”
(Dir by Philip Leacock, originally aired on March 24th, 1984)
Nyah (Michelle Phillips) is back!
Okay, maybe you don’t remember Nyah. This is Nyah’s first appearance since the fourth season. In between the last time that Michelle Phillips played Nyah and her resurfacing in this episode, Phillips played five other characters on Fantasy Island.
So, to refresh your memory, Nyah is a mermaid. During seasons three and four, she tried to tempt men to their death in the ocean and she was presented as being a friendly enemy of Mr. Roarke’s. In this episode, however, Nyah is a bit nicer. She’s not malicious as much as she’s just immature. Roarke, for his part, treats her like a wayward teenager. Nyah has a fantasy, of course. She’s tired of being immortal and she wants Roarke to make her a mortal. Roarke says that he can’t do that. “You’re the only man who understands immortality!” Nyah says.
Nyah wants to die but instead, Roarke plays matchmaker and arranges for her to meet Duke McCall (Dennis Cole), a sailor who believes in mermaids. He doesn’t have any issue with Nyah being a mermaid but Nyah, having fallen in love with him, fears that Duke will drown if he tries to pursue her. Fortunately, for everyone involved, Duke turns into a merman. Don’t ask me how these things work. I’m just glad that Roarke didn’t have to kill anyone.
Meanwhile, banker Mitchell Robinson (Bert Convy) fears that he’s going to be replaced by a computer. Charlene Hunt (Gloria Loring) claims that her computer is just as good at checking loan applications as any human. She stages a competition between the computer and Mitchell. Mitchell tries to explain to the computer that it’s important to judge people not just on their credit rating but also their body language. This somehow causes the computer to explode and Mitchell keeps his job.
“Yay!” viewers in 1984 cheered, “computers will never replace us!” HA! Joke’s on you, Mitchell Robinson!
Seriously, you don’t have to tell me about the dangers of a fully automated world. A.I. is fun for making silly images but it’s going to ultimately lead to a lot of people believing a lot of false things. But Mitchell was so smug about beating the computer that I’m kind of glad that he still probably lost his job a few years later. You can’t stop the march of technology, Mitchell!
As for this trip to the Island, the computer storyline didn’t really go anywhere but I did enjoy Michelle Phillip’s return as Nyah. She and Ricardo Montalban had an enjoyable chemistry and it was fun to watch them bicker. This week’s episode was uneven but, thanks to Michelle Phillips, it was still more enjoyable the most of what we’ve seen for the seventh season.
“We are not enemies, but friends. We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained, it must not break our bonds of affection.” — Abraham Lincoln
Ken Burns’ The Civil War stands as one of those rare documentaries that completely reshapes how people think about both history and the craft of documentary filmmaking. Released in 1990, it’s been over three decades since it first aired, yet it still feels monumental in its reach and emotional resonance. Instead of serving as a dry classroom recounting of battles and dates, it’s an experience that makes you feel the war’s human dimension—the people who fought it, lived through it, and were changed forever by its violence and ideals. Burns manages to take America’s bloodiest conflict and give it a pulse, telling the story not only through historians and statistics but through letters, diaries, and voices that make you feel connected to the 1860s as if it all just happened yesterday.
One of the most defining parts of The Civil War is its look and rhythm. Burns’ now-famous visual style—those slow pans and zooms across black-and-white photographs—became such a signature technique that it’s now built into editing software as “the Ken Burns effect.” It might sound simple, but the way he moves those still images feels like breathing life into ghosts. Every slow zoom on a soldier’s uncertain face, every fade over an empty battlefield, has meaning. Before Burns, most historical documentaries presented facts through re-enactments or stiff academic interviews. Burns dared to make photographs speak on their own. The pacing he uses is hypnotic—deliberate, unwavering, and emotionally tuned to each shot. It’s a visual rhythm that invites reflection instead of speed. The whole thing feels like time itself has slowed down so history can whisper its fullest story.
The narration, provided by David McCullough, ties the sprawling story together with a sense of calm authority. His voice is warm, measured, and almost timeless, acting less like a narrator and more like an old friend who knows the past intimately but never overstates it. McCullough’s presence builds trust—no hype, no theatrics, just thoughtful storytelling. Burns pairs that voice with readings from letters, diaries, and contemporary accounts, delivered by a lineup of talented voice actors like Jason Robards, Sam Waterston, and Morgan Freeman. Their readings never feel like performances; they feel lived in, restrained, and sincere. This combination of voice and image creates a tone that is both haunting and beautiful, one that makes history feel alive but not romanticized.
A huge part of why the series feels so moving is Jay Ungar’s “Ashokan Farewell.” Oddly enough, it’s not a Civil War-era tune at all—it was written in the 1980s—but it fits so organically with the documentary’s mood that it’s impossible to think about the series without hearing it. The plaintive fiddle melody has a mournful warmth, evoking the loss and longing that defines the entire project. Burns and his team used it in just the right measure: when the music plays, it deepens emotion rather than dictating it. Combined with other period-appropriate folk songs, banjo pieces, and hymns, the soundtrack acts as the emotional current guiding the story through landscapes of death, courage, and change.
The structure of The Civil War is deceptively simple but brilliantly executed. Spanning nine episodes and over eleven hours in total, it charts the war from its earliest, uneasy beginnings in the political debates over slavery and statehood through to its catastrophic conclusion and fragile aftermath. Burns understood that history isn’t static; it’s emotional and cumulative. The early episodes almost feel optimistic—the tone of youthful bravado and national pride fills the air as both sides believe the conflict will end quickly. As the series progresses, though, the optimism curdles into fatigue, despair, and grief. By the time the war drags into its later years, the imagery, narration, and music all carry the weight of shared tragedy. You begin to see how idealism eroded into acceptance of horror. The careful pacing of each episode allows viewers to feel that arc not just intellectually but emotionally.
Among the many creative decisions Burns made, choosing to anchor the series around personal letters was perhaps the most effective. Through these letters, anonymous soldiers, wives, and family members speak across time. Their words carry more power than any historian’s commentary could. One of the most unforgettable moments comes from Union officer Sullivan Ballou’s letter to his wife, written shortly before he was killed. His words are devastating in their tenderness and resignation, summing up both love and mortality in a way that feels timeless. Burns threads similar letters throughout the series—from soldiers on both sides, from civilians caught in the middle, and from the enslaved people whose freedom hung in the balance. Their voices form the emotional backbone of the documentary, constantly reminding us that this was not just a war of strategy but a catastrophe of human consequence.
Alongside these voices, there’s a chorus of historians offering perspective and context. Shelby Foote, with his Southern drawl and gift for anecdote, became one of the documentary’s most recognizable figures. His storytelling bridges the gap between scholarship and folklore, even if some critics later accused him of romanticizing the Confederate perspective. Counterbalancing that, historian Barbara Fields provides some of the series’ most profound reflections, particularly regarding race and memory. Her insistence that the war’s legacy continues to shape American identity feels just as relevant now as it did in 1990. Their alternating viewpoints give the documentary balance—emotion on one side, intellect and conscience on the other.
Burns’ handling of tone is one of the most striking things on a rewatch. It’s both deeply romantic in its love of storytelling and brutally realistic in its depiction of suffering. It doesn’t sanitize the war, but it doesn’t exploit it either. You’re never shown battle reenactments, explosions, or gore. Instead, Burns conveys the violence and despair through letters, photos, and silence. He trusts the audience to fill in the horror. That’s uncommon in modern documentary work, where there’s often pressure to explain or dramatize everything. In The Civil War, silence becomes a storytelling device. The pauses between sentences, the long holds on a tattered flag or a battlefield grave, carry meaning. The documentary refuses to rush toward catharsis; it lingers in grief.
In today’s media landscape—where documentaries tend to move fast and fight for attention—Burns’ slower, more contemplative approach stands out. Back in 1990, it riveted viewers. An estimated 40 million people watched it on PBS, an unbelievable number for a historical series on public television. For many Americans, it became their most vivid introduction to their own national history. It made people talk about Gettysburg, Lincoln, emancipation, and the moral aftermath of the war in living rooms across the country. It even sparked renewed interest in Civil War books, memorials, and battlefield preservation. Burns had tapped into something rare: a collective need to understand who Americans are by understanding what nearly destroyed them.
Even decades later, The Civil War holds up both artistically and historically. Watching it now, its moral clarity about slavery as the war’s central cause feels vital, especially in a time when debates over monuments and racial politics remain heated. Burns never let the series fall into the “states’ rights” trap that muddied so many earlier narratives. He continually foregrounded the human cost of defending or destroying the institution of slavery. Still, modern viewers might wish for even more emphasis on the experiences of Black Americans, beyond the selected diaries and Douglass excerpts. The documentary touched these stories with respect but within the limits of its early-1990s format. Later historians have expanded upon what Burns began, but his foundation remains solid.
Technically, the documentary’s aged well. Restored versions bring new clarity to the old photographs, and the audio’s crisp enough to make the letters feel freshly read. The storytelling, slow-moving as it is, rewards patience. It’s not content to skim across major events; it expects you to sit with sorrow, fatigue, and loss. Watching all eleven hours feels like reading an epic novel: it’s best done gradually, letting each episode resonate before starting the next. The cumulative effect isn’t just historical understanding—it’s emotional exhaustion tempered by awe.
The Civil War remains one of the greatest nonfiction works ever broadcast. It’s not simply about battles or leaders but about the psychology of a country divided by ideals and identity. It asks questions rather than delivering verdicts—questions about sacrifice, belief, morality, and what it means to be American. Few documentaries manage to tell old stories in ways that still feel alive, but Burns achieved that through patience, empathy, and an unshakable faith in the power of storytelling. Even now, it’s hard to watch without feeling the echo of those voices—some hopeful, some broken—that seem to reach out from still photographs and faded ink. Burns didn’t just document history; he let history speak for itself. That’s why The Civil War endures.
Perhaps it’s even more important now than when it first aired. In a time when historical revisionism has begun to creep from the fringes into mainstream discourse and when the nation feels dangerously forgetful of its own moral and political lessons, Burns’ documentary serves as both a warning and a reminder. It shows what happens when ideology overtakes humanity and when a country forgets the cost of its own divisions. Watching The Civil War today feels less like revisiting the past and more like confronting the present—proof that the ghosts of that conflict remain, quietly urging us not to repeat what we once swore to never forget.
“The family is truly desperate. And when people get desperate, the knives come out.” — Benoit Blanc
After shaking up galaxies far, far away with Star Wars: The Last Jedi, Rian Johnson returned to solid ground in 2019 with Knives Out, a film so self-assured and inventive it practically felt like a director catching his breath while reminding the world what made him exciting in the first place. It was his first movie after that polarizing Star Wars entry, and he used the opportunity not to go bigger, but smarter—to take something intimate, character-driven, and refreshingly old-school and make it gleam again. Knives Out landed as a kind of palate cleanser for both him and the audience: a modern mystery that leaned into genre nostalgia while reinventing it with sharp humor and social bite. The result wasn’t just a change of pace—it was a confident display of craft from a filmmaker unbothered by his critics, operating with absolute control over every frame, every line, and every perfectly timed smirk.
The setup couldn’t be more classic: a wealthy family patriarch, Harlan Thrombey, turns up dead after his 85th birthday, leaving behind a tangled household of suspects, secrets, and strained smiles. His death looks like suicide, but something isn’t right. Enter Benoit Blanc, a Southern gentleman detective hired anonymously to snoop through the wreckage of lies and grievances. The scenario drips with vintage whodunit flavor, but Johnson’s genius lies in retooling that familiarity into something electrifyingly modern. The Thrombeys aren’t just eccentric millionaires—they’re avatars of American entitlement, each convinced of their own superiority while quietly dependent on the man they pretend to revere. By building his mystery around a clan that mirrors contemporary divisions of money, politics, and self-deception, Johnson injects wit and purpose into the genre without ever losing the fun of the game.
Jamie Lee Curtis plays the confident matriarch Linda, Michael Shannon the resentful son Walt, Toni Collette the spiritual grifter Joni, and Don Johnson the smirking son-in-law Richard—all of them playing heightened but recognizable shades of selfishness. Their sniping exchanges during the first act are among the film’s best sequences, packed with fast banter, political jabs, and casual hypocrisy. Johnson directs these moments like a verbal tennis match, letting personalities bounce and clash until the family’s shiny façade cracks enough for true frustrations to spill out. It’s sharp, funny, and chaotic, showing early on that no one in the Thrombey family is as self-made or self-aware as they claim to be.
Amid that colorful ensemble, the performance that most stunned audiences came from Chris Evans as Ransom Drysdale, Harlan’s playboy grandson and the family’s unapologetic black sheep. Coming off years of playing Marvel’s resolutely noble Steve Rogers, Evans dives into Ransom with visible glee, turning him into a figure of charm and mystery whose motives are never quite clear. He’s magnetic from the moment he appears—witty, cynical, a little dangerous—and Johnson clearly relishes using Evans’s clean-cut image to toy with expectations. Ransom strides into the story radiating confidence, but there’s a guarded, almost predatory intelligence behind his grin. His scenes crackle because the audience can’t quite decide where to place him: is he the rare Thrombey who sees through the family hypocrisy, or is he spinning his own kind of manipulation? That tension between self-awareness and deceit gives his every line an edge. Watching Evans in this role feels like a release for him and a thrill for viewers, a testament to both his range and Johnson’s intuitive casting.
Opposite that moral uncertainty stands Ana de Armas’s Marta Cabrera, Harlan’s kind and soft-spoken nurse who suddenly finds herself at the heart of the story. Marta grounds the entire film emotionally, her decency cutting through the Thrombeys’ arrogance like sunlight in a dusty room. She’s the migrant caretaker who everyone claims to love while casually condescending to, a detail Johnson uses to expose how often politeness masks prejudice. Marta’s inability to lie without vomiting, played initially for laughs, gradually becomes symbolic—a kind of moral honesty that makes her unique in a house ruled by deception. De Armas brings layered vulnerability to the role, balancing fear, guilt, and compassion with natural ease. Through her, Johnson turns the whodunit into something more human and emotionally resonant. She isn’t just a witness or a suspect; she’s the beating heart around which all the greed, paranoia, and privilege revolve.
Then there’s Daniel Craig’s Benoit Blanc, whose arrival shifts the film into another gear entirely. His Southern drawl—equal parts poetic and perplexing—sets the tone for what becomes one of Craig’s most playful performances. After years of portraying the stoic James Bond, he’s clearly having the time of his life as a detective who investigates with both intellect and intuition. Blanc operates less like a hard-nosed cop and more like a philosopher; he believes that solving a crime means understanding human weakness as much as evidence. His famous “donut hole” speech perfectly captures the balance Johnson strikes between earnestness and absurdity. Blanc may revel in his own melodrama, but he also brings heart to chaos, observing people’s contradictions without losing his sense of wonder. The result is a detective who’s less about revelation and more about revelation’s moral cost.
Visually, Knives Out belongs to a rare category of films that are so meticulously crafted they could be paused at any frame and still look compelling. Johnson and cinematographer Steve Yedlin transform Harlan’s mansion into a breathing character—an architectural echo chamber of secrets. The walls are lined with strange trinkets, elaborate paintings, and heavy mahogany furniture that suggest old money’s suffocating weight. There’s something both cozy and claustrophobic about the space, which mirrors the tension between family warmth and poisonous resentment. The camera glides through it with purpose, lingering on small details that gain meaning later, and the autumn-colored palette—deep reds, browns, and golds—wraps everything in an inviting melancholy. It’s as much a visual experience as it is a narrative one, and few modern mysteries feel as tactile.
Johnson’s writing keeps that sense of precision. The plot unfolds like clockwork, but the mechanics never feel mechanical. Instead, he keeps viewers off-balance by blending humor with genuine suspense. Instead of relying entirely on high-stakes twists, Johnson builds tension through empathy, giving us access to characters’ doubts and stakes rather than just their clues. The result is a mystery that keeps the audience guessing in emotional and moral dimensions, not just logical ones. Every revelation says as much about character as it does about the crime.
Underneath the quick humor and ornate mystery structure, Knives Out doubles as a satire of class and entitlement. Johnson sketches the Thrombeys as people who talk endlessly about fairness, morality, and self-reliance yet collapse into panic when their material comfort is threatened. Through them, he captures a peculiar American irony: the people most obsessed with earning their status are often those most insulated from real struggle. When the family gathers to argue over wealth and loyalty, Johnson doesn’t need to exaggerate—they expose themselves with every smug phrase and self-justified rant. It’s social commentary that’s biting but never heavy-handed because it plays out through personality instead of sermon.
Nathan Johnson’s score carries the story forward with playful precision, shifting from tension to whimsy in sync with the characters’ shifting loyalties. There’s something almost dance-like about the film’s rhythm: scenes of laughter can spiral into confession, and interrogations can dissolve into comedy without losing a beat. The editing supports that agility, cutting crisply between overlapping dialogue and close-ups that reveal just enough expression to keep us alert. Johnson’s sense of pacing feels theatrical in the best way—it’s about timing and tone rather than spectacle.
As with many of Rian Johnson’s works, contradiction fuels the story’s appeal. Knives Out is cynical about human greed but oddly hopeful about individual decency. It mocks arrogance but rewards empathy. Even when it toys with genre clichés, it does so out of affection, not scorn. Johnson clearly understands that mystery storytelling is as much about character and morality as deduction, and he uses humor and chaos as tools to explore who people become under pressure. The movie’s sophistication lies in how effortless it feels—its layers unfold smoothly, but the craft behind them is razor sharp.
The film’s ending closes with a visual that redefines power without needing words. After a story filled with deceit, pretension, and the scramble to control a legacy, it concludes on an image that says everything about perspective—who actually holds the moral high ground and how quietly dignity can win. Like the rest of the movie, it’s both playful and pointed, leaving you smiling while still turning the characters’ behavior over in your mind.
Looking back, Knives Out stands as a defining moment in Rian Johnson’s career. After the spectacle and dialogue storms of The Last Jedi, this lean, ensemble-driven mystery reaffirmed his strengths as a writer-director who thrives on structure, rhythm, and human contradictions. It’s a film that takes as much pleasure in observation as revelation, brimming with sly humor and performances that sparkle across the moral spectrum. Anchored by Ana de Armas’s poignant sincerity, Daniel Craig’s eccentric brilliance, and Chris Evans’s unpredictable charisma, it became one of the most purely enjoyable movies of its time. Witty without pretense, political without lecturing, and perfectly balanced between cynicism and heart, Knives Out remains proof that the old whodunit can still cut deep—and that Rian Johnson’s sharpest weapon is still his storytelling.
Through the Shattered Lens 