Review: Constantine (dir. by Francis Lawrence)

Posted on January 11, 2026 by Arleigh

“Heaven and Hell are right here, behind every wall, every window, the world behind the world. And we’re smack in the middle.” — John Constantine

Constantine is one of those mid-2000s comic book adaptations that never quite hit mainstream classic status but has quietly built a loyal cult following, and it is pretty easy to see why once you revisit it. On the surface it is a supernatural action movie about a chain‑smoking exorcist stomping demons in Los Angeles; underneath, it is wrestling with guilt, faith, and whether redemption is even possible for someone who does not think they deserve it. The film is messy in spots but strangely compelling, and that tension between pulpy cool and spiritual angst is a big part of its charm.

Keanu Reeves plays John Constantine as a tired, bitter man who has seen way too much of both Hell and humanity to have patience for either. This version of Constantine is loosely adapted from DC’s Hellblazer comics, but the film leans into a distinctly Hollywood noir vibe: he is not a wisecracking British punk in a tan trench coat so much as a burnt‑out L.A. exorcist in a black suit who chain‑smokes like it is a survival mechanism. That shift understandably annoyed some comic fans, but taken on its own terms, this Constantine works. Reeves’s usual reserved style actually fits a guy who has emotionally checked out; he moves through scenes like someone who has accepted that his life is transactional and almost over, and there is something darkly funny about how little awe he shows when confronted with angels and demons. Even when the script gives him on‑the‑nose lines about damnation, he plays them with a kind of deadpan resignation that keeps the character from turning into a parody.

The basic setup is simple enough: Constantine can see “half‑breeds,” angelic and demonic entities who nudge humanity toward good or evil while technically obeying a truce between Heaven and Hell. As a child, he tried to kill himself because of these visions, and that suicide attempt has doomed his soul to Hell. Now he works as a freelance exorcist, trying to earn his way back into God’s good graces, not out of pure faith but out of sheer self‑preservation. That dynamic gives the movie a strong hook—this is a protagonist who is doing the “right” thing for profoundly self‑centered reasons. When he gets pulled into a mystery involving a police detective, Angela (Rachel Weisz), investigating her twin sister’s apparent suicide, the film folds in a noirish murder case, religious prophecy, and a scheme that could break the balance between Heaven and Hell. It is all a bit overstuffed, but there is a certain pleasure in how seriously the movie commits to its supernatural mythology.

Visually, Constantine is where the film really separates itself from a lot of its contemporaries. Director Francis Lawrence leans hard into a grungy, stylized urban Hellscape—Los Angeles feels damp, sickly, and spiritually polluted even before anyone literally steps into Hell. When Constantine does cross over, Hell is portrayed as a blasted version of our world, frozen in an eternal atomic blast, buildings shattered and howling winds full of ash and debris. It is not subtle, but it is memorable, and many of the images still hold up surprisingly well for a 2005 effects‑heavy movie. The demon designs are gnarly without becoming cartoonish, the exorcism sequences have a tactile, physical quality, and the movie uses practical effects and lighting cleverly to smooth over the limitations of its CG. Even small visual touches—like holy relics turned into weapons or tattoos used as mystical triggers—help sell the idea that this world is saturated with hidden religious warfare.

The cast around Reeves does a lot of heavy lifting. Rachel Weisz brings warmth and vulnerability to Angela, grounding the story whenever it threatens to float away in theological technobabble. Her dual role as both Angela and her deceased twin gives the plot some emotional weight beyond cosmic stakes. Tilda Swinton’s Gabriel is one of the film’s secret weapons: androgynous, cool, and quietly menacing, Gabriel feels alien in a way that fits an angel who has spent too long watching humans from a distance. Then there is Peter Stormare’s Satan, who shows up late in the game and somehow steals the entire third act with a performance that is gleefully gross and oddly charismatic; his version of Lucifer is barefoot, in a white suit stained with tar, amused and disgusted by Constantine in equal measure. These performances keep the movie watchable even when the script gets tangled in its own mythology.

Tonally, Constantine lives in an odd space between horror, action, and supernatural thriller. On one hand, it has jump scares, grotesque demons, and a very dark sense of humor. On the other, it features extended action beats where Constantine straps on a holy shotgun and goes demon hunting like a paranormal hitman. The film is at its best when it leans into slow‑burn dread and eerie atmosphere—scenes like the early exorcism or Angela’s first encounters with the supernatural feel genuinely unsettling. When it shifts into more conventional action territory, it is fun but less distinctive; some sequences play like obligatory “we need a set piece here” insertions rather than organic escalations of the story. The score and sound design help stitch it all together, layering in ominous drones, choral elements, and sharp sound cues that emphasize the hellish undertones without getting too bombastic.

One of the more interesting aspects of Constantine is how it treats belief and morality. The film’s theology is a mash‑up of Catholic imagery, comic‑book lore, and Hollywood invention, and if you are looking for doctrinal accuracy, you will probably walk away frustrated. But as metaphor, it works better than it has any right to. God and the devil are treated almost like distant power brokers using Earth as their battleground, the angels and demons as middle management enforcing a “rules of the game” structure that Constantine constantly pushes against. What saves it from feeling totally cynical is that the film does not ultimately let Constantine win by gaming the system; his big climactic play hinges on a genuinely selfless act. There is a sense, however stylized, that grace and sacrifice still matter, even in a world that treats salvation like paperwork. At the same time, the movie is very much a product of its edgy 2000s era, and at points it flirts with the idea that faith is mostly about loopholes and bargaining, which might put some viewers off.

That brings up another key point: Constantine is absolutely not a family‑friendly comic book movie. It is full of disturbing imagery, body horror, and bleak subject matter like suicide, damnation, and spiritual despair. The violence is often grotesque rather than purely action‑oriented, and the general mood is closer to a horror film than a superhero romp. The R rating is well earned. For some audiences, those elements will be exactly what makes the movie interesting—a comic book adaptation that is not afraid to be nasty and heavy. For others, the relentless grimness and graphic content will feel excessive, especially when paired with a mythology that is, frankly, all over the place.

Where Constantine stumbles most is in its storytelling clarity and pacing. The film loves its jargon: half‑breeds, the Spear of Destiny, balance between realms, rules of engagement, obscure relics tossed into dialogue with minimal explanation. If you are not already inclined to meet the movie halfway, it can feel like a pile of cool‑sounding concepts that never fully cohere into a clean narrative. The central mystery—what really happened to Angela’s sister and why—is engaging early on, but as the plot widens into apocalyptic stakes, some of the emotional throughline gets lost in exposition. The pacing can be uneven too, moving from slow, moody sequences to abrupt bursts of action, then back to dense dialogue. It is rarely boring, but it can feel disjointed.

Compared to the Hellblazer source material, the film definitely sandpapers off some of John Constantine’s rougher, more politically charged edges and transplants him into a more conventional action framework. Fans of the comics often point to the loss of his British identity, the absence of his punk roots, and the more simplified view of magic and the occult as major flaws. Those criticisms are fair if you are judging the adaptation on fidelity. As a stand‑alone movie, though, Constantine carves out a distinct identity: a moody, grimy, spiritually obsessed supernatural noir built around a protagonist who is more tired than heroic. It is less about clever schemes and more about a man who has done terrible things realizing that the only way out is to finally stop acting in his own interest.

In the years since its release, Constantine has aged better than a lot of early comic book movies. The visual style remains striking, the performances are still strong, and its willingness to be weird and bleak makes it stand out in a landscape that increasingly favors quip‑heavy, crowd‑pleasing superhero fare. The flip side is that its flaws—clunky exposition, a sometimes incoherent mythology, and a very specific grim tone—are just as apparent as they were in 2005. Whether it works for you will depend a lot on how much patience you have for religious horror dressed up as action cinema. Taken as a whole, Constantine is an imperfect but memorable ride: stylish, occasionally profound, frequently ridiculous, and ultimately more interesting than many cleaner, safer adaptations.

Scenes I Love: Raw Deal

Posted on January 10, 2026 by Arleigh

The gravel shootout in Raw Deal is pure, unfiltered 80s excess — the kind of scene that makes you grin even as you shake your head at the absurdity of it all. Arnold Schwarzenegger rolls up in a leather jacket over a white t-shirt, hair slicked back, with that dead-serious look that says he’s about to turn a quarry into a warzone. Then the Rolling Stones’ “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction” starts blaring — a choice so wildly on-the-nose that it wraps around to genius. Bullets fly, gravel explodes, and every bad guy who dares show his face gets launched off a cliff or riddled with rounds like it’s just another Tuesday.

It’s one of those moments where action filmmaking and rock-and-roll attitude collide in glorious overkill. Everything about it—the slow-motion carnage, the editing rhythm synced to Mick Jagger’s drawl, even the dust clouds swirling around Arnie—feels like a music video someone made after chugging pure testosterone. It’s ridiculous, it’s brilliant, and it’s exactly the sort of scene that makes Raw Deal such a lovable slice of 80s mayhem and why I just love this scene.

Guilty Pleasure No. 98: Raw Deal (dir. by John Irvin)

Posted on January 9, 2026 by Arleigh

There is a point in every Arnold Schwarzenegger fan’s journey where they eventually circle back to Raw Deal and go, “Wait, how did this one slip through the cracks?” Set between Commando and Predator, this 1986 action vehicle often feels like the red-headed stepchild of Arnold’s golden era: a half-forgotten mob thriller dressed up as a one-man-army shoot-’em-up, with an undercover plot that keeps tripping over itself. Before Arnold was secret agent Harry Tasker in True Lies, he was already workshopping that whole undercover persona as former FBI man Mark Kaminski in Raw Deal. There is something strangely compelling about watching him play at being slick, whether he is posing as “Joseph Brenner” in mob circles or later reinventing himself as a suburban-family-man-turned-super-spy. Yet for all its clumsiness, tonal whiplash, and baffling choices, Raw Deal settles into that sweet, trashy groove where “this is bad” and “this is kind of awesome” blissfully merge. It is, in the purest sense, a guilty pleasure.

The setup is straightforward on paper. Arnold plays Mark Kaminski, a former FBI agent pushed out of the bureau for beating a suspect who assaulted and murdered a child, now stuck as a small-town sheriff in North Carolina with an unhappy, alcoholic wife and a life that feels like exile. His shot at redemption comes when his old FBI buddy Harry Shannon (Darren McGavin) recruits him for an off-the-books vendetta: infiltrate the Chicago mafia responsible for Shannon’s son’s death and tear them apart from the inside, in exchange for a possible path back into the bureau. Kaminski fakes his death, rebrands himself as “Joseph Brenner,” and sets out to worm his way into the organization run by boss Luigi Patrovita (Sam Wanamaker), while juggling mob politics, double-crosses, and a steady escalation of gunfire.

What makes the Kaminski era so weirdly fascinating is how hard the film leans on Arnold as a suave operator when his natural screen charisma is more brute-force than smooth-talking. In Raw Deal, he stalks through nightclubs and mob hangouts as an “undercover” tough guy, and you can almost see the movie trying to stretch him into a more traditional cool-gangster mode even as his sheer physicality keeps breaking the illusion. That tension carries right into True Lies, where the humor finally acknowledges how absurd it is to treat this gigantic Austrian bodybuilder as a low-key spy. The seeds of Harry Tasker’s double life are there in Kaminski: the awkward attempts at suave posturing, the undercover role-play, and the sense that the film is constantly asking the audience to accept him as something more than just the gun-toting tank he so effortlessly embodies. That tonal tug-of-war is kind of a mess, yet it’s also exactly why the movie is weirdly fun to revisit.

As an action piece, Raw Deal is very hit-or-miss, but when it hits, it goes all in on 80s excess. Director John Irvin stages a number of shootouts, but the standout sequence is the gravel pit massacre where Kaminski tears through mob soldiers with Mick Jagger’s “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction” blaring on the soundtrack, turning what should be a grim set piece into something closer to a music video about vengeance. The climactic assault on Patrovita’s casino base is another high point, with Kaminski stalking room to room, methodically mowing down henchmen in suits as the film abandons any pretense of undercover subtlety and embraces straight-up carnage. These moments are absurdly over the top, but they’re the reason the film lingers in the memory more than some “better” constructed movies from the same era.

The problem is that the film around those set pieces often feels oddly slack. For a movie with such a simple premise—ex-cop goes undercover in the mob—Raw Deal somehow manages to tangle itself in muddled plotting and underdeveloped subplots. Roger Ebert complained that the story is so basic it should be impossible to screw up, yet the movie still finds ways to make motivations cloudy and relationships confusing, especially when it comes to FBI leaks and why certain hits are happening. There are scenes, like the cemetery assassination setup, that should be loaded with emotional and narrative clarity but instead play as strangely opaque, leaving viewers wondering less “What will happen next?” and more “What exactly is going on?”

Despite the narrative wobbling, the cast gives the film more personality than it probably deserves. Schwarzenegger is still in that phase where his acting is limited but his screen presence is undeniable, and Raw Deal leans into that presence by letting him oscillate between stoic enforcer and deadpan comedian. He is not as effortlessly iconic here as he is in The Terminator or Predator, but he has a grounded gruffness in the early scenes as the weary small-town sheriff, and a playful swagger once he shifts into mob-infiltrator mode. The movie’s tonal confusion sometimes works in his favor: when he drops a ridiculous line in the middle of a supposedly serious undercover situation, it breaks the film’s self-seriousness in a way that oddly makes it more enjoyable.

On the supporting side, Darren McGavin brings a welcome dose of worn-out moral anguish as Harry Shannon, a man consumed by grief and desperate enough to go rogue, while Sam Wanamaker’s Patrovita and Paul Shenar’s lieutenant Max Keller give the mob side just enough theatrical menace to keep things lively. Kathryn Harrold’s Monique—Patrovita’s associate and Kaminski’s sort-of ally—is more underwritten than she should be, but she adds a smoky, world-weary charm to an otherwise thin role, bringing a touch of noir-vibe melancholy to a film that mostly cares about bullets. The dynamic between Kaminski and Monique hints at a more emotionally grounded movie lurking underneath, one that never fully arrives but peeks through in their quieter moments.

Visually and stylistically, Raw Deal fits comfortably into the mid-80s action aesthetic: slightly grimy urban backdrops, neon-lit nightclubs, smoky gambling dens, and anonymous industrial sites where bad guys go to die. John Irvin, better known for dramas and war films, occasionally tries to inject a more grounded tone, but the movie keeps undercutting that with comic-book logic and stylized violence, making it feel as if two different films are wrestling for control. On one level, that is a flaw; on another, that disjointed energy is part of what gives Raw Deal its “so off it becomes its own thing” quality, especially when watched now with decades of ironic distance.

Critically, the film was not well-loved on release, and its reputation has never really recovered in a mainstream sense. It holds a low Rotten Tomatoes score and only middling numbers on Metacritic, with reviewers at the time describing it as muddled, clichéd, and cheap compared to other action fare. Yet audience reactions have always skewed a bit warmer, with CinemaScore polling showing a respectable “B” grade and plenty of fans over the years framing it as an uneven but entertaining entry in Schwarzenegger’s catalog. The distance of time has turned Raw Deal into one of those movies where people admit its flaws freely but still find themselves rewatching it, chuckling at its corniness and vibing with its shootouts.

As a guilty pleasure, Raw Deal works because it is simultaneously too serious and not serious enough. It wants to be a gritty mob infiltration story but keeps indulging in gleefully excessive violence and dumb jokes; it dreams of being a tight cop thriller but never quite musters the narrative discipline. Yet that tension gives it a peculiar charm: it is a film that fails to be the sleek genre picture it might have been, but succeeds as a scrappy time capsule of 80s action sensibilities, carried by Arnold’s charisma and a few standout set pieces.

Viewed today, Raw Deal is hard to defend as “good” in any conventional sense, especially when measured against Commando’s pure cartoon energy or Predator’s lean genre perfection. But as a late-night watch, beer in hand, half-laughing at the dialogue while leaning forward during the gravel pit and casino shootouts, it absolutely delivers the specific pleasure it promises. The system may have given Mark Kaminski a raw deal, but for Arnold fans willing to embrace something messy, loud, and gloriously dated, this film still feels like a trashy little win

Previous Guilty Pleasures

Review: Face/Off (dir. by John Woo)

Posted on January 8, 2026 by Arleigh

“It’s like looking in a mirror. Only… Not.” — Castor Troy with Sean Archer’s face

Face/Off is one of those late‑90s action movies that feels like it escaped from an alternate universe where “too much” is a compliment, not a warning label. It is bigger than it needs to be, sillier than the premise probably deserves, and yet somehow more emotionally earnest than most modern blockbusters. The result is a film that swings hard between breathtakingly good and gloriously ridiculous, and that tension is exactly what makes it worth revisiting.

At its core, Face/Off is a story about two men who literally become each other, but it works because it never treats that concept as a small thing. John Travolta’s Sean Archer is an FBI agent consumed by grief after the death of his young son, while Nicolas Cage’s Castor Troy is a theatrical terrorist who seems to enjoy being evil as a kind of performance art. The sci‑fi hook—cutting off their faces and swapping them—does not remotely pass a reality test, but the movie leans into the idea with such conviction that you either roll with it or get left behind in the opening act.

The big selling point is the acting showcase baked into that swap. Watching Travolta play a supposedly buttoned‑up lawman unraveling inside the body of a flamboyant villain, while Cage dials his madness into something deceptively controlled, gives the film a strange, theatrical energy. There is a real pleasure in tracking how each actor steals little gestures and rhythms from the other, so scenes become layered: what you’re seeing on the surface and who you know is “underneath” the borrowed face are constantly at odds.

That identity confusion isn’t just a gimmick; it gives the film some surprising emotional weight. Archer’s grief isn’t window dressing—his obsession with bringing down Troy comes from the trauma of losing his son, and the face swap forces him to confront who he’s become in that tunnel‑vision pursuit. Meanwhile, Troy, once inside Archer’s life, plays “family man” in a way that’s both gross and unnervingly intimate, manipulating Archer’s wife Eve and daughter Jamie with a mix of faux tenderness and predatory charm.

Joan Allen, as Eve, quietly grounds all this insanity. Her character spends a good chunk of the film being gaslit on a level that would break most people, yet Allen plays her with a subdued intelligence that makes the eventual moment of realization feel earned instead of convenient. Dominique Swain’s Jamie gets more of a stock “rebellious teen” setup, but the way Troy‑as‑Archer slithers into her life gives some scenes a genuinely uncomfortable edge, underlining how invasive the villain’s masquerade really is.

Of course, this is a John Woo movie, so the drama is constantly fighting for space with balletic gunfights and slow‑motion chaos. The action is elaborate and stylized, full of dual pistols, flying bodies, and highly choreographed carnage that feels closer to a violent dance than a grounded firefight. Whether it is the prison escape with its magnetic boots or the church shootout framed with doves and religious imagery, Woo stages set pieces as big operatic crescendos, not just plot checkpoints.

That operatic tone is both a strength and a weakness. On the one hand, the heightened style matches the bonkers premise, letting the movie exist in a kind of hyper‑reality where emotions and bullets fly with the same intensity. On the other hand, the sheer excess sometimes undercuts the more serious beats, as if the film can’t decide whether it wants to be a heartfelt story about grief and identity or the wildest action comic you have ever flipped through.

The script occasionally gestures at deeper themes but rarely lingers on them. Archer’s time in a secret off‑the‑books prison hints at broader commentary about state power and dehumanization, yet the movie mostly uses the setting as a backdrop for an escape sequence rather than exploring what it means. Similarly, Troy’s infiltration of Archer’s family brushes against ideas about how easily trust and intimacy can be weaponized, but the story is more interested in cranking up tension than really unpacking that psychological damage.

Where the writing truly shines is in the mechanics of the cat‑and‑mouse relationship. The film keeps finding new ways to twist the knife, whether it’s Archer stuck in Troy’s body trying to convince former enemies he’s changed sides, or Troy using Archer’s authority to erase evidence and tighten the trap. Some of the most satisfying scenes are the quieter confrontations where both men have to stay in character in front of others while aiming verbal daggers at each other, maintaining the illusion even as their hatred escalates.

Still, Face/Off is not exactly a model of restraint or logic, and that’s where some fair criticism comes in. The science of the face swap is nonsense even by sci‑fi standards, and the movie’s attempts to hand‑wave voice, body shape, and mannerisms require a level of suspension of disbelief that will be deal‑breaking for some viewers. On top of that, the third act piles on so many stunts and reversals that fatigue can set in; not every action beat feels necessary when the emotional arc has already hit its key notes.

There is also the question of tone in how the film treats violence and trauma. The opening murder of Archer’s son is genuinely brutal, and the later manipulation of his family taps into real discomfort, yet the movie often snaps back into cool‑shot mode a moment later, as if unsure how long it wants to sit with pain. That tonal whiplash can make it hard to fully buy into the emotional stakes, because the film keeps reminding you it is here, first and foremost, to put on a show.

Despite those flaws, Face/Off has aged in a strangely resilient way. In an era where many big action movies flatten actors into interchangeable cogs in a CG machine, there’s something refreshing about how much personality this film allows its leads to display, even when they’re chewing the scenery. The movie’s excess becomes part of its charm: it feels handcrafted in its madness, a spectacle built around big performances rather than just big effects.

Face/Off is neither a straightforward masterpiece nor a disposable guilty pleasure; it lives in a messy, entertaining space between those extremes. The film delivers memorable performances, inventive set pieces, and a surprisingly sincere emotional throughline, but it also leans on ludicrous science, tonal inconsistency, and overindulgent action. If you can accept its central absurdity and meet it on its own heightened wavelength, it remains a wild, engaging ride that showcases what happens when star power, genre bravado, and unfiltered style crash into each other at full speed.

Song of the Day: Cocaine Blues (by Johnny Cash)

Posted on January 7, 2026 by Arleigh

Johnny Cash’s “Cocaine Blues” rolling over Lucy gleefully mowing down the ghoul Elvis-faction is one of those perfectly twisted Fallout moments — absurd, violent, and darkly funny. The song’s tale of a killer singing about his own crimes while Lucy grins through the carnage gives the whole scene a warped playfulness. Cash’s deliberate rhythm, all swagger and doom, turns what could’ve been grim into something closer to a dance — a gunslinging ballet where the wasteland’s chaos feels almost celebratory. That contrast is what makes it pop.

In that moment, “Cocaine Blues” becomes more than just needle-drop nostalgia; it’s commentary on Lucy’s transformation. She’s still got that vault-born cheer in her step, but now there’s something unhinged behind it — she’s caught up in the thrill. The imagery of her gunning down rhinestoned ghouls to Cash’s steady beat blurs innocence and indulgence — she’s no longer reacting to the brutality around her, she’s participating in it with genuine abandon. The song’s tale of killing and comeuppance hangs over her like prophecy, reminding us that even the brightest smile in the wasteland can cast a long shadow.

As the gunfire fades and Cash’s voice trails off, the irony hangs in the dust. Fallout has always thrived on these juxtapositions — the sunny Americana soundtrack to utter moral decay. “Cocaine Blues” leaves the scene pulsing with contradictions: joy and violence, freedom and madness, music and mayhem. It’s the sound of Lucy crossing another invisible line while smiling all the way through it, and Cash is there to make sure we don’t miss the joke.

Cocaine Blues

Early one mornin’ while makin’ the rounds
Took a shot of cocaine and I shot my woman down
Went right home and I went to bed
I stuck that lovin’ 44 beneath my head

Got up next mornin’ and I grabbed that gun
Took a shot of cocaine and away I run
Made a good run, but ran too slow
They overtook me down in Juarez, Mexico

Laid in the hot joints takin’ the pill
In walked the sheriff from Jericho Hill
He said, “Willy Lee, your name is not Jack Brown
You’re the dirty hop that shot your woman down”

Said, “Yes, sir, yes, my name is Willy Lee
If you’ve got a warrant, just read it to me
Shot her down because she made me sore
I thought I was her daddy, but she had five more”

When I was arrested, I was dressed in black
They put me on a train and it took me back
Had no friends for to go my bail
They slapped my dried up carcass in that county jail

Got up next mornin’ ’bout a half past nine
Spied the sheriff coming down the line
Hopped and he coughed as he cleared his throat
He said, “Come on you dirty hop into that district court”

Into the courtroom, my trial began
Where I was handled by 12 honest men
Just before the jury started out
I saw that little judge commence to look about

In about five minutes in walked the man
Holding the verdict in his right hand
The verdict read in the first degree
I hollered, “Lordy, Lordy, have mercy on me”

The judge he smiled as he picked up his pen
99 years in the Folsom pen’
99 years underneath that ground
I can’t forget the day I shot that bad bitch down

Come on you hops and listen unto me
Lay off that whiskey and let that cocaine be

Review: Fallout (Season 2, Episode 4 “The Demon in the Snow”)

Posted on January 7, 2026 by Arleigh

“If doing the right thing makes me a traitor, then maybe I’m not the one who’s broken.” — Maximus

Episode 4 of Fallout Season 2, “The Demon in the Snow,” feels like the moment the season properly hits its stride: nasty, funny, and chaotic, but with just enough focus that it never collapses into pure noise. The hour leans into monster-movie horror and drug-fueled mayhem while still pushing the major storylines forward in ways that feel purposeful rather than like random side quests. It is very much a mid-season “everything is escalating at once” chapter, and for the most part, that energy works in its favor.

The episode is built around escalation on multiple fronts. On the surface level, that means finally unleashing a full-on deathclaw, escalating Brotherhood tension into outright war, and sending Lucy stumbling into New Vegas with a chemically assisted death wish. Underneath the spectacle, though, the script keeps circling one idea: the ways addiction, ideology, and systems twist people into thinking their worst decisions are actually noble. That combination of pulpy set pieces wrapped around a fairly sharp thematic throughline is where the episode finds its groove, even if not every beat lands cleanly.

The Cooper flashbacks give the title “The Demon in the Snow” its most literal read. He’s stuck in a remote war zone long before the bombs fall, only to come face to face with a deathclaw framed as this almost mythic horror cutting through soldiers like they barely exist. The sequence works both as a tense creature-feature moment and as a reminder that the apocalypse wasn’t born just from nukes; it was also born from the weapons and bioweapons people created and then failed to control. There’s something quietly grim in the way Cooper realizes that whatever “victory” his side claims out here has less to do with human heroism and more to do with the nightmare they’ve unleashed.

That past horror reverberates nicely against Lucy’s present-day story. She wakes up in an NCR camp wired to Buffout after being dosed for days, which means she’s basically sidelined into instant addiction. The show has a dark sense of humor about it: Lucy’s twitchy, hyper-focused, and suddenly way too ready to bulldoze through anything that isn’t directly tied to rescuing her father. She frames staying on the drug as a moral choice—if it helps her get to Hank faster, then it must be “right”—and that rationalization is exactly the sort of self-delusion the episode keeps poking at. The Ghoul plays the exasperated straight man here, watching her slide further into this chemically boosted version of herself that’s both capable and deeply compromised.

Their approach to New Vegas walks a satisfying line between fresh ground and game nostalgia. The city’s automated defenses are already wrecked by the time they roll up, which kills any chance of a slow-burn infiltration and immediately tells you something very bad has been here recently. The reimagined Kings—now a feral ghoul faction that riffs on the Elvis-obsessed gang from Fallout: New Vegas—become cannon fodder once Lucy lets the Buffout and her revenge drive take the wheel. The fight that follows is gory, brisk, and noticeably sharper in choreography than some of the earlier action this season. At the same time, the show never totally lets the audience forget how disturbing Lucy’s enthusiasm for the violence actually is; even The Ghoul looks a bit rattled by just how far she’s willing to go now.

The Vegas section eventually funnels into the Lucky 38, where the horror angle fully takes over. The once-bustling casino sits eerily vacant, patrolled only by the corpses of destroyed securitrons and an ominous egg that Lucy discovers a little too late. When the deathclaw finally emerges, it’s staged as a true “oh, we’re in over our heads” moment rather than just a giant CGI flex. The earlier wartime flashback helps here; by the time the creature steps into the light in the present, it already has weight in the story as something more than just a boss fight. Pairing Lucy’s adrenaline and bravado with a threat that genuinely terrifies her is a smart way to cap the episode’s Vegas thread.

Over with the Brotherhood, the show continues leaning into its mix of satire and tragedy. Maximus, scrambling to cover up the fact that he killed his superior, shoves Thaddeus into the dead man’s armor, which leads to some very deliberate physical comedy as Thaddeus fumbles around in a suit he barely understands. Around that goofiness, though, the tension over the cold fusion relic boils over. Leadership squabbles turn ugly, and different Brotherhood factions reveal how thin the veneer of honor and order really is once power is on the line. Dane quietly emerges as one of the more competent and grounded figures, slipping recruits out of harm’s way and securing the relic while the so-called authorities are busy imploding.

The strongest Brotherhood moment belongs to Max’s confrontation with High Cleric Quintus. Max comes clean about killing the Paladin and gets a surprisingly measured response—until he explains that he did it to protect ghouls. The conversation flips on a dime into pure zealotry, with Quintus dropping any pretense of nuance and revealing just how deep the organization’s dehumanizing worldview runs. It’s a blunt scene, but it makes the point: the Brotherhood can talk about discipline and order all it wants, yet underneath that rhetoric sits a fanatical hatred that ultimately guides its choices. When the ships start falling and the Brotherhood’s fortress turns into a battlefield, the chaos feels like the natural endpoint of that ideology colliding with reality.

While all of this plays out topside, the Vault storyline quietly remains the show’s creepiest thread. Vault 33 is dealing with a growing water crisis, yet somehow there are still little pockets of privilege and favoritism intact, which underlines how these supposedly “ordered” societies still manage to ration compassion as much as supplies. Overseer Betty’s attempt to negotiate for help with Vault 32 turns anything resembling cooperation into a transaction; every promise of aid seems to come with a hidden clause involving Hank or Vault 31. At the same time, the group from Vault 31 stumbling into the outside world and discovering things like old food trucks brings a streak of bleak comedy. They’re technically in charge, but their naïveté makes them feel just as fragile as anyone else.

Hints of a looming “phase two” for the Vault experiments keep that story humming in the background, suggesting that the worst outcomes for Vault 32 and 33 haven’t even surfaced yet. The vault sections may be quieter compared to the deathclaw and Brotherhood fireworks, but they deepen the sense that the real villain of the series is still the architecture of Vault-Tec’s grand experiment, not just any one person caught inside it.

If there’s a major knock against the episode, it’s that it occasionally feels like it’s doing too much at once. Between Cooper’s war memories, Lucy’s spiral in Vegas, Brotherhood infighting, and the various vault machinations, the hour sometimes jumps away from a scene right as it’s hitting an emotional high point. Lucy’s addiction arc, in particular, moves so quickly that it risks feeling like a setup beat rather than something fully explored in the moment. On the other hand, that density also gives the world a lived-in, interconnected feel—plotlines bump into each other, collide, and ricochet, instead of sitting on separate tracks waiting for their turn.

Taken as a whole, “The Demon in the Snow” stands out as one of the more compelling entries in Season 2 so far. It delivers on fan expectations with the live-action deathclaw and New Vegas callbacks, but it doesn’t stop at simple spectacle. Lucy’s compromised heroism, Max’s struggle to reconcile his conscience with his faction, Cooper’s haunted past, and the vault dwellers’ slow realization that their home is a gilded cage all circle the same idea: people will justify almost anything—violence, bigotry, self-destruction—if it feels like it serves a higher cause or keeps them from admitting they’re afraid. The episode is rough-edged and occasionally overloaded, but that messiness fits the world it’s dealing with, and it sets the board for the back half of the season in a way that feels genuinely promising.

Song of the Day: “Battle Theme” from Metaphor: ReFantazio (by Shoji Meguro)

Posted on January 6, 2026 by Arleigh

Metaphor: ReFantazio‘s “Battle Theme” erupts with thunderous brass and pounding drums, turning routine turn-based scraps into pulse-racing spectacles that pull you right into the fray. Shoji Meguro amps the drama by weaving in rhythmic chanting from Myōhō–ji temple’s chief priest, Keisuke Honryo, sung in the international language of Esperanto for that timeless, cross-cultural resonance which makes every Archetype clash feel profoundly ritualistic.

The rhythmic Esperanto vocals loop hypnotically over surging strings and synth pulses, cresting with victorious horns that time perfectly to weakness chains and squad synthesis attacks, mirroring the combat’s strategic highs. This primal chant roots the fantasy battles in spiritual depth, evolving Atlus’s sound beyond synth-pop into something hauntingly primal that lingers post-fight.

It anchors the award-lauded OST’s standout moments, those monk-delivered Esperanto lines lending legendary weight to even basic encounters—though their fervor can overshadow subtler scenes.

Metaphor: ReFantazio Review

Posted on January 6, 2026 by Arleigh

“Knowledge without action is but a hollow echo.” — Heismay

Metaphor: ReFantazio delivers a fresh fantasy spin on Atlus’s signature JRPG formula, blending turn-based combat with real-time field encounters that keep battles dynamic and strategic, all in service of a narrative that probes deep into societal divides. The game’s Archetype system lets you mix and match job classes across your party, offering deep customization through skill inheritance and squad synthesis for creative builds that shine in tough boss fights, mirroring the story’s emphasis on unity through diversity. While the overarching tale of tribal tensions and royal intrigue captivates from the start, it occasionally leans into familiar Atlus tropes like social bonding and time-sensitive quests that can feel repetitive over its lengthy runtime, though these mechanics cleverly reinforce the plot’s ticking-clock urgency.

Traversal feels epic on your flying sword mount, zipping through vibrant medieval-inspired hubs packed with side requests, from monster hunts to delivery gigs that boost your follower ranks and unlock new abilities, often tying back to the narrative’s exploration of prejudice and alliance-building. Visually, the stylized UI, animated portraits, and lush world design pop with that classic Atlus flair, making every menu and cutscene a treat, with the game making especially striking use of character artist Shigenori Soejima’s artwork to give both the interface and the cast a distinctive, cohesive look. Soejima, known for his work on the Persona series, brings his signature style here—sharp lines, expressive faces, and vibrant color palettes that make every character portrait feel alive and every UI element intuitive yet stylish, visually underscoring the diverse tribes and their clashing ideologies. The character designs stand out particularly in combat, where Archetype shifts trigger flashy animations that highlight Soejima’s attention to detail, from flowing capes on knights to ethereal glows on mages, ensuring the visuals never feel generic despite the fantasy setting that grounds heavy themes.

The soundtrack nails epic orchestral swells during climaxes, paired with solid voice work that brings the diverse cast to life, even if not every dialogue line gets full voicing, amplifying the emotional weight of key story revelations. Composed by the talented team including Shoji Meguro’s influences, the music shifts seamlessly from tense dungeon crawls with pulsing synths to triumphant fanfares during story beats, enhancing the world’s medieval-fantasy vibe without overpowering the action, and perfectly suiting monologues on fear and ignorance. Voice acting, mostly in Japanese with English subtitles as an option, adds authenticity, though the selective dubbing in key scenes keeps things efficient without sacrificing impact during pivotal tribe confrontations.

Diving deeper into the narrative, Metaphor: ReFantazio crafts a world called Euchronia, where the protagonist—a member of the persecuted Elda Tribe—embarks on a quest to save the cursed prince and compete in a grand tournament to claim the throne, all amid rising prejudice fueled by mysterious monsters born from collective human anxieties like doubt and rage. The central theme of ignorance as the root of fear resonates thoughtfully throughout, explored through bonds with followers from various tribes—each with backstories rooted in discrimination, from the scholarly yet shunned eugief tribe to the ethereal Nidia—tying personal growth to larger societal critiques on tribalism and unity. These relationships aren’t just filler; they directly influence your combat prowess by unlocking new Archetypes and synthesis options, making social links feel mechanically integrated rather than tacked-on, while reinforcing the plot’s message that strength emerges from understanding others. Yet, the script sometimes prioritizes exposition over subtlety, with dialogue that explains themes a tad too on-the-nose, especially in early acts before the plot’s twists—like betrayals in the royal election—ramp up the stakes and deliver more nuanced emotional layers. The narrative culminates in a tournament arc where your speeches sway public opinion, blending political intrigue with fantasy in a way that feels timely, critiquing how fear-mongers exploit divisions without ever feeling preachy.

The game’s themes extend far beyond surface-level fantasy politics, weaving in profound ideas about human cognition and societal ills, best encapsulated by the line “O worthy heart, who tempers anxiety into strength”—a recurring invocation when awakening Archetypes that perfectly distills how the story transforms personal and collective fears into heroic potential. Ignorance isn’t just a buzzword; it’s literalized through the mechanics of human cognition, where unchecked emotions manifest as those Bosch-inspired monsters—grotesque hybrids symbolizing sloth, lust, or despair—challenging players to confront not external evils, but the shadows within collective psyches. This ties into broader explorations of tribalism, where each playable tribe represents marginalized groups: the immortal Elda as eternal wanderers mistrusted for their longevity, the brutish Nidia dismissed as savages, paralleling real-world racism and xenophobia. The royal election mechanic forces you to campaign like a politician, balancing Follower ranks (public support) with bond-building, highlighting how leaders must combat misinformation and rally diverse factions—echoing modern populism without direct allegory, as echoed in More’s constant reminder: “Time marches on, and the age of a new king draws nearer.” Ideas of inherited trauma surface too, as the protagonist grapples with his tribe’s cursed history, questioning if prejudice is a cycle broken only by empathy and action, reinforced by optional lore dumps from informants that unpack Euchronia’s lore of ancient calamities born from unchecked fears.

Later arcs delve into justice versus vengeance, as revelations about the prince and antagonists reveal layers of manipulated ignorance, asking whether punishing the fearful perpetuates division or if education through example prevails. Themes of escapism critique fantasy itself: characters cling to idealized “Royal” saviors, mirroring how societies project hopes onto myths, only for the story to dismantle that by humanizing leaders as flawed products of their biases. Multiple endings—ranging from unified reigns to fractured chaos—hinge on your thematic investments, like prioritizing certain bonds over others, ensuring the ideas stick through mechanical consequence. It’s a mature evolution from Persona‘s teen angst, grounding abstract concepts in tangible choices that provoke reflection on complicity in systemic hate, with Strohl’s encouragement “I really do believe you have the power to change fate itself” underscoring the faith in individual agency amid societal rot.

Combat evolves the Press Turn system from Shin Megami Tensei, where exploiting enemy weaknesses grants extra turns, but now with Archetype swaps mid-battle for on-the-fly adaptation—summoning a tank to soak hits or a healer to recover without ending your chain—echoing the story’s adaptive heroism. Squad battles add a layer of real-time command over AI allies during field scraps, bridging the gap between exploration and turn-based depth seamlessly, much like how narrative bonds bridge tribal gaps. Dungeons vary from linear boss rushes to sprawling labyrinths with environmental puzzles, like using wind magic to clear miasma or mounting those monsters for platforming sections, keeping pacing fresh across 80-100 hours and often themed around the anxieties they represent—many of which evoke the nightmarish, hybrid figures from Hieronymus Bosch’s Garden of Earthly Delights, with their grotesque amalgamations of human limbs, animal parts, and surreal machinery perfectly capturing the game’s theme of manifested inner turmoil. Post-game content expands this further with New Game+ carrying over levels and a challenging high-level superboss gauntlet that tests your most optimized builds, inviting replays to uncover alternate endings tied to bond choices.

On the flip side, character arcs stay mostly heroic without much grit or internal conflict, which softens the emotional punch compared to edgier Atlus entries like Persona 5‘s rebellious heists, potentially muting the themes’ bite for some players, and the “days till” deadlines force constant planning that might frustrate casual explorers. Time management becomes a core loop: follow the critical path for story progress, but stray for bonds and requests at the risk of missing deadlines, creating tension that’s smart but stressful for completionists, directly mirroring the narrative’s pressure to confront ignorance swiftly. Some side activities, like the casino minigame or follower requests, offer great rewards but grindy repetition, and while the map system improves navigation with waypoints, backtracking in identical dungeon rooms can sap momentum during marathon sessions delving into lore-heavy side stories.

Accessibility options abound, from adjustable battle speed to auto-battle for farming, making it welcoming for series newcomers wary of steep JRPG curves while they absorb the dense thematic content. Compared to Persona 3 Reload, Metaphor sheds the school-life sim for pure high fantasy, trading calendar dating for royal election drama centered on prejudice, yet retains that addictive “just one more day” hook through its polished systems and unfolding revelations.

Exploration shines in hubs like Grand Trad, a bustling port city alive with merchants, street performers, and cryptic informant conversations that reveal lore tidbits on Euchronia’s fractured history. The monster system lets you befriend (or hunt) foes for your compendium, inheriting skills like in SMT, but with a bond mechanic that speeds recruitment via gifts or dialogue choices—perfect for building that ultimate party and paralleling human alliances, especially when those Bosch-like beasts start feeling less monstrous through repeated encounters. Synthesis combines Archetypes for hybrid classes, like a ninja-healer churning out status cures while stealth-attacking, rewarding experimentation without locking you into dead ends, much like the story’s flexible path to overcoming bias.

Thematically, Metaphor: ReFantazio tackles prejudice head-on through its tribal dynamics and election mechanics, where swaying public opinion via speeches and deeds mirrors real-world politics in a fantastical lens, with each tribe embodying facets of societal “others”—the immortal Elda as eternal outsiders, the brutish as feared brutes—challenging players to dismantle stereotypes. It’s bolder than Persona’s high school metaphors, grounding fantasy in social commentary without preaching, as the protagonist’s journey from outcast to candidate forces reflection on inherited fears passed down generations. Multiple endings based on follower bonds and tournament outcomes add replay value, rewarding deep investment in the themes, while bosses escalate brilliantly, from multi-phase behemoths requiring Archetype juggling to “Clemar” trials testing pure strategy, often with unique gimmicks like reversing Press Turns that symbolize narrative reversals.

For Atlus fans, this feels like the studio firing on all cylinders post-Persona 5 Royal, refining mechanics while daring a new IP unburdened by franchise baggage, with a narrative that stands as one of their most cohesive thematic statements. Newcomers get a guided onboarding with tutorials that don’t overstay, easing into complexity naturally alongside the story’s gradual world-building. Drawbacks like sparse enemy variety in late-game fields and occasional UI clutter during synthesis menus hold it back from perfection, but they’re minor amid the highs of its thoughtful storytelling.

Ultimately, Metaphor: ReFantazio stands tall as an accessible gateway for JRPG newcomers and a loving evolution for fans, balancing highs in gameplay depth with minor stumbles in narrative subtlety, all elevated by its poignant exploration of ignorance and unity. Clocking over 110 hours on a full clear, it earns its GOTY buzz through sheer ambition and polish, proving Atlus can reinvent without losing its soul. If you’re craving a meaty RPG with style, strategy, and a story that lingers on real-world echoes, this one’s a no-brainer—just pace yourself through those deadlines.

Review: Final Fantasy VI

Posted on January 5, 2026 by Arleigh

“It’s not the result of one’s life that’s important. It’s the day-to-day concerns, the personal victories, and the celebration of life… and love. It’s enough if people are able to experience the joy that each day can bring…” – Terra Bradford

Final Fantasy VI is one of those JRPGs that feels bigger than the cartridge it shipped on, and even now it earns its reputation as both a high point of the 16-bit era and a blueprint for what narrative-driven RPGs could become. It is dense, melodramatic, occasionally clunky, but consistently ambitious in ways that still feel relevant to the genre’s modern landscape, blending theatrical storytelling with flexible mechanics and a structure that dares to rethink its own world midway through. Revisiting it reveals not just a classic, but a foundational text whose echoes show up in everything from ensemble casts to customizable skill systems in later titles.

The opening hours set the tone with impressive confidence, dropping you right into a steampunk-flavored world where magic has been industrialized into a tool of conquest. Terra, a half-human, half-Esper whose mind is shackled by an imperial slave crown, marches through snowy mountains in powered Magitek armor toward the mining town of Narshe, instantly hooking you with her vulnerability amid high-stakes espionage. This personal thread weaves into a broader guerrilla war between the Gestahlian Empire—led by the scheming Gestahl and his unhinged general Kefka—and the ragtag Returners resistance, but the real genius is how the story quickly pivots from standard “rebels vs. empire” to a sprawling ensemble piece that trusts no single hero to carry the weight.

That cast of fourteen permanent party members is the game’s boldest swing, each layered with backstories, quirks, and mechanical identities that make them stick. Terra grapples with her monstrous heritage and search for belonging, Celes wrestles betrayal and isolation after defecting from the Empire, Locke chases redemption for a lost love, Cyan buries himself in grief over his family’s slaughter, Sabin roams as a free-spirited brawler, Edgar plays the charming king-turned-inventor, and Setzer brings cynical gambler flair—it’s a roster that juggles melodrama like opera-house soliloquies and doomed romances with quieter, human moments that land surprisingly hard even today. Some inevitably get shortchanged if you beeline through the back half, feeling more like vivid archetypes than deep dives, but the sheer ambition of giving everyone a mini-arc amid the chaos set a new bar for character work in JRPGs, influencing how later games like the Persona series built entire identities around tight-knit parties and personal subplots.

Kefka anchors the escalating stakes as few villains do, evolving from a clownish psycho prone to war crimes like poisoning a town into a nihilistic force who hijacks the god-like Warring Triad, shatters the planet, and rules the resulting apocalypse as a tyrant-god cackling over the ruins. Midway through, he doesn’t just threaten doom—he delivers it, wiping cities off the map and thrusting the story into the World of Ruin, a time-skipped wasteland where survivors scrape by amid decay and despair. This pivot isn’t a cheap shock; it’s a structural earthquake that shifts the tone to post-apocalyptic reflection, forcing each character to confront whether they even have a reason to fight on, with Celes’ suicidal low point on a lonely island giving way to gradual reunions that feel earned because you choose the order. That willingness to let the bad guy win—and make the heroes rebuild emotionally as well as literally—rippled through the genre, showing JRPGs could handle survivor guilt, loss, and fragile hope without hand-waving the darkness.

Structurally, it’s like two games fused together: the linear World of Balance builds your crew through set pieces like infiltrations, multi-party defenses, and the iconic opera sequence, then explodes into a semi-open World of Ruin where you roam a shattered map, tackling side dungeons and personal vignettes at will. Pacing can wobble if you stray off-path early or grind too hard later, but the freedom to prioritize arcs—like Cyan’s haunted family dreams or Terra’s village sanctuary—mirrors the themes of recovery, prefiguring how modern titles blend cosmic plots with player-driven character priorities.

Combat nails a sweet spot with the Active Time Battle system, where gauges fill in real-time for flexible pacing—toggle “Active” for pressure or “Wait” to strategize—and row positioning adds tactics, frontliners tanking full hits while backrow slings safer damage. Character-unique commands keep it fresh: Sabin’s Blitz commands mimic fighting-game inputs, Edgar’s Tools hit formations, Cyan charges sword techs, Gau Rages as monsters, Setzer gambles on slots—making swaps feel playful and deliberate. The Esper system elevates this, letting anyone equip magical summons to learn spells via Magic Points and snag level-up bonuses, blending fixed identities with modular builds in a way that blurred roles late-game but normalized customization as core to JRPG fun.

This philosophy—strong personalities atop teachable, recombinable abilities—quietly reshaped the genre, with Persona‘s demon/persona fusion, Lost Odyssey‘s memory-tied skills, and similar systems in Clair Obscur owing a debt to Espers as a bridge from rigid classes to player-sculpted parties without erasing narrative flavor. Dungeons mix it up too, from pincer ambushes and gimmick bosses like the shell-hiding Whelk to timed escapes and that charming opera blending inputs with spectacle, though some late hauls drag with random encounters exposing 16-bit limits.

Visually, it’s pixel art at its peak: expressive sprites, detailed industrial backdrops, and a palette flip from Balance’s vibrancy to Ruin’s sickly decay, with ruined landmarks and evolving NPC lines selling irreversible change. Bosses escalate to surreal, painterly horrors fitting the finale’s otherworldliness, proving art direction trumps raw fidelity.

Nobuo Uematsu’s soundtrack is legendary for good reason, weaving leitmotifs—Terra’s theme, Kefka’s manic laugh, Celes’ aria—into a narrative spine that evolves with the story, from triumphant fanfares to haunting piano and faux-choral dread, all within SNES constraints. It established JRPG scores as orchestral-caliber storytelling tools, influencing fully symphonic later works and live concerts.

Final Fantasy VI‘s legacy permeates JRPGs today, its DNA visible in the way Persona weaves school-life bonds with supernatural showdowns, how Lost Odyssey probes immortal grief through written vignettes, or how ambitious indies like Clair Obscur chase painterly melancholy and hope amid ruin—the ensemble healing, world-shattering pivots, and trauma-to-recovery arcs all trace back here, proving a 16-bit game could set emotional and structural templates still in play. Hironobu Sakaguchi crystallized as the modern JRPG’s godfather through this title, fusing mechanical innovation like Esper flexibility with mature themes of identity and despair that Final Fantasy VII and beyond amplified into global phenomena, his vision elevating the genre from quest logs to profound, character-soaked epics.

The Final Fantasy VII Remake‘s blockbuster success—reimagining a classic with modern graphics, cinematic flair, real-time twists, and expanded character beats—has only intensified fan campaigns for VI to get similar lavish treatment, from a fully voiced, motion-captured opera house to a destructible world rendered in heartbreaking detail and Ruin reunions that hit even harder with modern intimacy. Yet Square Enix leadership has flagged the project’s nigh-insurmountable scale: the fourteen-character sprawl, mid-game reset, player-driven nonlinearity, and web of optional stories demand a development odyssey that could dwarf even VII‘s trilogy, risking dilution of what makes the original a personal, unpredictable journey if forced into rigid cinematic lanes.

Flaws persist—sappy dialogue dates it amid earnest monologues, sidelined characters like Gau or Strago need deliberate hunting for payoff, Espers can shatter balance into spell-spam routs, and marathon dungeons fatigue under random encounter spam—but these 16-bit quirks pale against a boldness that endures. Final Fantasy VI isn’t frozen nostalgia; it’s a living cornerstone, its sprawling heart, tinkering joy, musical sweep, and unyielding ambition still sparking JRPG evolution, demanding replays not as history homework but as a masterclass in what the genre can feel like when it swings for the fences and connects. Decades on, it whispers to every ambitious RPG dev: let your world break, let your cast breathe, let your systems invite play—and watch players find reasons to care long after the credits roll.

Review: The Accountant 2 (dir. by Gavin O’Connor)

Posted on January 4, 2026 by Arleigh

“Is there anything better than punching somebody in the face who’s got it coming?” — Braxton

The Accountant 2 plunges back into the offbeat world of Christian Wolff, Ben Affleck’s autistic accounting savant who wields a calculator and a combat prowess with equal deadliness. Directed by Gavin O’Connor, the sequel reunites Christian with his wayward brother Braxton (Jon Bernthal) as they unravel a conspiracy triggered by the murder of FinCEN director Raymond King (J.K. Simmons), pulling in agent Marybeth Medina (Cynthia Addai-Robinson) for a tense alliance. It cranks up the action and brotherly banter from the 2016 original, delivering bursts of gritty fun, but bogs down in bloated plotting and uneven tone that dilute its punchy premise.

The story explodes open with King’s brutal assassination, his dying message—”find the accountant”—dragging Christian out of his trailer-bound solitude. Medina taps Wolff’s uncanny financial insight to sift through King’s jumbled clues, tracing a trail from a pizza parlor’s money-laundering scheme to a vicious human trafficking ring straddling the Juarez border. A sleek assassin named Anaïs (Daniella Pineda) haunts the edges, her fragmented memories linking to Christian’s murky history, while Braxton joins for brawn and levity, transforming the probe into a chaotic sibling odyssey. The narrative sprawls across factories, motels, and hacker dens, blending forensic number-crunching with explosive confrontations, though it piles on subplots—like selfie-stalking tech whizzes and cartel infighting—that strain coherence without sharp resolutions.

Affleck deepens Christian’s portrayal, blending rigid logic with flashes of wry humor that feel more lived-in than the first film’s stiffness. He shines in quirky beats, like speed-dating disasters fueled by probabilistic algorithms or spotting fiscal fraud in pizza dough sales, then enforcing confessions with a vicious finger-twist. Yet the character teeters into trope territory, his neurodivergence often serving as shorthand for unstoppable violence rather than a nuanced lens on isolation. Bernthal dominates as Braxton, his raw charisma and emotional cracks—vulnerable confessions evolving into rowdy bar dances teaching Christian social flow—infuse the film with infectious warmth. Their rooftop schemes and escort-aided stakeouts pulse with buddy-movie spark, a major merit that carries weaker stretches.

Action remains the film’s powerhouse, surpassing the original in raw ferocity if not elegance. The pizza factory brawl erupts from interrogation into a whirlwind of pipes, knives, and improvised carnage, while garage pursuits and a border compound siege unleash R-rated savagery—precise headshots, joint-snapping grapples, even a sniper duel echoing thriller classics. O’Connor’s practical stuntwork and sweaty cinematography ground the chaos effectively, with a throbbing score that heightens tension without flash. These sequences thrill, but the climax devolves into a generic bullet storm, missing the original warehouse fight’s balletic intimacy, and the 132-minute runtime drags amid repetitive cop-agenta standoffs.

Medina’s arc offers steady grit, as Addai-Robinson charts her shift from protocol-bound skeptic to off-book partner, her rapport with Christian adding subtle friction to the bromance. Simmons maximizes his opener, fending off thugs in a dive bar before a fatal shot, nailing a tone of immediate peril. Pineda’s Anaïs cuts a striking figure—poised killer grappling with resurfaced trauma—but her threat fizzles, undermined by sparse buildup and a rushed tie-in to the brothers’ past. Lesser foes like the greasy pizza kingpin or border thug Tomas propel the plot competently yet forgettably, while Christian’s handler Justine (Annie Oosterom) doles out remote wisdom that’s underutilized.

At its core, The Accountant 2 wrestles with family bonds and hidden pains, pitting Christian’s analytical shell against Braxton’s impulsive soul in redemption-tinged flashbacks. Lighter quirks—honky-tonk flirtations, cat cameos, goofy T-shirts—humanize without diluting the edge, crafting a playful hyperviolence that charms in detours like smart-home hacks gone absurd. These merits shine brightest in hangout vibes, where meandering chats and line dances breathe life into the formula. Failures creep in through diluted quirks: the accounting genius takes a backseat to rote crime-thriller beats, cartel clichés overwhelm the fresh oddity, and pacing lurches from taut kills to listless exposition.

Technical craft holds firm, with O’Connor’s no-frills visuals capturing industrial grime and motel seediness, favoring tangible impacts over CGI gloss. The R-rating justifies itself via unflinching gore and profanity, satisfying gorehounds, though humor occasionally jars—like trailer quips amid slaughter—disrupting tonal balance. Compared to the debut’s sleeper surprise, this entry coasts on familiarity, expanding the Wolff mythos with teases of future clashes but lacking the tight ingenuity that sparked cult love.

The Accountant 2 succeeds as a rowdy sequel when leaning on its stars’ chemistry, visceral fights, and odd-couple heart, making it a blast for action cravings. It falters, however, in overreaching scope, diluting Christian’s uniqueness amid familiar shadows and slack momentum. Solid for fans seeking sibling sparks and calculated brutality, it lands as entertaining excess rather than essential evolution—catch it for the highs, forgive the math that doesn’t quite balance.