Review: Chicken Run (dir. by Peter Lord & Nick Park)

Posted on September 14, 2026 by Arleigh

“I don’t want to be a pie. I don’t like gravy.” — Babs

Chicken Run is one of those animated films that seems simple at first glance: a bunch of chickens want to escape a farm before they become pies. That basic premise could have easily turned into a lightweight family comedy full of barnyard jokes and little else. Instead, the 2000 DreamWorks and Aardman production, directed by Peter Lord and Nick Park, plays like a miniature war movie, prison-break thriller, romance, survival adventure, and pitch-black satire all at once. It is consistently funny, but its comedy works because the stakes feel real. These chickens are not merely trying to get away from an annoying farmer; they are trying to survive an industrial system that sees them as disposable raw material.

The first thing that makes Chicken Run so memorable is how completely it commits to its central influence: John Sturges’s The Great Escape. Ginger, voiced with determined energy by Julia Sawalha, is essentially the Steve McQueen-like mastermind of a prisoner-of-war escape film, only without the motorcycle. She has attempted escape after escape from the Tweedys’ chicken farm, and every failure has made her more experienced, more stubborn, and more isolated from the flock. The farm itself is built and filmed like a prison camp: there are fences, watchtowers, guards, roll calls, surveillance, punishments, and a constant feeling that someone is always being watched. The chickens dig tunnels, build plans, assign tasks, debate leadership, and struggle with morale in a way that directly echoes the Allied prisoners in The Great Escape.

That influence is not just a clever parody. It gives the movie a real sense of structure and urgency. Ginger is not a character who simply wishes for freedom; she is obsessed with earning it. Every failed attempt lands her in the punishment shed, a tiny isolated box that is funny in its exaggerated stop-motion form but also genuinely unpleasant. The sight of Ginger sitting alone in darkness, listening to the rain and realizing that another escape has failed, establishes that the movie is willing to make her suffering count. She is not invincible, and the other chickens do not always believe in her. That gives her eventual success much more weight than it would have had in a more conventional cartoon.

The Tweedys are also far more sinister than the average animated villains. Mr. Tweedy, voiced by Tony Haygarth, is the bumbling half of the pair: nervous, confused, increasingly paranoid, and convinced that “the chickens are organizing.” It is one of the best-running jokes in the movie because he is absolutely right, but his wife refuses to take him seriously. Melisha Tweedy, voiced by Miranda Richardson, is the truly frightening one. She is cold, practical, greedy, and almost entirely without sentiment. When egg production drops, she does not consider improving conditions for the chickens. She decides to turn them into chicken pies.

That is where Chicken Run goes into much darker territory than its cheerful clay-animation style initially suggests. The film’s narrative is built around factory farming, confinement, exploitation, and mass slaughter. The chickens know that when one of them stops laying eggs, she is not being taken somewhere safe. She is taken away to die. The scene involving the elderly hen Edwina is particularly unsettling because it is handled with restraint. The audience never sees explicit violence, but the implication is unmistakable. The sound of the axe, the sudden absence, and the reactions of the other chickens tell the whole story. It is dark material for a family film, but it is never treated as a joke. The humor comes from character behavior and British deadpan timing, not from dismissing the fear these animals feel.

That balance is one of the movie’s greatest achievements. Chicken Run is undeniably an animated comedy, filled with visual gags, eccentric voices, and absurdly specific bits of dialogue, yet its themes remain surprisingly grim. The Tweedys’ new pie machine is not just a goofy invention. It is a huge, mechanized symbol of industrialized cruelty, a machine designed to turn living creatures into products at maximum efficiency. Once it appears, the farm stops feeling merely like a prison camp and starts feeling like something even more horrifying: a production line where the inmates are literally the merchandise. The comedy makes the movie accessible, but the darker ideas give it teeth.

Aardman’s stop-motion animation is essential to that effect. The chickens are expressive in a way that never makes them overly cute or polished. Their handmade look gives them texture and personality. You can see the fingerprints of the animators in the characters’ surfaces, the uneven little details of the farm, and the tangible construction of the machinery. Modern computer animation can create smoother movement and more elaborate spectacle, but Chicken Run has a physical presence that is hard to replicate digitally. The fences feel like real fences. The mud feels like real mud. The pie machine feels enormous and dangerous because it is a real object built in miniature and photographed frame by frame.

The design also helps sell the film’s strange mix of bleakness and whimsy. The Tweedys’ farm is gray, muddy, cramped, and oppressive, a place where every chicken coop resembles a barracks. Beyond the fence is a bright green countryside that feels almost mythic to the trapped flock. Freedom is not some vague emotional idea; it is visible right there, just beyond reach. That visual contrast makes Ginger’s desperation easy to understand. She is not asking for luxury. She wants sunlight, open space, and the ability to live without being counted, confined, or killed for failing to produce enough eggs.

Mel Gibson’s Rocky Rhodes enters the story as the possible answer to Ginger’s problem. He is introduced as a flying American rooster who crashes into the farm like a larger-than-life war hero. His nickname, “the Lone Free Ranger,” and his exaggerated confidence make him feel like a parody of classic American movie masculinity. Rocky is all swagger, charm, and improvised survival instinct, which makes him a good contrast to Ginger’s disciplined, strategic personality. He tells the chickens he can teach them to fly, and the entire farm becomes invested in the idea even when the plan seems impossible.

Rocky works because the film does not make him a flawless hero. He is entertaining and ultimately brave, but he is also a fraud. His supposed ability to fly is part of a circus act, and he has escaped captivity before by using a human-operated catapult rather than his own wings. When the truth comes out, it hurts because the chickens have placed their hope in him. Ginger especially feels betrayed, not only because Rocky lied but because she allowed herself to believe that someone else might finally have the answer. Their relationship has a nice edge to it; it is not a sweeping romance so much as a reluctant partnership between two strong-willed survivors who approach freedom in completely different ways.

The sequences built around the escape plan show how much fun Lord and Park have with action-adventure movie language. While The Great Escape is the most obvious inspiration, certain moments have an energy reminiscent of Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark. There are close calls with traps, rapid-fire improvisation, looming mechanical threats, and escapes that depend on inches of timing. The climax inside and around the pie machine especially has that pulpy serial-adventure tension. Characters are dragged toward blades and conveyor belts, machinery rattles and groans, and plans collapse only for someone to invent another solution at the last possible second.

The final act also brings in a strong resemblance to The Flight of the Phoenix, particularly in the way the chickens turn desperation into engineering. The flock has to build a flying machine out of whatever materials they can gather, and the project depends on cooperation between characters with very different skills. Fowler, the elderly rooster voiced by Benjamin Whitrow, becomes crucial here. At first he seems like a pompous relic, forever talking about his days in the Royal Air Force and resisting Ginger’s modern plans. But his knowledge and experience eventually become useful. He gives the group the language, confidence, and organizational spark needed to turn their makeshift aircraft from a dream into something that might actually leave the ground.

Fowler is also one of the funniest parts of the film because he represents a specific kind of old British pride: stubborn, ceremonial, and deeply attached to the past. His stories about serving under “the old RAF” seem ridiculous until the moment the chickens actually need someone who understands the basic principles of flying. The film never makes him into a conventional action hero, but it allows him to reclaim some dignity. Like many of the supporting characters, he gets a small but satisfying arc.

The rest of the flock is memorable because they are not interchangeable background animals. Babs is sweet, distracted, and constantly knitting, but her innocent manner hides an ability to contribute when it matters. Bunty is blunt, cynical, and always ready to question Ginger’s plans. Mac, with her Scottish accent and technical expertise, is the group’s engineer and probably the person most likely to explain why a wild idea will not work. Fetcher, the rat, is opportunistic and cowardly, but he is useful in the way only a black-market scavenger can be. Even the two dimwitted farm dogs have personality, serving as comic obstacles while still making the farm feel guarded and dangerous.

What makes Chicken Run endure is that it never treats its characters’ freedom as a trivial goal. The story has jokes about eggs, knitting, chicken behavior, British class attitudes, and American bravado, but beneath all of that is a serious belief that a community can refuse to accept the role assigned to it. Ginger’s greatest strength is not that she has the perfect plan. It is that she refuses to surrender when every plan fails. Her determination eventually spreads to the other chickens, who stop seeing themselves as helpless inmates and start acting like participants in their own rescue.

The ending is satisfying because it feels earned. The chickens do not escape through luck alone, and they do not wait for a human to save them. They escape because they organize, take risks, use their talents, forgive one another’s failures, and choose action over resignation. That is a surprisingly powerful message for a film about clay chickens escaping a pie factory.

More than two decades later, Chicken Run still stands as one of the strongest animated films of its era. Its stop-motion craft remains beautiful, its jokes still land, and its references to The Great Escape, Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark, and The Flight of the Phoenix add an extra layer of fun for viewers familiar with those films. But it is the movie’s willingness to acknowledge fear, exploitation, and death beneath the comedy that makes it more than a clever genre spoof. Chicken Run is funny because it is inventive, but it is memorable because it understands that freedom means the most when it is hardest to achieve.

Brad reviews the new South Korean film HOPE (2026)!

Posted on September 13, 2026 by Bradley Crain

I’ve been seeing trailers for the South Korean action film HOPE (2026). Being a fan of the country’s cinema, it definitely piqued my interest. As I investigated a little further, I saw that it was written and directed by Na Hong-Jin who did the same for the unsettling THE WAILING back in 2016. Digging even deeper, I recognized actor Hwang Jung-Min as the lead of the film. He’s been great for a long time, starring in South Korean classics like A BITTERSWEET LIFE (2005), NEW WORLD (2013), VETERAN (2015), and the director’s THE WAILING. This being my birthday week, I decided I’d start it off with a bang by heading to the movie theater to see what this intriguing film has up its sleeves!

The movie gets right into the action as we meet small town Police Chief Beom Seok (Hwang Jung-Min) in the middle of his investigation of the vicious death of a cow. The incident was reported by a group of hunters who think the wounds look out of the ordinary. Wondering if a bear or a tiger might be on prowl as he’s driving back, he arrives in town where all hell has broken loose. It seems there’s something causing death and destruction, but it’s way too powerful to be a bear or a tiger. I won’t say anymore because the fun of the first half of the film is discovering just what the hell is bringing such chaos to this normally sleepy harbor town.

HOPE has a lot of good stuff going for it. The performances from the leads are at the very top of my list, beginning with Hwang Jung-min as the police chief. He has this ability to project goofy exasperation better than anyone else I know. A lesser actor might take this too far, but not Hwang. He is able to balance the film’s absurd humor while also being tough and fearless when he needs to be. He’s great here. Next up is Hoyeon (SQUID GAME), who plays police officer Sung Ae. I won’t say too much, but her character’s introduction into the film is incredibly fun and badass. I loved it, and you can’t help but love her as the film progresses. Finally, I really enjoyed actor Zo In-sung’s performance as one of the hunters who reports the suspicious cow death at the beginning of the film. At first he seems like a guy being set up as a victim, but he turns out to be much more than that by the end. I’ll have to give writer Na Hong-jin credit for creating such fun characters. I’ll mention here that Michael Fassbender and Alicia Vikander are also in the cast, but I won’t say anything more about their characters.

After actually watching the film, I can say that writer-director Na Hong-jin really did come up with a very interesting premise for HOPE. The first half of the film is so fun as our characters fight for their lives and simultaneously try to figure out what the hell they’re dealing with. I would say this is the best section of the film. When we finally see what our ragtag group is up against, we get an exciting, non-stop action sequence that ends with a bit of luck and relief for our heroes. Up to this point, the movie has been a violent, funny, action-packed ride!

The second half of the film, while still enjoyable, isn’t quite as successful as the first. The primary issue is the extreme length of the film. HOPE clocks in at over two and a half hours. While it continues on as a non-stop action ride, I think this movie would be just as good at only two hours long by cutting some repetitive action sequences. The last part of the film introduces a whole new storyline solely to set up future sequels. HOPE had the biggest box office opening weekend in South Korea thus far in 2026, so the sequels will definitely be coming. I’m certainly looking forward to them, but if you’re looking for closure for any of these characters, you won’t get it here. There is an almost unbelievable mid-credits sequence that’s truly absurd, but it’s also not out of line with the craziness of the film we just watched. Don’t miss that part!

For me, watching HOPE at the theater was 100% worth my time and an awesome start to my birthday week. It’s not a perfect film, but I truly enjoyed it, and I’ll be on the lookout for the sequels!

Review: Flight of the Navigator (dir. by Randal Kleiser)

Posted on September 12, 2026 by Arleigh

“That is my family, but that’s not my home. My home is back in 1978!” — David Freeman

Flight of the Navigator turns a child’s worst possible homecoming into an unexpectedly funny, wistful, and imaginative science-fiction adventure. Released in 1986, it begins as a modest suburban mystery before expanding into a story about time displacement, missing years, alien technology, and the strange loneliness of returning home to a life that has moved on without you. It has the glossy, accessible surface of a Disney adventure, but there is a surprisingly melancholy idea at its center: what would it feel like to lose eight years of your life while everyone you love has had to live through them without you?

The movie follows David Freeman, a 12-year-old boy who disappears in 1978 after going into the woods to retrieve his younger brother Jeff. David wakes up in 1986, apparently having been gone only a few hours from his own point of view. The shock is immediate. His parents are older, Jeff is now his taller teenage brother, the family has moved, and David has become a long-unsolved missing-person case. This opening stretch is probably the film’s strongest material because it plays the scenario straight enough to make it genuinely unsettling. David is not simply a kid dropped into a flashy futuristic world; he is a child abruptly disconnected from the only reality he knows.

That emotional hook gives Flight of the Navigator more weight than many similar children’s adventures. David’s confusion is easy to understand, and the film wisely lets the situation breathe before revealing all of its science-fiction machinery. The sight of his family recognizing him after years of grief is touching, but it also comes with discomfort. David wants everything to return to normal, while his parents are overwhelmed by the impossible fact that their vanished son has returned unchanged. The movie does not dig into the full psychological consequences of that situation, because it is still fundamentally a family adventure, but it gives the idea enough attention to make the stakes feel personal.

Once NASA becomes involved, the story shifts into a more conventional but still entertaining sci-fi mode. Doctors discover that David has advanced knowledge in his brain that he cannot consciously explain, and the mystery leads him to a crashed alien spacecraft. The ship, known as the Trimaxion Drone Ship, is the movie’s most iconic element. Its smooth silver form, with no visible seams or conventional cockpit, still looks appealing because it has a simple, alien elegance. It is not overly busy or mechanical in the way many science-fiction vehicles are. Instead, it resembles a floating metallic organism, something sleek and strange that could plausibly have appeared in a child’s dream.

The ship’s computer, MAX, is what really gives the movie its personality. Voiced by Paul Reubens, MAX begins as a calm, efficient artificial intelligence but gradually becomes sillier and more mischievous after downloading human information from David’s era. Reubens’ performance is a major reason the character works. He does not simply do a recognizable Pee-wee Herman routine, although the playful vocal energy is certainly there. MAX’s changing voice and increasingly erratic sense of humor make him feel like an alien intelligence trying to imitate human behavior and getting it only partly right.

There is a fine line between amusing and annoying when a movie lets its comic sidekick become too hyperactive, and Flight of the Navigator occasionally crosses it. MAX can become a little much, especially during the later scenes where he starts cracking jokes, changing his vocal effects, and behaving like an overexcited child with access to interstellar technology. Still, that energy is part of what makes the film feel uniquely of its era. MAX is not as polished or emotionally sophisticated as later animated or CGI companions, but he remains memorable because he is odd. His humor feels less like a studio-tested collection of one-liners and more like a machine that has accidentally discovered cartoons, pop culture, and sarcasm all at once.

Joey Cramer carries much of the movie as David, and he gives the role more sincerity than the material sometimes requires. He is believable as a regular kid who becomes frightened, angry, curious, and eventually exhilarated by what is happening around him. David is not written as a perfect young hero. He can be stubborn and impulsive, especially when he decides he has to take control of his own situation, but that makes sense. Adults have spent much of the story examining him, restraining him, and treating him as a scientific puzzle. His decision to escape with MAX is reckless, yet it also feels like the response of a child who is desperate to reclaim some agency.

The film’s visual effects deserve credit for helping sell its larger ideas. By modern standards, the effects are obviously dated in places, particularly when the ship changes shape or moves at impossible speeds. Yet the movie uses its effects well enough that they remain charming rather than distracting. The morphing sequence in which the ship transforms into its sleeker form was especially impressive for the time, and even now it has an appealing practical-digital hybrid quality. It does not look completely real, but it looks imaginative. The ship has presence, and the movie understands the pleasure of simply watching it fly through clouds, skim across water, or streak through the night sky.

The electronic score by Alan Silvestri is another major part of the film’s identity. Silvestri is often associated with larger, more overtly heroic scores, especially in films such as Back to the Future, but his work here is more synthetic and futuristic. The music helps create a sense of wonder while also grounding the film in the mid-1980s. It can sound very much of its time, with prominent synthesizers and a clean electronic texture, but that is not a weakness. The score fits a movie about an ordinary kid encountering a cold, shiny, unknowable piece of advanced technology.

One of the better things about Flight of the Navigator is that it does not make its protagonist’s adventure entirely consequence-free. David gets to fly an alien ship, travel at incredible speeds, and encounter a universe beyond his suburban life. That is the wish-fulfillment element, and the film delivers it well. At the same time, the adventure exists because something has gone wrong in David’s life. His journey begins with loss. The movie never becomes as emotionally dark as its premise could allow, but it never completely forgets that David has been separated from his family and displaced in time.

The ending is satisfying because it returns the story to that emotional core. David’s ultimate choice is not just about whether he wants to keep flying around with MAX. It is about whether he can go home, even if home is no longer exactly what it was. The resolution is neat and arguably a little too convenient, but it earns its feel-good payoff. This is a family film, after all, and the movie knows that its audience wants the wonder of space travel without being left in despair over the time-travel implications.

In the end, Flight of the Navigator remains a warm, inventive, and slightly strange piece of 1980s science-fiction. It is not a perfect movie. Some of the comedy is broad, the adults at NASA are more functional than memorable, and the story occasionally rushes past ideas that could have been explored more deeply. But its central concept is strong, its spaceship is iconic, its score is distinctive, and its combination of melancholy and fun gives it more staying power than many nostalgia-driven family movies. It captures the feeling of being a kid who wants to escape into the unknown, while also recognizing that the people waiting at home are what make that escape matter.

Review: The Last Starfighter (dir. by Nick Castle)

Posted on September 11, 2026 by Arleigh

“Alex! Alex! You’re walking away from history! History! Did Chris Columbus say he wanted to stay home? No! What if the Wright Brothers thought that only birds should fly?” — Centauri

The Last Starfighter is one of the most purely enjoyable science-fiction adventures of the 1980s: earnest, inventive, occasionally corny, and driven by the kind of wide-eyed imagination that modern blockbusters too often confuse with sheer scale. Directed by Nick Castle, the 1984 film builds an entire intergalactic adventure around a premise that could have been dismissed as a gimmick: an arcade champion discovers that his favorite game is actually a recruitment test for a real war in space. Instead of treating that premise ironically, the film commits to it wholeheartedly, and that sincerity is ultimately what makes it endure.

Lance Guest stars as Alex Rogan, a teenager living in the Starlite Starbrite trailer park with his mother and younger brother, Louis. Alex is smart, resourceful, and visibly restless. He wants to get out of his small-town surroundings, attend college, and build a better future, but financial strain and family responsibility keep making those ambitions seem less realistic. His one reliable escape comes from an arcade machine outside the local store called The Last Starfighter. Alex plays constantly, eventually achieving a record score that attracts the attention of the game’s mysterious creator, Centauri.

Robert Preston’s Centauri is one of the film’s great pleasures. He is an interstellar recruiter who behaves like a flamboyant carnival salesman, arriving in Alex’s life with a strange vehicle, flashy clothes, a rapid-fire sales pitch, and a proposition that sounds completely insane. Centauri reveals that The Last Starfighter is not merely a video game; it is a test designed to identify young people with the reflexes, tactical instincts, and courage needed to become Gunstar pilots for the Rylan Star League. Alex has not just beaten a difficult arcade game. He has qualified to defend an entire civilization from the Kodan Armada.

That central idea remains the movie’s strongest asset. It transforms a familiar adolescent fantasy into something emotionally resonant. Alex is not gifted with a magical sword, superpowers, or an ancient royal lineage. He is selected because he became exceptionally skilled at something the adults around him would probably regard as a waste of time. His ability to master a video game becomes proof that he has discipline, intelligence, hand-eye coordination, and the ability to make decisions under pressure. For anyone who grew up playing arcade games, it is an irresistible fantasy: the thing you are good at for fun might one day turn out to matter more than anyone realizes.

The film understands, however, that being offered a larger life is not the same as being ready for it. Alex initially reacts to the truth with disbelief and fear rather than instant heroism. He wants to return home. He assumes there has been a mistake. That response helps ground the movie, because Alex is not a prepackaged action hero. He is a teenager who has dreamed of escaping his circumstances but has never seriously considered the sacrifices that escape might require. It is easy to want a more exciting future when it is only an idea. It is harder when that future involves leaving your family, crossing the galaxy, and possibly dying in a war you barely understand.

Lance Guest gives Alex enough insecurity and frustration to make his eventual growth satisfying. Alex can be impatient and occasionally self-centered, but he never comes across as unlikable. He feels trapped, and the film makes that frustration understandable. His conflict is not simply whether he can destroy enemy ships; it is whether he can accept that he deserves a larger destiny than the one he has assumed is available to him. By the time he decides to fight, he has moved beyond wanting adventure as an escape. He has chosen to take responsibility for something greater than himself.

Catherine Mary Stewart is also appealing as Maggie Gordon, Alex’s girlfriend. Maggie is not given an enormous amount to do, but she has more personality than the standard passive romantic interest in many 1980s adventure films. She cares deeply about Alex, yet she also has every reason to be hurt and confused when he suddenly disappears and begins acting strangely. Her scenes with Beta Alex, the android duplicate sent to take Alex’s place on Earth, provide some of the movie’s most amusing moments. Beta Alex looks exactly like him, but his behavior is just strange enough to create an entertaining mixture of comedy and unease.

The Beta Alex subplot is one of the film’s cleverest touches because it allows the story to explore Alex’s absence without simply abandoning the Earthbound characters. Beta Alex is a convincing physical duplicate, but he cannot quite replicate the nuances of being human. His overly literal responses, awkward attempts at social interaction, and bizarre behavior around Maggie make him a memorable comic creation. The device also reinforces the contrast between Alex’s old life and the extraordinary new situation he has been pulled into. While the real Alex is in space facing a galactic conflict, the people at home are left trying to make sense of a version of him that seems familiar but fundamentally wrong.

Robert Preston’s performance gives the entire movie energy whenever Centauri appears. He could easily have become an irritating eccentric, but Preston makes him funny, charismatic, and unexpectedly warm. Centauri sees Alex’s potential before Alex sees it himself. Beneath the fast talking and theatrical mannerisms is a real belief in the people he recruits. He does not merely need another pilot; he genuinely wants Alex to become the person he is capable of being. Preston’s presence adds an old-fashioned show-business charm to a film otherwise built around futuristic hardware and computer-generated spacecraft.

Dan O’Herlihy is equally important as Grig, the reptilian alien navigator assigned to work with Alex. Grig initially seems like the typical stern mentor figure, but he gradually becomes one of the movie’s most likable characters. He has experience, discipline, and a personal history with the war that gives the conflict some added seriousness. His partnership with Alex works because they begin from very different places. Grig is a hardened veteran who has seen the cost of battle, while Alex is an overwhelmed rookie who still wants to go home. As they learn to trust each other, their relationship becomes the heart of the space-adventure material.

The villains are broad but effective. Xur and the Kodan Armada are not psychologically complex antagonists, yet the movie does not need them to be. Their purpose is to represent a threat large enough to force Alex into a defining choice. Xur’s willingness to betray the Star League and sacrifice innocent lives for power makes him an appropriately clear villain for this kind of adventure. The conflict is straightforward: a small group of defenders must stand against an overwhelming enemy force, and Alex must decide whether he will be one of those defenders.

The visual effects are perhaps the most historically fascinating part of The Last Starfighter. The film was an early showcase for computer-generated imagery, using digital effects for its spacecraft, alien environments, and space-combat sequences. At the time, this was revolutionary. Seen today, the visual effects are obviously dated. The ships have a smooth, artificial quality, the textures are basic, and the movement lacks the weight and complexity audiences expect from modern computer animation. Yet there is still something charming about them. They represent a major transitional period in science-fiction filmmaking, when filmmakers were beginning to discover what computers could do for cinematic spectacle.

The early CGI gives the movie a distinctive visual identity rather than simply making it look obsolete. The Gunstar fighter, the Kodan fleet, and the distant alien landscapes have the clean, geometric appearance of an advanced arcade game brought to life. That is fitting for a story about a teenager whose gaming skills translate into real combat ability. The computer-generated imagery may not have the tactile realism of the practical miniature work seen in films such as Star Wars or Blade Runner, but it has an important place in the history of visual effects. The movie was imagining a future that the technology of its day could only partially create, and that ambition remains visible in every digital battle.

The Gunstar itself is a memorable piece of science-fiction design. It looks futuristic while still retaining the simplicity of a classic arcade spaceship, and the cockpit scenes effectively sell the sensation of Alex being thrown into something far beyond his experience. The climactic use of the “Death Blossom” maneuver is especially satisfying because the film treats it as a genuine last resort. It is the cinematic equivalent of unleashing a devastating power-up at the exact moment an arcade game seems impossible to win. The sequence is flashy, uncomplicated, and immensely fun.

What makes The Last Starfighter last is not its special effects alone, nor is it just nostalgia for the arcade era. The movie works because it is fundamentally optimistic. It believes that potential can emerge from unlikely places and that someone who feels ignored, trapped, or underestimated may still possess the ability to do something remarkable. Alex is not chosen because he is already fearless. He becomes heroic because he eventually chooses to act despite being afraid.

The film is not perfect. Its dialogue can be cheesy, some characters are thinly developed, and the dated effects may be difficult for viewers accustomed to modern CGI. Even so, those imperfections are part of its charm. The Last Starfighter is colorful, sincere, and unashamedly enthusiastic about its own premise. It remains a lovable science-fiction adventure because it takes the dreams of a video-game-playing teenager seriously. It asks viewers to imagine that the skill everyone dismisses, the hobby that feels like an escape from ordinary life, might actually be the first sign that they are capable of something far greater.

I Watched Raygun: Breaking Badly (2026, Dir. by Chapman Way and Maclain Way)

Posted on September 7, 2026 by Dazzling Erin

In 2024, Rachael Gunn (a.k.a. Raygun) became a celebrity when she represented Australia in Olympic breakdancing.

It wasn’t the good kind of celebrity, though. Instead, she became famous for being ridiculed. She competed in three different battles before getting eliminated, and not a single judge voted her the winner in any of them. In her final Olympic performance, she pretended to be a kangaroo and then a sprinkler. She became an instant internet meme. At first, it was just people laughing. Then, as always happens online, things got worse. She was accused of cheating her way to the Olympics and of having privilege.

Breaking Badly, a new documentary on Netflix, is all about Raygun. It features interviews with her and her husband. They try to explain the logic behind Raygun’s performance and how she was trying to honor Australia. Raygun’s husband comes across as the sweetest guy, and it’s touching to see how much he still believes in both her and her talent. Raygun says she’s made peace with her fame and that she loves that people are still imitating her moves. A few people talk about how bad the performance was, but they all agree she was treated horribly online.

Back in 2024, I felt sorry for her when everyone was making fun of her. The documentary showed some of the worst of what people said about her, and I felt sorry for her all over again. At the same time, she knew the whole world was watching when she went out there and pretended to be a kangaroo. Raygun acts as if she had no idea that social media could be cruel. The documentary doesn’t address the real reason why Raygun started trending on Twitter. It wasn’t that she did the kangaroo and the sprinkler. It was because she was just a really, really bad breakdancer. She was outclassed by the competition, and she clearly didn’t belong among the best breakdancers in the world. The documentary acts as if Raygun was just made fun of because her routine was strange. She could have gotten away with being strange if she wasn’t so stiff and awkward in her movements.

I’m glad the documentary cleared up a few things. Raygun was legitimately picked for the Olympics. (Australia didn’t have many options to choose from when it came to breaking.) Her husband did not rig the selection process, no matter what everyone on TikTok, Instagram, and Twitter claimed. She did her best, and her best just wasn’t very good.

I had totally forgotten about Raygun’s performance until I watched this documentary. I think almost everyone else had forgotten about it too. The documentary ends with a bunch of people talking about how inspiring Raygun is. I don’t know if I believe all that, but I’m glad she seems to be in a better place.

I Rewatched A League Of Their Own (1992, Dir. by Penny Marshall)

Posted on September 7, 2026 by Dazzling Erin

Last night, I saw that A League of Their Own was on Netflix. I tried to get my sister to watch it with me, but she just told me that she liked the high ones and called me a nag. (It makes sense if you’ve seen the movie.) So I rewatched it by myself and cried all over again.

In case you’re one of the two people who haven’t heard of this movie, A League of Their Own takes place during World War II. With professional baseball players either enlisting or getting drafted, people worry there might not be another season of baseball until the war ends. Candy-bar manufacturer Walter Harvey (played by director Penny Marshall’s brother, Garry) creates the All-American Girls Professional Baseball League, with the requirement that the players not only know how to handle a bat but also look good in the impractical short skirts he expects them to wear while sliding into home. The movie follows the first season of the Rockford Peaches. Geena Davis plays Dottie, the catcher whose husband is serving overseas. Lori Petty plays Kit, the pitcher who struggles to hit high fastballs and who is also Dottie’s sister. Rosie O’Donnell and Madonna play two players from New York. Tom Hanks is Jimmy, the alcoholic former player turned manager who says, “There’s no crying in baseball!”

It may be heresy to admit it, but A League of Their Own is not my favorite baseball movie. (That would be Major League.) Most of the actresses, especially Geena Davis, are convincing as baseball players, and I love that the movie shone a light on the real-life AAGPBL. (Sixty former AAGPBL players appear in the movie.) But as a baseball fan, it’s always bothered me that the movie doesn’t really examine any of their games in depth. We know that Dottie is a good catcher, that Kit is a good pitcher, that Madonna can catch a baseball in her hat, and that Evelyn (Bitty Schram) cries when she gets yelled at, but we don’t learn much about the other players on the team and what they’re good at. The Peaches win games, but I would have liked to see more of how they won.

I still love A League of Their Own, though. The bonding between the players gets to me. They’re all from different parts of the country. Some of them are married and some of them are definitely single. But from the minute they’re selected to play in the AAGPBL, they form a family of their own. When one of them reveals that she’s never learned how to read, the players teach her. When Evelyn needs to bring her bratty problem child on the road, the team looks after him. When Jimmy makes Evelyn cry, the team rallies around Evelyn. Everyone remembers Jimmy saying there’s no crying in baseball, but they forget he got kicked out of the game afterward. (Jimmy eventually becomes a better coach.) When one player gets the telegram that her husband has been killed in the war, everyone cries. In the film’s epilogue, Evelyn’s son says that she was never happier than when she was playing for the Peaches, and I can understand why. The heart of the film is the relationship between Dottie and Kit. Even though you can guess from the start that Kit and Dottie are eventually going to end up on different teams and face each other in the big game, it’s still an emotional moment when they find themselves on opposite sides of the plate.

A League of Their Own is on Netflix, so watch it if you haven’t seen it before. Or, if you’re like me, rewatch it and try not to cry all over again when the former players reunite at the Baseball Hall of Fame. Hurry up, though. It’s leaving on September 30th.

Guilty Pleasure No. 129: Congo (dir. by Frank Marshall)

Posted on September 5, 2026 by Arleigh

Congo is the kind of movie that makes perfect sense as a guilty pleasure because it is always hovering just above the level of complete nonsense, yet it has enough energy and conviction to remain enormously watchable. Directed by Frank Marshall, the 1995 film turns Michael Crichton’s jungle-thriller premise into a sprawling mixture of monster movie, treasure hunt, corporate conspiracy, technological anxiety, and old-fashioned adventure serial. It is loud, messy, often ridiculous, and loaded with moments that should not work at all. But that is the pleasure of Congo: it commits so completely to its bizarre material that the movie becomes difficult to dislike.

The setup is wonderfully overstuffed. A corporate expedition disappears while searching for a legendary diamond mine in the Congo, apparently after encountering some mysterious, deadly force. At the same time, primatologist Peter Elliot is preparing to return Amy, a gorilla he has raised and taught sign language, to the wild. Amy has recurring dreams—or perhaps memories—of a strange jungle city, and she communicates through a glove that translates her signs into a robotic voice. Before long, Peter, Amy, corporate representative Karen Ross, Romanian explorer Herkermer Homolka, and a mercenary guide named Captain Munro Kelly are all headed toward the same lost city, where diamonds, ancient ruins, and murderous white gorillas await.

That synopsis alone explains why Congo has developed such a devoted guilty-pleasure reputation. It is a movie where satellites, laser weapons, genetically engineered guard apes, corporate greed, sign-language research, volcanoes, and ancient African mythology all exist in the same story without anyone pausing to question the sheer overload of it. The movie treats every development with sincere urgency, even when the audience is watching Amy the gorilla say “Amy good gorilla” through a computerized voice device. It is impossible not to admire the confidence. Congo never winks at the audience, never admits that its premise is wild, and never cuts itself down to a more manageable size. It simply keeps adding more adventure-movie ingredients until the whole thing becomes strangely hypnotic.

Laura Linney’s Karen Ross and Dylan Walsh’s Peter Elliot are meant to anchor all of that craziness, but they are also among the film’s blandest elements. Linney is a talented actress, and she brings a professional focus to Karen’s corporate mission, but the character is written in such functional terms that she rarely feels like more than the person carrying the plot’s technological and business-related exposition. Karen is competent, determined, and occasionally vulnerable, but she never develops a particularly distinctive personality. Linney plays her with a seriousness that fits the film’s overall tone, yet that seriousness can make her feel oddly distant. She is there to make sure the satellite plot, the diamond plot, and the rescue plot keep moving, rather than to provide much spark on her own.

Walsh has an even tougher assignment as Peter. He is essentially the emotional center of Amy’s story, and the film needs the audience to believe in his paternal, almost codependent relationship with her. But Peter is such a mild, generic protagonist that he often gets swallowed by the movie’s more eccentric ideas. Walsh is not bad, exactly; he is simply too subdued for a film filled with volcanic eruptions, killer gorillas, and Tim Curry speaking every line as though he is announcing the end of civilization. His performance has a sincere gentleness that helps the scenes with Amy, but it also makes him feel like he wandered in from a quieter, more conventional family adventure. When the movie becomes bigger and stranger, Peter’s personality does not expand with it.

That blandness becomes especially noticeable because Ernie Hudson and Tim Curry are having such an obviously fantastic time in their roles. Hudson plays Captain Munro Kelly with the relaxed confidence of someone who knows he is the coolest person in the room. Munro is a professional guide, a fighter, a pilot, and a survivor, but Hudson does not turn him into a grim action-movie cliché. He gives the character humor, charisma, and a reassuring calm under pressure. Whenever the group faces another disaster—whether it is hostile terrain, dangerous animals, mercenaries, or the increasingly unhinged situation inside the lost city—Hudson makes Munro feel like the one person who might actually know what he is doing.

Hudson’s performance also gives Congo a sense of fun that the central characters sometimes lack. He has an easy screen presence, and he seems to understand that the film works best when it leans into the pleasures of a grand, pulpy adventure. Munro is not a particularly deep character, but Hudson makes him memorable through timing, attitude, and sheer likability. The movie becomes livelier whenever he takes charge, whether he is negotiating with people in the field or calmly reacting to another completely absurd revelation. If Karen and Peter are the story’s functional leads, Munro is the character who gives the audience someone to enjoy following.

Then there is Tim Curry as Herkermer Homolka, who delivers what can only be described as a masterclass in hammy, scenery-chewing entertainment. Curry does not merely play Homolka; he devours the role with a kind of operatic enthusiasm. Every line is delivered in his grand Romanian accent with the force of a proclamation, and every gesture suggests that Homolka believes he is the hero of the greatest expedition in history. Curry appears to be enjoying himself so much that it becomes infectious. He is not interested in realism, restraint, or subtle characterization. He is there to make every scene larger, louder, and more theatrical.

Homolka is already a ridiculous figure on the page: a pompous explorer with a famous family name, an exaggerated ego, and a dramatic flair that makes him seem less like a real adventurer than a flamboyant villain from a lost serial. Curry recognizes that the only correct way to play him is at maximum volume. His performance turns every bit of dialogue into an event. He gives the impression that he has spent years preparing speeches for this exact jungle expedition, waiting for the chance to announce his discoveries to the world. Even when Homolka is making selfish or foolish decisions, Curry makes him too entertaining to hate.

The contrast between Curry and the more restrained leads is one of the reasons Congo feels so odd. Linney and Walsh approach the material with a level of seriousness that suggests they are trying to preserve some emotional credibility. Hudson and Curry, by contrast, seem to recognize that credibility is not really the point. Hudson brings a cool, knowing charm, while Curry turns the movie into a one-man theatrical spectacle whenever he appears. Neither approach is necessarily wrong, but the difference creates a tonal imbalance. The film’s heroes feel flat because its supporting players are so much more alive.

The killer gorillas, of course, are another major source of the film’s guilty-pleasure appeal. These are not normal gorillas defending their territory. They are pale, vicious creatures bred to protect the diamond city of Zinj, and they attack with the exaggerated menace of monsters in a haunted-house ride. The effects have not aged gracefully. The suits and animatronics are visible, the movements can be stiff, and the creatures are often more amusing than frightening. Yet they remain memorable because the movie gives them a distinct, nightmarish look: white fur, glowing eyes, sharp teeth, and sudden appearances from dark corridors or jungle fog.

Frank Marshall directs the action with enough pace and polish to keep Congo from collapsing under the weight of its own silliness. The jungle setting, the ruined city, the expedition equipment, the satellite imagery, and the volcanic finale all give the movie a bigger sense of scale than its reputation might suggest. It feels like a genuine studio blockbuster from a time when Hollywood would spend serious money on an unapologetically strange idea. The film is not elegant, and it is certainly not believable, but it is never boring for long.

As a conventional adventure movie, Congo is uneven. Its African setting is often treated as a vague, dangerous backdrop, and its plot is overloaded with enough corporate jargon and techno-babble to distract from the more entertaining monster-movie material. But as a guilty pleasure, it is hard to beat. The movie is too bizarre to be generic and too sincere to feel cynical. Laura Linney and Dylan Walsh may be stuck playing bland characters at the center of the chaos, but Ernie Hudson and especially Tim Curry make the journey worth taking. Curry’s performance alone is a treasure: a joyous, magnificent display of overacting that turns Congo from a merely strange blockbuster into something genuinely unforgettable.

Previous Guilty Pleasures

The Transformers: The Movie (dir. by Nelson Shin) Review

Posted on August 27, 2026 by Arleigh

“Such heroic nonsense.” — Megatron

The Transformers: The Movie from 1986 was a must-see for me as a 13-year-old boy, but the anticipation of watching it and the actual experience were two entirely different things. The former was filled with excitement, the kind that comes from counting down the days until you finally get to see your favorite characters on the big screen. The latter, however, was something else entirely—a scarring moment that taught me, in the final year before entering high school, that not even afternoon cartoon characters were exempt from onscreen deaths. It was a harsh lesson in the unpredictability of storytelling, and it left an impression that has lasted a lifetime. And I wasn’t alone. The film shocked and scarred millions of children who flocked to theaters or gathered around their VHS players, expecting their beloved Transformers cartoon to simply be bigger and louder on the big screen. Instead, they were met with the brutal, unforgiving reality of watching their favorite characters die in battle, one after another.

The film was released during the height of Transformers mania in the mid-1980s, a time when the toy aisle was dominated by Hasbro’s robotic heroes and villains. But here’s the thing: The Transformers: The Movie wasn’t just about selling toys—it was about replacing them. Hasbro had a new line of Transformers ready to hit the shelves, and the movie served as a way to phase out the older generation of characters. The result? A shockingly brutal narrative that saw many fan-favorite characters meet their end in ways that were far removed from the relatively tame Transformers TV series. This wasn’t just a Saturday morning cartoon stretched to feature length; it was a full-blown sci-fi epic with stakes that felt real, and consequences that were permanent. For kids like me, who grew up watching the TV show, the film was a jarring wake-up call. The deaths of major characters like Ironhide, Prowl, and even Optimus Prime himself were not just unexpected—they were traumatic. It’s no exaggeration to say that The Transformers: The Movie left an entire generation of children with lasting emotional scars, all because it refused to sugarcoat the cost of war.

And yet, that’s exactly why it worked. The film’s willingness to go dark and take risks is what set it apart from so much of the animated fare of the era. The story picks up in the year 2005, with the Autobots and Decepticons still locked in their eternal struggle. The Decepticons, led by the ever-scheming Megatron, launch a full-scale assault on Autobot City on Earth, and the battle that follows is one of the most intense and visually stunning sequences in the film. The animation, while a product of its time, holds up surprisingly well, with vibrant colors and dynamic action that still feels exciting today. But what really sticks with you is the emotional weight of the story. The film doesn’t shy away from showing the cost of war, and the loss of life—even for animated robots—feels genuine. It’s a far cry from the often lighthearted and episodic nature of the TV series, and that contrast is part of what makes the movie so memorable.

At the heart of the film’s emotional impact is Peter Cullen’s iconic performance as Optimus Prime. Cullen’s voice work in the Transformers TV series had already made Optimus Prime a beloved figure, but in the movie, his role takes on an even greater significance. Though his screen time is brief, Cullen’s delivery of Optimus’s final words—“Until that day, ‘till all are one”—is nothing short of legendary. It’s a moment that has been etched into the minds of fans for decades, a testament to Cullen’s ability to convey both strength and vulnerability in a single line. Even now, nearly 40 years later, that scene remains one of the most powerful in the entire Transformers franchise. Cullen’s work helped elevate Optimus Prime from a toy commercial mascot to a genuine hero, and his influence can still be felt in every iteration of the character that has followed.

The film’s legacy is a fascinating study in how a movie can transcend its origins. On paper, The Transformers: The Movie was a 90-minute commercial designed to sell a new wave of toys. But in practice, it became something much more. The bold storytelling choices, the emotional depth, and the sheer audacity of killing off major characters in a children’s animated film ensured that it would be remembered long after the toys it was promoting had been forgotten. For the kids who saw it in theaters or on VHS, the film was often their first exposure to the idea that stories could have real consequences, and that heroes didn’t always make it out alive. It was a formative experience, one that left a lasting impression and helped shape the way a generation of fans engaged with media.

Of course, the film isn’t without its flaws. The pacing can feel uneven at times, and some of the new characters introduced in the movie—like the Dinobots and the Junkions—don’t get as much development as they deserve. The humor, while present, sometimes feels out of place amidst the darker tones of the story. But these quibbles do little to detract from the overall impact of the film. The Transformers: The Movie is a product of its time, but it’s also timeless in the way it handles its themes of sacrifice, leadership, and the cost of war. It’s a film that refuses to be pigeonholed as just a kids’ movie, and that’s part of its enduring appeal.

Today, The Transformers: The Movie holds a special place in the hearts of those who grew up with it. It’s a cult classic, a film that’s celebrated as much for its flaws as for its strengths. For many adults, revisiting the movie is like opening a time capsule, a chance to reconnect with the wide-eyed child they once were, the one who sat in front of the TV or the big screen, completely unprepared for the emotional rollercoaster they were about to experience. The film’s legacy is a testament to the power of storytelling, and to the idea that even something as seemingly commercial as a toy-based animated movie can leave a lasting impact. Whether you’re a lifelong Transformers fan or just someone who appreciates a good underdog story, The Transformers: The Movie is a film that’s well worth revisiting. Just be prepared for a few emotional gut punches along the way.

Scene That I Love: The End of the World from Lars Von Trier’s Melancholia

Posted on August 27, 2026 by Lisa Marie Bowman

Today’s scene that I love comes from Lars Von Trier’s Melancholia. Von Trier is always going to be controversial filmmaker but no one has ever matched his brilliance when it came to capturing the end of existence.

In Melancholia, a depressed woman (played in a revelatory performance by Kristen Dunst) finds unexpected strength in the end of the world. As can be seen in the scene below, it’s a beautifully sad film, one that ends on a note of triumphant apocalypse:

Review: Legend (dir. by Ridley Scott)

Posted on August 26, 2026 by Arleigh

“What is light without dark? What are you without me? I am a part of you all. You can never defeat me. We are brothers eternal!” — Darkness

Legend is one of those films that feels like it should be a masterpiece even before it begins. It has Ridley Scott behind the camera, an extravagant fantasy premise, elaborate practical effects, striking production design, and a cast that includes a young Tom Cruise, Mia Sara, and Tim Curry. Released in 1985, the film arrived as a dark fantasy event that had been heavily anticipated, especially because Scott had already earned a reputation for visually stunning films. Alien and Blade Runner had established him as a director who could make entire worlds feel tactile, mysterious, and overwhelming. The idea of Scott applying that sensibility to unicorns, goblins, forest sprites, demonic lords, and fairy-tale mythology was exciting on paper. Unfortunately, while Legend is often gorgeous to look at, it becomes an uneven mess that is only saved from becoming a major disappointment by Tim Curry’s performance as Darkness.

The setup is familiar enough to sound almost deliberately archetypal. In a magical forest, Jack, played by Cruise, is a woodland boy who lives in harmony with nature and has fallen in love with the innocent Princess Lili, played by Sara. The world’s balance is tied to a pair of unicorns, embodiments of purity and light. Darkness, a devil-like ruler who wishes to plunge the world into permanent night, sends his goblin servants to kill the unicorns and take one of their horns. Lili’s fascination with the unicorns sets the tragedy in motion, and once one of the creatures is slain, winter and darkness descend upon the land. Jack must rescue Lili, restore the horn, defeat Darkness, and return light to the world.

There is nothing inherently wrong with a simple fairy-tale plot. In fact, Scott’s strongest instinct in Legend is treating fantasy with a sense of visual seriousness. The forest does not look like a clean studio set built for children; it looks damp, overgrown, foggy, and vaguely dangerous. The trees loom like ancient creatures, shafts of light break through the branches in painterly bursts, and even the beautiful areas of the film carry an eerie quality. Scott and cinematographer Alex Thomson create images that often resemble illustrated storybooks poisoned by a nightmare. The film’s environments are its greatest achievement. Whether it is the glowing forest, the icy wasteland after the unicorn’s death, or Darkness’ fire-lit underworld, Legend makes a serious effort to create a fully realized fantasy space rather than simply dressing actors in costumes and placing them in generic medieval scenery.

That visual commitment is why the film remains so fascinating despite its flaws. You can pause almost anywhere and find something worth admiring: a strange creature in the background, smoke drifting through a cavern, an enormous set textured with roots and stone, or a costume that looks handmade rather than mass-produced. Scott’s eye for atmosphere is undeniable. The film has an unusual physicality, too. Its magic is created through prosthetics, makeup, puppetry, matte work, and elaborate sets, so even when some effects have aged, they retain a handmade charm. Modern fantasy often has the advantage of digital flexibility, but Legend has the kind of tactile design that makes its world feel like it has dirt under its fingernails.

Still, visual beauty cannot completely compensate for a story that never finds a consistent rhythm. Legend often feels less like a fully developed narrative than a collection of spectacular images and half-formed fairy-tale ideas. Characters appear with little introduction, emotional shifts happen abruptly, and major story developments can feel rushed or strangely underexplained. The theatrical cut in particular carries the sense that important connective material has been removed. There are moments when the movie seems to expect emotional investment simply because the images are grand or the music swells, but the script has not done enough to earn that reaction.

Jack is also an unusually bland hero for a film that needs a strong center. Cruise was still early in his career, and there are flashes of the screen presence that would soon make him a major star. He is physically committed and looks believable racing through forests, climbing ruins, and confronting danger. But Jack is written as a generic pure-hearted fantasy protagonist, and Cruise never gets enough material to make him feel specific. He is brave because the story says he is brave, romantic because the story says he loves Lili, and destined to save the world because that is what these stories require. He does not have much inner conflict beyond the expected guilt and determination.

Lili is similarly underwritten, although Mia Sara does bring a dreamy, otherworldly quality to the role. The film wants her to embody innocence, temptation, and romantic idealism, but it does not give her much agency until she becomes corrupted by Darkness’ influence. Her transformation into a dark bride is visually memorable, especially in the elaborate black gown and makeup, but it also highlights the film’s habit of prioritizing imagery over character. The sequence is beautiful, eerie, and loaded with gothic fantasy appeal, yet Lili’s emotional journey into that role feels more decorative than dramatically convincing.

The supporting characters are more colorful but not always more useful. The dwarfs, elves, and forest companions give the story occasional energy, particularly the sarcastic fairy Oona and the armored dwarf Gump. Yet their presence can make the film feel tonally scattered. Sometimes Legend wants to be haunting and mythic; sometimes it wants broad comic relief; sometimes it drifts toward romantic melodrama. Those modes do not always blend. The result is a movie that can move from an ominous demonic ritual to a goofy side-character exchange without establishing a stable tone.

Then there is Tim Curry, who walks into the movie and immediately makes every other problem less important. His Darkness is one of the most iconic fantasy villains ever put on screen, and it is not difficult to understand why. The makeup design alone is astounding: massive horns, red skin, cloven hooves, muscular proportions, and a towering silhouette that makes him look like a medieval illustration of Satan brought to life. But the design would be nothing without Curry’s performance. He does not merely hide beneath the prosthetics; he gives Darkness a voice, posture, and seductive intelligence.

Curry plays Darkness as both monstrous and theatrical. His deep, measured delivery turns lines about night, desire, and evil into something genuinely alluring. He understands that the character should not simply roar or sneer. Darkness is persuasive. He offers Lili beauty, power, and escape from innocence, which makes him more interesting than a villain who only threatens destruction. His scenes with Sara have a strange, almost operatic energy, mixing horror, seduction, and camp in a way that fits the film’s most ambitious visual impulses. Curry makes Darkness feel ancient, vain, cruel, romantic, and weirdly funny all at once. He gives Legend its pulse.

The famous confrontation between Jack and Darkness should be the film’s crowning achievement, and visually it almost is. Darkness’ lair, lit by flames and surrounded by infernal architecture, gives Scott room to indulge his talent for monumental images. Curry’s villain towers over Cruise, making the hero look small and vulnerable. Yet even here, the fight is more memorable for its atmosphere than its dramatic construction. It is a good example of the whole film: rich in aesthetic invention, less persuasive as storytelling.

The music also reflects the movie’s fractured identity. Different versions of Legend are associated with different scores, most notably the Jerry Goldsmith score and the Tangerine Dream soundtrack used in the American theatrical release. The Goldsmith material feels more classically mythic and orchestral, while Tangerine Dream’s electronic music gives the film a distinctly 1980s dream-pop atmosphere. Both have their supporters, and both alter the experience considerably. That split feels appropriate for a movie that has always existed in multiple forms and competing moods. Legend is never quite one thing.

In the end, Legend is a flawed cult fantasy rather than a lost masterpiece. Its reputation rests largely on its imagery, its practical craftsmanship, and Curry’s towering performance, not on the strength of its plot or its emotional depth. Ridley Scott clearly wanted to make a dark fairy tale that felt ancient and sensual, but the finished film too often gets trapped between mythic grandeur, children’s fantasy, gothic romance, and broad adventure comedy. It is an uneven mess, but it is a beautiful one. And every time Tim Curry’s Darkness enters the frame, Legend briefly becomes the extraordinary film it was always trying to be.