Author Archives: Arleigh

Review: The Wild Bunch (dir. by Sam Peckinpah)

Posted on by Arleigh

“We’ve got to start thinking beyond our guns. Those days are closin’ fast.” — Pike Bishop

Sam Peckinpah’s The Wild Bunch stands out as a landmark in the Western genre, famous for its daringly harsh depiction of both violence and the fading mythos of the American West. Rather than following the traditions of earlier Westerns, the film presents a gritty portrait of aging outlaws on the edge of extinction, wrestling with a society that has evolved past them. It’s a movie that’s difficult to shake, both for its unapologetic style and the unresolved feelings it leaves long after the final shots ring out.

At its core, the story centers on Pike Bishop and his band—a crew of seasoned criminals aiming for one last grand heist as modernity encroaches on their world. Hoping to pull off a train robbery, they end up entangled in deeper complications after being betrayed and soon are thrust into the turbulence of the Mexican Revolution. Peckinpah builds a narrative where clear-cut morality falls away. The criminals and those pursuing them, supposed bringers of justice, are equally compromised and dangerous. This balancing act challenges the audience to reassess their sympathies, since the characters rarely line up as traditional heroes or villains.

The film’s notoriety is inseparable from its treatment of violence. In an era when Westerns often depicted gunfights as almost bloodless, The Wild Bunch arrived blazing with slow-motion fatalities, realistic wounds, and chaos that feels nearly documentary. Peckinpah didn’t intend to sugarcoat death; the film’s fight scenes are designed to unsettle rather than thrill, making viewers register the true cost of violence on screen. The movie’s most infamous sequences, particularly the opening and closing shootouts, still provoke debate over whether their artistry justifies their brutality. Peckinpah reportedly wanted to expose the real consequences of violence, not celebrate them, and the resulting imagery remains both striking and disturbing decades later.

Beyond its bloodshed, the film is packed with melancholy, exploring the futility and obsolescence of its central figures. The Wild Bunch themselves—Pike, Dutch, Lyle, Angel, and others—all feel the weight of their era’s end. They are not just outdated in terms of time; their entire way of life has been mechanized and modernized beyond their grasp. The film depicts this through powerful imagery, from horses being supplanted by cars and trucks to rifles giving way to machine guns. This mechanization highlights that Pike and his men live in a world that has moved on, leaving them behind. Their code of honor and rough camaraderie are relics in a brutal, mechanized landscape that favors efficiency and merciless violence. The emergence of rapid-fire weaponry and vehicles is more than a backdrop; it symbolizes their growing irrelevance and the passing of a wild, untamed frontier.

Technically speaking, The Wild Bunch is as impressive as it is influential. The cinematography captures wide Mexican landscapes with dust and sunlight, conveying both beauty and bleakness. The editing—particularly in the action scenes—was ahead of its time, with its expressive use of multiple camera angles and slow-motion adding an almost ballet-like rhythm to chaotic violence. The music, a mix of Jerry Fielding’s score and traditional Mexican songs, deepens the film’s sense of place and loss. All of this technical prowess merges in set pieces that are still studied by action directors today.

One of the film’s most enduring legacies is its profound influence on a slew of filmmakers in the years following its release. Directors like Martin Scorsese, Quentin Tarantino, and John Woo have all cited The Wild Bunch as a key inspiration, particularly in how it reshaped the depiction of violence and complex characters onscreen. Peckinpah’s innovative use of slow motion during action scenes transformed gunfights into sequences that feel almost balletic, bringing an eerie beauty to brutality. This technique became a hallmark of John Woo’s work, where slow-motion shootouts are choreographed with a dance-like precision, making the violence stylized yet emotionally impactful. Meanwhile, Scorsese and Tarantino embraced the moral ambiguity and character complexity Peckinpah championed, pushing their own stories beyond clear-cut good and evil. Through these directors and many others, The Wild Bunch continues to resonate and shape modern cinema.

The performances in The Wild Bunch are integral to its powerful impact, with its ensemble cast bringing layered humanity to otherwise rough, sometimes brutal characters. William Holden leads as Pike Bishop with a mix of weary charisma and existential urgency, embodying a man caught between the fading wild past and a ruthless present. Holden’s Pike is not just a leader of outlaws, but a man wrestling with his own moral contradictions—as loyal and protective as he is capable of cold violence. This complexity allows the character to stay compelling rather than becoming a cliché tough guy.

Ernest Borgnine as Dutch Engstrom offers a grizzled, weary presence, conveying the toll that years of violence have taken on his spirit, while Warren Oates imbues Lyle Gorch with a volatile and rebellious energy that adds tension within the gang. His brother, Tector Gorch, played by Ben Johnson, brings a contrasting steadiness, portraying a man caught between loyalty and survival. Robert Ryan’s portrayal of Deke Thornton, the relentless bounty hunter, stands out as a tragic figure torn between his past friendship with Pike and his duty. This character conflict gives the story a deeper emotional layer and adds weight to the relentless pursuit central to the plot.

Supporting performances by Edmond O’Brien as Freddie Sykes and Jaime Sánchez as Angel enrich the group dynamic, each adding distinct personality traits that feel authentic and lived-in. The chemistry between the cast helps ground the film’s heavy themes in real human experience, making the characters’ struggles with obsolescence and loyalty resonate beyond the screen.

However, despite the strong male performances, the film’s treatment of female characters is notably sparse and limiting. Women in the film often fall into marginal roles, lacking development or agency, which reflects the gender dynamics of many Westerns from the era but feels particularly dated today.

For viewers seeking straightforward heroism or moral clarity, The Wild Bunch can be a challenging experience. Its bleak, nihilistic worldview and refusal to deliver easy answers may leave some feeling drained. The story culminates in a violent, unresolved climax with no tidy resolution, emphasizing loss and the end of an era. But it is precisely this rawness and technical mastery that keep the film compelling and worthy of close viewing.

The Wild Bunch demands you shed simple notions of good versus evil and prepare for a rough, often brutal ride. It’s a story about men fighting not just other men but inevitability—caught between their own fading values and the relentless march of modernization and change. Peckinpah doesn’t offer comfort; instead, he forces the viewer to reckon with violence’s cost and the price of nostalgia. Even with all its grit and flaws, the film’s artistry and influence remain undeniable, securing its status as a masterwork that redefined Westerns and action cinema alike. It’s a wild ride that continues to inspire and provoke long after the credits roll.

Review: Violent Night (dir. by Tommy Wirkola)

Posted on by Arleigh

“Ho Ho holy shit.” — Santa Claus

Violent Night (2022), directed by Tommy Wirkola, is a wild ride that shakes up the traditional Christmas movie formula by turning Santa Claus into a battle-hardened warrior. David Harbour stars as this unconventional Santa, who is far from jolly; he’s a grizzled, somewhat cranky, and disillusioned figure with a Viking warrior past. The movie sets itself apart with a premise that throws a group of ruthless mercenaries into a wealthy family’s Christmas Eve gathering, only to discover Santa isn’t the harmless old man they expected. Instead, he’s a fierce protector who fights back with brutal efficiency.

The story unfolds at the mansion of the affluent Lightstone family during their holiday reunion. The family is full of tension, with secrets and resentments bubbling just beneath the surface. When a gang of mercenaries led by the villainous Scrooge (John Leguizamo) invades the house to steal a fortune rumored to be stashed there, the family members become hostages. Among them is Trudy, a young girl who still believes in Santa and becomes an emotional anchor for the story. What follows is a chaotic clash as Santa unleashes his warrior skills in a bloody and often darkly humorous fight to protect Trudy and take down the intruders.

One of the strongest aspects of Violent Night is David Harbour’s performance. His Santa is not the usual cheerful holiday icon but a rough-around-the-edges hero with a quick wit and a fierce sense of duty. Harbour brings a compelling mix of grit and warmth, making Santa both intimidating and surprisingly endearing. His fight scenes are impressively choreographed, with inventive use of Christmas-themed props that add a unique flavor to the action. The humor, often delivered through clever one-liners and absurd situations, enhances the movie without overloading it, striking a balance between dark comedy and action thriller.

The action sequences are a highlight, filled with creative and over-the-top violence that turns traditional Christmas decorations into lethal weapons. From candy canes to Christmas lights, the film embraces its outrageous concept fully, often with a smirk and knowing wink to the audience. This approach to action and humor makes it feel like a holiday-themed grindhouse film, which will certainly appeal to viewers looking for something different from typical festive fare.

However, the film is not without flaws. The storyline sometimes leans too heavily on clichés and predictable twists, particularly around family drama and criminal motives. While the Lightstone family members are meant to add complexity to the narrative, many come across as caricatures, which lessens emotional impact. The pacing occasionally suffers as well, with some scenes dragging or feeling repetitive amid the barrage of action. Furthermore, the movie’s tone can be uneven—certain moments of humor or sentimentality clash with brutal violence, which might alienate viewers who prefer more consistent storytelling.

The supporting cast delivers performances that range from serviceable to over-the-top, fitting the film’s campy and exaggerated style. John Leguizamo’s Scrooge is a memorable villain with a sneer and attitude that fits the tone, while Beverly D’Angelo adds a touch of dark humor as the wealthy matriarch. The character of Trudy serves as the emotional heart of the film, grounding the chaos with a child’s innocent belief in magic and goodness. Yet, some secondary characters feel underdeveloped, existing mostly to provide fodder for the violence or comedic moments.

Visually, Violent Night embraces the glitz and cold grandeur of a wealthy family’s mansion, contrasted sharply by the gritty and bloody action that unfolds. The cinematography and production design showcase the holiday setting effectively, using wintery landscapes and elaborate Christmas decor as backdrops that add to both the festive and lethal atmosphere. The film keeps a brisk pace, aided by energetic direction, though it sometimes prioritizes style over substance.

In terms of themes, Violent Night plays with the clash between holiday cheer and harsh realities, exploring ideas about family, belief, and redemption through its unusual take on Santa Claus. It taps into a more cynical view of Christmas but ultimately doesn’t abandon the underlying message of hope and protection. This mixture, however, occasionally feels forced, as the violent antics often overshadow character development and emotional depth.

Overall, Violent Night is an entertaining and unconventional holiday film that is best enjoyed with an appetite for absurdity and dark humor. It stands out for pushing boundaries with its brutal action scenes and a refreshingly gruff Santa, offering a festive movie experience that fits more in the niche of chaotic fun rather than heartwarming tradition. While it may not win over purists looking for classic Christmas storytelling, it offers a distinctive alternative for those who want their holiday films with a hard edge and plenty of explosive moments. For viewers who can embrace its mix of camp, carnage, and seasonal spirit, Violent Night delivers a wild, memorable ride that defies expectations.

Review: John Doe: Vigilante (dir. by Kelly Dolen)

Posted on by Arleigh

“They failed us… so what choice did I have?” — John Doe

John Doe: Vigilante, directed by Kelly Dolen and released in 2014, is a blunt and provocative take on the vigilante thriller, brimming with social commentary and visual grit. The film revolves around John Doe, played by Jamie Bamber, whose world is shattered by the violent deaths of his family members. Disillusioned by a justice system that barely delivers justice, Doe transforms himself into a vigilante, targeting repeat offenders who continually evade real consequences. The narrative takes a non-linear approach, jumping between timelines using mock interviews, courtroom debates, and TV news segments to piece together Doe’s story and the societal mania swirling around him.

The structure of the film is both one of its most engaging features and a source of occasional frustration. Rapid switches between documentary-style “talking head” interviews, real-time action, and flashbacks keep the viewer on their toes. While this can create some dramatic momentum, it also leads to a sense of disconnect, as the story sometimes trades clarity for style. Still, there’s an undeniable energy to this format. The movie feels urgent and relevant, throwing the audience directly into a conversation about law, order, and the places these systems break down.

A major focus of the film is on the media’s influence over the public’s perception of vigilantism. The mixed portrayal of John Doe as both a monster and a folk hero reflects how quickly public sentiment can tilt depending on who’s doing the telling. There’s an uncomfortable suggestion that cycles of violence and public outrage are not only connected but sometimes dependent on the news cycle to fuel them. The film hammers this point home repeatedly, sometimes at the expense of nuance. It isn’t shy about waving its message in the viewer’s face, with characters often delivering speeches about justice, victimization, and the failings of society.

Despite some heavy-handedness, Jamie Bamber’s performance is the glue holding everything together. He plays Doe with a haunted distance rather than unrestrained rage, showing a character who’s been hollowed out by tragedy and driven by a cold, relentless sense of necessity. He’s not a cartoonish avenger—his actions clearly torment him, and his moments of uncertainty make the character believably conflicted. However, the supporting cast doesn’t fare as well, with most roles feeling thin and underdeveloped. Journalists, detectives, and secondary victims drift in and out, often serving mainly as delivery devices for the film’s ceaseless thesis statements about crime and morality.

The violence in John Doe: Vigilante is unflinching and rarely sensationalized. Confrontations come fast and harsh, depicted with practical effects that drive home the ugliness of the acts themselves. This directness serves to emphasize the horror of violence, whether enacted by criminals or by Doe himself. The film’s refusal to sugarcoat these scenes will appeal to viewers who prefer realism and discomfort to stylized action, but it may push others away due to its unrelenting bleakness.

On the plus side, the movie does succeed in keeping the viewer guessing about its core question: Is Doe’s crusade righteous or an invitation to chaos? His victims are almost unfailingly depicted as monsters, which blunts some of the intended ambiguity, but the reaction from the world around him—copycat crimes, protests, media manipulation—spins the plot in more interesting directions. The broader implication is that once a society loses faith in the courts, retributive justice becomes both appealing and very, very dangerous. While the film mostly sticks to familiar genre beats, it does occasionally land a punch that lingers. Scenes showing a growing vigilante movement in response to Doe’s actions are particularly thought-provoking, inviting viewers to consider how collective anger can quickly spiral out of control.

However, the film repeatedly stumbles over its own desire to make a point. Its depiction of evil is strikingly black-and-white, and the justice system is rendered in frustratingly broad strokes. Very little time is spent on the possibility of innocent people being caught in the crossfire or of criminals ever achieving redemption. All the nuance falls to Bamber’s performance, as the rest of the characters serve mostly as echoes of his trauma or mouthpieces for the script.

Dialogue can also be a weak point. Characters often speak in loaded, over-serious refrains about crime and victimhood. If you’ve seen other media with vigilante themes, especially ones grappling with morality, John Doe: Vigilante might give you déjà vu. It isn’t particularly subtle and tends to repeat itself, particularly in the latter half, as perspective shifts and news segments rehash similar arguments. By the time the final acts come around—with a pivotal, tension-drenched scene of Doe delivering his last “message” to the public—the narrative momentum has already started to lag.

Still, the film isn’t without its bright spots. Its editing, especially the way flashbacks are woven into the present narrative, is creative and keeps certain plot elements hidden until just the right moment. There are a few bold narrative choices—one involving a child’s perspective near the end is a standout—that briefly elevate the film above its otherwise standard revenge-thriller fare. These are the moments that will stick with viewers long after credits roll.

At its core, John Doe: Vigilante is angry and bruising, with its heart firmly pinned to its sleeve. It wants to provoke discomfort and debate, not offer easy answers or escapist fun. The movie wrestles with questions of what justice really means when institutions fail, and whether violent reckoning is ever justifiable—even for the worst of the worst. It doesn’t ultimately land on a satisfying conclusion, but that may be the point.

John Doe: Vigilante stands as a solid and sometimes stirring entry in the vigilante genre, bolstered by a committed lead performance and raw intensity but hampered by heavy-handed dialogue, weak supporting characters, and a lack of moral complexity. For viewers who enjoy gritty crime films and are open to films that raise difficult, unsettling questions, John Doe: Vigilante is worth checking out. Just don’t expect it to pull its punches—or to give you any tidy resolutions.

Review: Silent Night (dir. by John Woo)

Posted on by Arleigh

“I can’t speak, but I’ll make them listen.” — Brian Godlock

Silent Night (2023) finds John Woo making his first American action film in two decades, since the disappointing Paycheck in 2003. While it’s definitely a step up from that sci-fi thriller misfire, Silent Night still doesn’t quite reach the heights of Woo’s Hong Kong classics or even his best Western productions like Face/Off. This latest outing is a lean, mostly dialogue-free revenge thriller that has Woo’s fingerprints all over it—a mix of balletic violence and emotional anguish—but it also shows the limitations of trying to recapture that old Woo magic in a very different cinematic landscape.

The story is simple: Joel Kinnaman plays Brian Godlock, an electrician whose son is killed in a gang shootout on Christmas Eve, and he himself is shot in the throat, losing his voice. The film then follows Brian’s quiet but brutal quest for revenge a year later. The choice to tell this nearly wordless story is a bold gamble, and for much of the film, the absence of dialogue adds power to the emotions and the tension. Kinnaman’s physical performance carries most of the weight—his grief, anger, and determination are all conveyed through body language and expression. This is one of the biggest strengths of Silent Night: Woo’s ability to communicate story and feeling visually, which harkens back to the silent films of early cinema, blending with his signature poetic violence.

That said, the silence also highlights the script’s thinness. The supporting characters, including Brian’s wife (Catalina Sandino Moreno) and a sympathetic detective (Kid Cudi), feel underdeveloped, serving more as plot functions than full people. This narrow focus on Brian’s pain and revenge means the film sometimes feels emotionally shallow beyond the core trauma. Compared to Woo’s earlier work, where secondary characters and relationships added layers of complexity and intensity, Silent Night is more singular and direct, for better and worse.

When it comes to action, Woo shows he still has the chops. The gunfights and hand-to-hand scenes are meticulously choreographed, emphasizing realism with a solid dose of stylized flair. It’s a return to the grounded grit Woo displayed in some of his earlier Hong Kong films, leaving behind some of the higher-octane operatic excess of his best-known Hollywood hits. The violence feels impactful and earned, avoiding cheap spectacle for a more tactile, bone-crunching effect.

Still, Silent Night doesn’t quite have the scope and scale of Face/Off or The Killer. It lacks the grandeur and intricate storytelling that made those films iconic. Instead, it’s a tighter, moodier experience that prioritizes emotional atmosphere over plot complexity. This stripped-down approach is refreshing to a degree, but it can also become monotonous—especially since the lack of dialogue and limited character development demand more patience from the viewer.

Comparing it directly to Paycheck, Silent Night is a clear improvement. Paycheck was widely regarded as a forgettable action film that failed to capitalize on Woo’s talents, stuck with a muddled sci-fi plot and lacking the emotional firepower Woo excels at. Silent Night ditches the high-concept sci-fi for a more grounded, personal revenge story, allowing Woo to bring more of his hallmarks to bear—the intense physical performances, a palpable sense of loss, and carefully crafted action sequences.

However, it’s important to temper enthusiasm with the fact that Silent Night is not a full return to Woo’s prime Hong Kong cinema or his best Hollywood days. It’s missing some of the poetry, charm, and iconic bravado of movies like Hard Boiled or Face/Off, where Woo’s characters felt larger than life and the action was operatic and unforgettable. Here, the film often feels restrained, even muted, perhaps reflecting a director adapting to new cinematic expectations but also struggling to fully bring himself back to the forefront in the American industry.

Silent Night is a worthwhile viewing for fans of John Woo and action cinema looking for something different—one part homage to classic revenge tales, one part experiment in silent storytelling. It’s emotionally raw, visually precise, and markedly better than Paycheck, but it also lacks the fire and inventiveness that made Woo a legend. It’s a step forward and a reminder that even the greatest filmmakers can evolve and sometimes falter. If Woo is finding his voice again, it’s decidedly quieter but still unmistakably his own.

Anime You Should Be Watching: Tokyo Godfathers (Tōkyō Goddofāzāzu)

Posted on by Arleigh

“I’m scared of my family, but I want to go home.” — Miyuki

Tokyo Godfathers is a film that shows how hope and kindness can be found in the most unexpected places, all wrapped up in a hilarious, chaotic, and heartwarming story set on Christmas Eve in Tokyo. Directed by Satoshi Kon, this 2003 anime follows three unlikely characters: Gin, a middle-aged alcoholic with a troubled past; Hana, a lively transgender woman who dreams of being a mother; and Miyuki, a guarded teenage runaway dealing with her own pain.

The adventure begins when the trio, scavenging through garbage for Christmas presents, discovers an abandoned newborn baby. Hana names the baby Kiyoko, meaning “pure child,” and the three set off on a mission to find the baby’s parents using a few clues left behind. Their journey takes them into the depths of Tokyo’s bustling city life—through snowy streets, a yakuza wedding, and encounters with all kinds of characters, from hitmen to estranged families.

What makes Tokyo Godfathers stand out is its perfect blend of humor and emotional depth. It’s easy to laugh at the trio’s bickering and mishaps, but the film also offers sincere moments of vulnerability and growth. Hana’s fierce protectiveness, Gin’s struggle for redemption, and Miyuki’s search for acceptance form a trio of deeply relatable characters. Their rough lives and personal regrets are shown honestly, but the warmth they create together feels genuine and touching.

The film doesn’t shy away from depicting the harsh realities of their world, including violence, abuse, and loss. Yet even in moments of hardship and conflict, acts of giving and empathy persist. Sometimes these harsh and tender moments intersect in the same sequence—such as tense confrontations that unexpectedly end in compassion, or scenes where despair is met with generosity. This layering creates a powerful sense of life’s complexity, showing that kindness can shine brightest amidst chaos and pain.

Visually, the film captures the chilly, neon-lit cityscape with beautiful detail. The animation highlights not only the busy and bright streets of Tokyo but also the subtle emotions of the characters, from shy glances to moments of frustration or tenderness. The film’s mix of grounded realism with moments of coincidence or miracle lends it a magical yet believable atmosphere.

At its core, the film explores what family really means. The three main characters, though not related by blood, support and care for each other in ways many traditional families don’t. The baby Kiyoko serves as a catalyst for each character to confront their past and rethink their relationships. The story gently shows that family can be chosen, formed through shared hardship and love rather than just genetics.

The film’s holiday setting works beautifully because it taps into the holiday themes of forgiveness, second chances, and hope. But it doesn’t shy away from showing the harsh realities of homelessness, loss, and loneliness—making the moments of joy feel even more earned. The characters are flawed but deeply human, and their journey toward reconciliation and connection is both honest and uplifting.

Though the story relies on some lucky coincidences and wild turns, these moments of serendipity feel like part of the film’s charm, highlighting how unpredictable and strange life can be. These surprises keep the story moving and weave a sense of wonder through the gritty city streets.

The supporting characters the trio meet add layers of complexity and humor, and small scenes—like Miyuki bonding with a single mother despite a language barrier or Hana’s reflections on her past love—enrich the narrative. These interactions remind us that no one’s story is simple and everyone carries hidden struggles.

By the end, each main character faces their own moment of truth—whether it’s Gin reconnecting with his daughter or Miyuki standing up to her past. The film leaves viewers with a hopeful message: even when life feels broken, it’s possible to find grace, redemption, and unexpected family.

Tokyo Godfathers is perfect if you want a holiday movie with heart, humor, and a refreshing dose of realness. You don’t need to be an anime fan to appreciate its warmth and message. It’s a touching reminder that kindness and connection can be found in the most unlikely places—even on the coldest winter nights.

Review: Kraven the Hunter (dir. by J. C. Chandor)

Posted on by Arleigh

Kraven is Sony’s latest attempt to mine its Spider-Man-adjacent characters for cinematic gold, this time taking a stab at Sergei Kravinoff, better known as Kraven the Hunter. Even if you’re going in with rock-bottom expectations set by Morbius or the patchy Venom films, you might find yourself torn between mild intrigue and full-on indifference. The movie doesn’t bomb, but it certainly doesn’t soar either—it lands squarely in the “it’s fine, I guess” territory, buoyed by a handful of positive elements but weighed down by a laundry list of issues.

The film tries to position itself as a darker, grittier entry in Sony’s Spider-Man Universe but ultimately falls flat in several key areas. The movie follows Sergei Kravinoff (Aaron Taylor-Johnson), a man battling his toxic past and violent instincts, trying to define himself apart from his ruthless father, Nikolai (Russell Crowe). While Taylor-Johnson puts in a committed, physical performance and the action sequences deliver some visceral excitement—with brutal fight scenes and a snowy prison breakout standing out—the film struggles to transcend its predictable, shallow narrative.

One of the strongest aspects of Kraven is its commitment to visceral, intense action. The movie doesn’t shy away from bloody, fierce fights, embracing Kraven’s nature as a hunter rather than a hero. Physicality is a highlight here with Taylor-Johnson convincingly portraying the character’s power and agility. Some of the choreography—such as a snow-covered prison escape and a jungle chase—inject adrenaline into the movie, complemented by Russell Crowe’s imposing presence as the domineering father. Ariana DeBose’s Calypso and Alessandro Nivola’s Rhino provide interesting, if underdeveloped, counterparts that add flavor to the otherwise monochrome supporting cast.

However, the film is weighed down by a paint-by-numbers storyline that treads the well-worn path of antihero origin stories without adding fresh insight or emotional texture. The plot feels cliched and forgettable, with many moments so awkward and stilted that the dialogue and narrative flow could easily be accused of being AI-generated—and that accusation wouldn’t be out of place. This mechanical, artificial quality in the script creates a disconnect that makes characters seem like hollow archetypes rather than fully realized people. It’s as if the story was stitched together by a formula rather than human creativity, robbing the film of natural humor, depth, or emotional impact.

The biggest glaring example of this artificiality comes in the odd use of CGI for some of the characters’ facial movements. In particular, a scene with DeBose’s Calypso involved digital manipulation of her mouth and eyes to sync dialogue after filming, creating an uncanny, often distracting effect. This technique, reminiscent of the awkward, jarring movement of digitally animated mouths on still images, recalls the uncomfortable “Annoying Orange” vibe and highlights a troubling overreliance on technology rather than retakes or better production planning. It is a standout low point that further reinforces the impression of a rushed or overly engineered project.

The emotional core of Kraven revolves around the toxic father-son dynamic, which Crowe and Taylor-Johnson approach with convincing intensity, though the writing undermines their efforts with repetitive, obvious lines. The other characters, including Calypso, Rhino, and the Foreigner, suffer from limited screen time and one-dimensional arcs, often serving only to advance the plot mechanically rather than enrich the story. The film’s isolation from the broader Spider-Man universe also makes the stakes feel lower, leaving Kraven’s violent vendetta somewhat directionless and detached from broader consequences.

Visually, the film is inconsistent. While it nails gritty, physical action sequences, the CGI and digital alterations break immersion. The attempt at a darker, more grounded tone battles against these technical missteps and a narrative stuck in early-2000s superhero tropes.

Kraven offers some genuinely brutal action and committed performances but is hamstrung by a formulaic, AI-esque script and distracting technical glitches like the digital mouth-sync. It feels like a film caught between creative ambition and lazy execution, where flashes of potential are overwhelmed by awkward dialogue and uninspired plotting. For fans craving raw action or eager to see a Spider-Man villain on screen, it may be a mildly watchable diversion; for anyone seeking a fully fleshed-out, emotionally engaging story, Kraven is likely to disappoint.

Review: Icefall (dir. by Stefan Ruzowitsky)

Posted on by Arleigh

“You don’t find redemption in warmth. You fight for it in the cold.” — Ani

Icefall (2025) is a survival thriller set deep in a frozen wilderness where Ani, a determined Indigenous game warden, and Harlan, a grizzled poacher, find themselves forced together to evade criminals hunting down a crashed plane’s cash stash. Their uneasy alliance forms the heart of the movie, supported by the biting cold, shifting ice, and relentless danger that keeps the tension alive throughout.

The film benefits significantly from its leads’ performances, especially Joel Kinnaman’s portrayal of Harlan. Kinnaman has become something of a seasoned veteran in this kind of gritty thriller and action role, having built a career playing characters who balance toughness with a hint of vulnerability. His familiarity with this genre brings a dependable authenticity to Harlan, who feels weathered but not worn out, someone who understands survival instinctively. Alongside Cara Jade Myers’ portrayal of Ani, their on-screen chemistry roots the film in more than just action beats, making their relationship genuinely engaging amid the harsh landscape.

Speaking of the environment, Icefall uses its setting as more than just a backdrop. The fragile ice and near-empty wilderness create natural obstacles that heighten the sense of peril, reinforcing the story’s theme that nature itself is an adversary. The melting ice becomes a constant threat, lending the narrative a slow-burning pressure that’s as effective as any chase or gunfight. This atmospheric tension is one area where the film really earns its keep, immersing viewers in the dangerous beauty of its frozen world.

However, Icefall stumbles when it comes to story originality and pacing. The film’s premise feels familiar—dangling on the edge of a formula that fans might recognize as similar to the 1993 Sylvester Stallone thriller Cliffhanger. While Cliffhanger had that film’s villain as a magnetic and complex antagonist, Icefall misses that mark. Its criminals lack charisma and depth, removing a vital layer of excitement and tension from the story. Without a compelling foil for Harlan and Ani, many confrontations fall flat, and the thriller’s pulse falters.

The plot is further weakened by a somewhat cluttered narrative, introducing a secret government biohazard subplot that feels shoehorned in and detracts from the simpler core survival story. Characters occasionally make choices that seem more dictated by the demands of the script rather than believable motivations. These factors lead to inconsistent pacing, which can frustrate viewers looking for a tight, focused thriller.

Visually, the film offers moments of stark beauty but is uneven technically. Some sequences perfectly capture the isolating chill and danger of the icy wild, while others suffer from abrupt editing and less convincing digital embellishments that distract from the intended immersion. The cinematography shifts between grand vistas and awkward close-ups, occasionally disrupting the flow of tension.

Characterization is uneven as well. Ani shines intermittently but sometimes veers into typical thriller protagonist territory, exhibiting moments of indecision or cliché. Kinnaman’s Harlan remains the more grounded and believable figure, benefiting from his extensive experience playing similar roles. Meanwhile, the villains fail to rise above stereotype, lacking the nuance or menace that could have made the story pulse with higher stakes.

Still, when the film settles into the rhythm of survival—the crunch of snow underfoot, the slow erosion of trust, the ever-present threat of dissolving ice—Icefall delivers a tense, atmospheric experience. It’s not a revelatory thriller, but it does offer enough grit and moodiness for a single viewing, especially for fans of cold-climate survival dramas.

Icefall is a mixed bag: it has strong performances, especially from Joel Kinnaman, who clearly knows the ropes of this genre and plays an experienced, weathered survivor with ease. The film’s use of environment is a big plus, giving it an edge that many thrillers lack. Yet it suffers from an unoriginal plot that recalls better films like Cliffhanger but without their charismatic antagonists, plus narrative distractions and technical inconsistencies. It’s an okay watch for those in the mood for a frosty thriller with solid leads but never quite rises to leave a lasting impression.

Review: My Name

Posted on by Arleigh

“I’m not afraid of dying. I’m afraid of not knowing the truth.” — Yoon Ji-woo

My Name is one of those K-dramas that grabs your attention from the start and maintains a relentless pace throughout. It is a gritty, action-packed series set in a dark, unforgiving underworld marked by crime, betrayal, and a driving quest for revenge. The story follows Yoon Ji-woo, a young woman whose life is shattered when her father, a figure tied to the mob, is brutally murdered. What unfolds is her transformation from a grieving daughter into a formidable and determined fighter intent on uncovering the truth behind her father’s death and exacting vengeance.

The series does not shy away from depicting violence in an unflinching manner. For those who appreciate intense and well-choreographed fight scenes, My Name provides a visually and emotionally striking experience. The physicality Han So-hee brings to her role is notable, lending authenticity to every punch, fall, and desperate struggle. However, the violence serves a narrative purpose beyond mere spectacle; it illuminates the bleak world Ji-woo inhabits and the extreme sacrifices demanded of her.

A particularly compelling aspect of My Name lies in its combination of emotional depth and action. Ji-woo is not portrayed as a simple avenger consumed by rage, but rather as a complex individual wrestling with grief, guilt, and profound loneliness. Han So-hee’s nuanced performance effectively balances raw toughness with moments of vulnerability, inviting viewers to engage with Ji-woo on a deeply human level despite her morally ambiguous actions.

The narrative unfolds briskly across eight episodes, avoiding the typical padding seen in many K-dramas. This lean structure maintains a consistently high level of tension as Ji-woo infiltrates the police force undercover on behalf of the criminal organization responsible for her father’s death. The tension arising from this double life—living between two opposing worlds—heightens the drama, creating an ever-present question of trust and betrayal.

This theme of undercover infiltration shares notable similarities with renowned thrillers such as Infernal Affairs and its American remake The Departed. Like those films, My Name explores the psychological strain of agents embedded within enemy organizations, examining shifting loyalties and blurred moral boundaries. Yet, My Name distinguishes itself by focusing intimately on Ji-woo’s personal journey of vengeance and identity. While Infernal Affairs and The Departed emphasize the intricate duality and game of cat and mouse between multiple undercover agents, My Name offers a singular, emotionally charged narrative driven by Ji-woo’s transformation both physically and mentally through relentless trials.

Supporting characters enrich the story further. Detective Pil-do serves as a humanizing counterpoint to the harshness of Ji-woo’s world. His relationship with Ji-woo adds emotional complexity to the story, gently probing themes of trust and moral conflict. The enigmatic crime boss Mu-jin, who mentors Ji-woo, embodies a pragmatic and often manipulative figure, complicating the traditional distinctions between good and evil with a nuanced portrayal.

Visually, My Name excels in creating a brooding and atmospheric setting, with evocative use of shadow, rain, and urban neon lighting that reinforces the noir tone. The haunting soundtrack complements the tension and emotional undertones, underscoring both frenetic action and quieter character moments with equal effectiveness.

That said, the drama’s heavy focus on violence and its dark tone may not appeal to all viewers. The unrelenting grimness and lack of lighter moments could prove challenging to those who prefer more varied emotional rhythms. Furthermore, some secondary characters are not as fully developed as they might be, which occasionally makes subplots feel less integral. Still, the tight focus on Ji-woo’s narrative keeps the drama paced and impactful without unnecessary distractions.

A central thematic strength of My Name is its exploration of identity. Ji-woo’s undercover infiltration prompts profound questions about the self: how much of her original identity can she retain while adopting false personas dictated by survival and revenge? This internal struggle adds a psychological depth that elevates the series beyond a straightforward revenge thriller, inviting reflection on trauma, loyalty, and selfhood.

The pacing is expertly managed, neither rushed nor weighed down by extraneous elements, culminating in a satisfying and emotionally resonant conclusion. The series even incorporates moments of romance late in the narrative, adding subtle layers of hope and human connection to balance the dominant themes of loss and revenge.

In sum, My Name distinguishes itself through Han So-hee’s powerful performance, its raw and realistic action sequences, and its willingness to grapple with complex emotional and moral questions. It is a compelling option for viewers drawn to intense, character-driven thrillers that refuse easy answers while delivering visceral storytelling.

If you are seeking a drama that explores the cost of revenge with both physical intensity and psychological nuance, My Name offers a gripping experience from beginning to end. It acknowledges its influences—such as Infernal Affairs and The Departed—but forges a unique path grounded in Korean drama sensibilities and the deeply personal story of its lead character. Its unyielding tone and evocative storytelling make it a memorable entry in contemporary Korean thrillers.

4 Shots From 4 Films: Guillermo Del Toro Edition

Posted on by Arleigh

4 Shots From 4 Films is just what it says it is, 4 shots from 4 of our favorite films. As opposed to the reviews and recaps that we usually post, 4 Shots From 4 Films is all about letting the visuals do the talking.

Crimson Peak (2015, dir. by Guillermo Del Toro, DP: Dan Laustsen)
The Shape of Water (2017, dir. by Guillermo Del Toro, DP: Dan Laustsen)
Nightmare Alley (2021, dir. by Guillermo Del Toro, DP: Dan Laustsen)
Frankenstein (2025, dir. by Guillermo Del Toro, DP: Dan Laustsen)

Review: Glass Onion: A Knives Out Mystery (dir. by Rian Johnson)

Posted on by Arleigh

“Everyone loves a puzzle until it’s time to solve it.” — Benoit Blanc

Glass Onion: A Knives Out Mystery is a follow-up to the original Knives Out film, starring Daniel Craig as the ingenious detective Benoit Blanc. It builds on the premise of a murder mystery but wraps it inside a colorful, satirical commentary on wealth, influence, and the human condition. Set on the private island of a tech billionaire named Miles Bron, the story assembles a quirky cast of characters, all entangled in complicated relationships that unravel layer by layer. The casual tone of the movie masks a sharp, incisive look at the absurdities of the ultra-rich and the moral compromises they often make.

From the outset, Glass Onion shines with its clever blending of classic whodunit tropes and contemporary social critique. The gathering on the island is ostensibly for a murder mystery party, but the tension quickly escalates when the lines between game and reality blur. As detective Benoit Blanc begins to peel back the layers, it becomes clear that the story is much more than just a puzzle; it’s a reflection on fame, fortune, intellectual theft, and the lengths people will go to protect their reputations and secrets. The mystery itself is engrossing, delivering plenty of twists and turns that keep viewers guessing without feeling predictable.

The characters are vividly drawn, each embodying a certain archetype of privilege and excess, yet crafted with enough depth to avoid caricature. Miles Bron, in particular, captures the archetypal tech mogul—brash, arrogant, and unapologetically wealthy—but his flaws and vulnerabilities make him an intriguing focal point. His colorful group of friends each contribute their quirks and motives, creating a dynamic interplay that enriches the plot. Through their interactions, the film deftly explores themes of betrayal, sycophantic behavior, and the moral decay that can accompany unchecked power.

Edward Norton’s portrayal of Miles Bron has often been linked to Elon Musk, mostly because Bron’s flamboyant personality and billionaire tech mogul status seem reminiscent of Musk. However, director Rian Johnson and Norton himself have been clear that the character is not based specifically on Musk. Instead, Miles embodies the broader archetype of “tech bros”: exceedingly wealthy, extremely arrogant, and more than a bit sociopathic. Norton’s portrayal blends charm, obliviousness, and bravado, embodying this tech mogul stereotype more than mimicking any particular real-life figure. This approach allows the film to critique the broader billionaire culture, using Miles as a symbol of its excesses and absurdities, rather than targeting one individual.

A distinctive feature of Glass Onion is how it incorporates the reality of its production during the height of the COVID-19 lockdown. Set in May 2020, during global lockdowns, the film naturally weaves in social distancing and mask-wearing as part of its narrative fabric. This not only adds an element of authenticity but also becomes a device to reveal character traits—whether sincere compliance or performative adherence. The pandemic protocols also shaped production logistics, reducing extras and focusing tightly on the main cast, creating an intimate but tense atmosphere. By anchoring the isolation of its characters in a real-world health crisis, the film echoes classic mystery confinements while feeling relevant and immediate.

Emotional stakes in Glass Onion are amplified through Helen, who arrives on a personal mission to uncover the truth behind her sister’s death. Unlike many self-interested guests on the island, Helen represents a disruptive force challenging the privileged elite. Her story adds urgency and depth, highlighting themes of justice, accountability, and silence’s costs. This subplot weaves seamlessly into the larger narrative, enriching the mystery’s resolution with meaningful emotional weight.

Visually, the film dazzles with opulent settings and a vibrant color palette that amplify the sense of excess and detachment characterizing the guests’ lives. The private island itself almost becomes a character—a lush, insular playground where drama explodes amid luxury. Production design and cinematography balance whimsy with darker undertones, while costumes and set details root satire in an authentic world.

Craig returns as Benoit Blanc with a mix of charm, wit, and gravitas, anchoring the film amidst eccentric chaos. Blanc’s character delights as a master detective who enjoys intellectual puzzles but wrestles with moral questions. Meanwhile, the supporting cast gives nuanced performances that capture their characters’ complexities and motivations.

Narratively, Glass Onion triumphs by delivering an engaging mystery while embedding incisive social commentary on inequality and hypocrisy. The film compellingly probes how wealth and influence can obscure truth and the costs endured by those who confront power. The sharp, often humorous writing makes it both entertaining and thought-provoking.

Whether viewed casually or analyzed deeply, Glass Onion offers much to enjoy. Plot twists, sharp dialogues, visual style, and strong performances combine for an engrossing experience. At its core, the story emphasizes how the pursuit of personal gain can harm others, and reckoning with uncomfortable truths demands courage and sacrifice.

Ultimately, Glass Onion is a skillfully crafted, entertaining mystery that surpasses typical genre fare. It balances suspense, humor, and social critique naturally and compellingly. Cementing Rian Johnson’s success in the Knives Out franchise, it reclaims his reputation after the contentious backlash to The Last Jedi. While fan expectations proved insurmountable in that galaxy far, far away, Glass Onion confirms Johnson as a brilliant filmmaker capable of crafting sharp, layered stories. The film invites audiences to not only solve a crime but also reflect on integrity, power, and humanity’s search for justice and meaning. Its impact lingers long after the credits roll.