Category Archives: Film Review

Review: Pale Rider (dir. by Clint Eastwood)

Posted on by Arleigh

“And I looked, and behold a pale horse. And his name that sat on him was Death. And Hell followed with him.” — Megan Wheeler

Clint Eastwood’s Pale Rider occupies a fascinating space within the Western genre—both a reverent homage to the traditions that shaped classic frontier storytelling and a quiet dismantling of the myths those stories often upheld. Released in 1985, the film arrived during a period when the Western had largely faded from mainstream prominence, regarded by many as a relic of an earlier cinematic era. Yet Eastwood, by then already firmly associated with the genre through his work in Sergio Leone’s Dollar Trilogy and films like High Plains Drifter and The Outlaw Josey Wales, proved that the Western still had room for reinvention. With Pale Rider, he crafted something that feels both deeply familiar and subtly haunting: a film that embraces the iconography of the Old West while draping it in an almost supernatural atmosphere, creating one of the most enigmatic and compelling entries in his directorial career.

In many ways, Pale Rider also feels like a spiritual successor—or even an unofficial companion piece—to High Plains Drifter. Both films center around a mysterious outsider who seemingly emerges from nowhere to confront a corrupt and morally rotten community. In both stories, Eastwood plays a figure who feels less like an ordinary man and more like an embodiment of vengeance itself, a ghostly gunslinger whose true nature is never fully explained. The similarities in narrative structure are impossible to ignore: isolated frontier settlements under siege, powerful men abusing authority, and Eastwood’s near-mythic drifter arriving as a reckoning for buried sins. But where High Plains Drifter leans into bitterness and outright surrealism, portraying the Old West as a place consumed by cruelty and hypocrisy, Pale Rider takes a more restrained and spiritual approach. The Preacher is still intimidating and otherworldly, but he possesses a moral center that the Stranger in High Plains Drifter deliberately lacked. It feels almost as if Eastwood revisited the earlier film’s core ideas over a decade later with greater maturity and reflection, transforming the wrathful ghost story of High Plains Drifter into something more meditative about redemption and justice.

On its surface, Pale Rider follows a relatively straightforward Western premise. A group of struggling gold prospectors in the mountains of California are being terrorized and pressured by a wealthy mining magnate, Coy LaHood, who seeks to drive them off their land so he can exploit the area’s resources for himself. Into this conflict rides a mysterious preacher, played by Eastwood, whose sudden appearance seems almost divinely summoned after a young girl prays for deliverance. This unnamed “Preacher” becomes the reluctant protector of the miners, standing against LaHood and the corrupt marshal Stockburn and his deputies. The bones of the story echo classic Western structures—outsiders defending vulnerable settlers from ruthless power—but Pale Rider imbues this framework with a somber, spiritual weight that elevates it beyond genre familiarity.

One of the film’s most striking strengths is Eastwood’s central performance. By this point in his career, Eastwood had perfected a specific screen persona: laconic, observant, physically economical, and quietly threatening. Yet the Preacher in Pale Rider may be one of his most mysterious variations on that archetype. Unlike the swaggering Man with No Name or even the wounded determination of Josey Wales, the Preacher seems almost detached from ordinary human concerns. His calm demeanor and sparse dialogue give him an ethereal quality, and Eastwood plays him with just enough warmth to avoid complete abstraction. There is kindness in his interactions with the miners, especially the young Megan Wheeler, but it always feels measured, as if the character is passing through rather than fully participating in the world around him. The film deliberately hints at something supernatural—his sudden arrival after prayer, his unexplained scars, his near spectral presence—and Eastwood wisely resists any definitive explanation. The ambiguity is what gives the character his power.

This supernatural undercurrent is central to what makes Pale Rider unique. The title itself references the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, specifically Death riding a pale horse, and the biblical symbolism permeates the film without overwhelming it. Eastwood uses religious imagery sparingly but effectively, allowing viewers to wonder whether the Preacher is simply a man with a violent past or something more symbolic: an agent of justice, vengeance, or divine reckoning. The film never commits fully to fantasy, but it constantly suggests that the Preacher exists somewhere between myth and mortal reality. This ambiguity transforms ordinary Western confrontations into something more unsettling and poetic.

Visually, Pale Rider is one of Eastwood’s most beautiful films. Shot by cinematographer Bruce Surtees, whose work with Eastwood had already become legendary, the film makes remarkable use of natural landscapes. The mountainous terrain, dense forests, and rugged mining camps provide a setting that feels less romanticized than the sweeping deserts often associated with traditional Westerns. There is a chill to the environment, both literal and emotional. The forests seem shadowed and secretive, and the mining settlements feel fragile, temporary, vulnerable to destruction. Surtees’ lighting contributes significantly to the film’s tone, bathing many scenes in muted, earthy colors and allowing darkness to linger at the edges of the frame. The result is a Western that often feels ghostly, as though the past itself is haunting every image.

Eastwood’s direction demonstrates his confidence and restraint. He avoids excessive spectacle, choosing instead to let tension build gradually through atmosphere, silence, and careful pacing. Action scenes are brief but impactful, and the violence carries genuine consequence. Unlike many earlier Westerns that glorified gunfights as heroic climaxes, Pale Rider treats violence as something grim and almost inevitable. When the Preacher finally unleashes his skills, it feels less like triumphant empowerment and more like a dark necessity. Eastwood understands that his character’s power is amplified by how sparingly he uses it.

Still, despite how effective the film is overall, Pale Rider is not without flaws. Some viewers may find the pacing overly deliberate, particularly in the middle section where the story spends considerable time with the miners and their daily struggles before major plot developments occur. Eastwood prioritizes mood and atmosphere over narrative momentum, which works artistically but can occasionally make the film feel slower than necessary. The supporting characters, while likable, are also somewhat thinly sketched compared to the larger thematic ideas surrounding them. Hull Barret, Sarah Wheeler, and several of the miners are defined more by their place within the story’s moral framework than by deeply layered characterization. They are ordinary people standing against corruption, but the script does not always give them enough individuality or complexity outside of that central conflict.

What ultimately compensates for this is the strength and sincerity of the performances themselves. Michael Moriarty gives Hull Barret a gentle awkwardness and vulnerability that make him feel genuinely human rather than simply “the good-hearted miner.” There is an understated sadness in the way Moriarty carries himself, as if Hull already expects to lose against forces larger than himself, which makes his gradual courage more affecting. Carrie Snodgress similarly brings warmth and grounded realism to Sarah Wheeler, helping the character feel emotionally authentic even when the screenplay does not explore her inner life in great detail. The miners as a collective also benefit from Eastwood’s direction, which emphasizes camaraderie and shared hardship through small interactions and visual storytelling rather than extensive dialogue or backstory.

In many respects, the relative simplicity of the supporting characters may even be intentional. Pale Rider operates less like a conventional ensemble drama and more like a mythic folk tale or ghost story, where ordinary people encounter a figure who seems larger than life. The miners are not meant to overshadow the Preacher’s mystery; they function as representatives of vulnerable frontier communities trapped between survival and exploitation. Their emotional straightforwardness creates a contrast with Eastwood’s enigmatic presence. Because the supporting cast plays these roles with sincerity and restraint rather than melodrama, the film avoids feeling emotionally hollow even when some characters are not deeply developed on the page. The performances ground the story just enough to keep the supernatural and allegorical elements emotionally believable.

The film’s thematic concerns are nevertheless surprisingly rich. At its heart, Pale Rider is a story about greed and resistance. Coy LaHood represents industrial expansion and unchecked capitalism, using wealth and intimidation to crush smaller, independent prospectors. The miners symbolize ordinary people fighting to preserve their livelihoods and dignity. This conflict gives the film a subtle populist edge, framing the Western frontier not merely as a site of adventure but as a battleground between concentrated power and communal perseverance. Eastwood does not overstate these themes, but they lend the story a resonance that extends beyond genre convention.

There is also an interesting undercurrent of moral ambiguity. The Preacher protects the innocent, but he is hardly a traditional moral hero. His past appears stained by violence, and the scars on his back suggest suffering, punishment, or perhaps sins that remain unresolved. The film implies that redemption may be possible, but only through confrontation with one’s own darkness. This is where Pale Rider aligns with Eastwood’s broader body of work, which often interrogates the mythology of masculine heroism. His protagonists are rarely clean symbols of virtue; they are damaged, haunted men whose capacity for violence complicates their acts of justice.

Richard Dysart makes Coy LaHood more than a simple villain, imbuing him with entitlement and cold pragmatism rather than cartoonish cruelty. But perhaps most memorable among the antagonists is John Russell as Marshal Stockburn, whose quiet menace and personal history with the Preacher add another layer of mystery and inevitability to the film’s final act. Stockburn in particular feels almost like a mirror image of the Preacher himself—another ghost from a violent past returning for unfinished business.

What makes Pale Rider endure is its ability to function on multiple levels simultaneously. It works perfectly well as a classic Western, complete with horseback arrivals, frontier justice, and dramatic showdowns. It also succeeds as a meditation on mortality, redemption, and the fading mythology of the American frontier. Eastwood understands the genre deeply enough to honor its traditions while gently questioning them. The Preacher is both an embodiment of the old Western hero and a ghostly reminder that such heroes may never have truly existed outside of legend.

In many ways, Pale Rider feels like a bridge between Eastwood’s earlier Westerns and the more explicit deconstruction he would later achieve with Unforgiven. Where Unforgiven strips away nearly all romanticism, Pale Rider still allows for mystery and myth, but it tempers them with melancholy and introspection. It recognizes the allure of the gunslinger while quietly suggesting that such figures are often defined by pain and isolation.

Nearly four decades after its release, Pale Rider remains one of Clint Eastwood’s most compelling achievements, both as actor and director. It is a Western that understands the power of silence, shadow, and suggestion. It trusts its audience to sit with uncertainty and to appreciate heroism that comes wrapped in ambiguity. More than just a revival of a fading genre, it is a thoughtful and atmospheric meditation on justice, violence, and the strange figures we summon when ordinary courage is no longer enough. In the vast landscape of Eastwood’s Western legacy, Pale Rider stands as one of his most haunting and quietly profound works.

Brad takes on THE WHITE BUFFALO (1977), starring Charles Bronson and Will Sampson!

Posted on by Bradley Crain

Charles Bronson as Wild Bill Hickok

Back in 2023, my family visited the Black Hills of South Dakota. The first thing we did was visit Mount Rushmore. The second thing we did was visit the Mount Moriah Cemetery and the final resting place of Wild Bill Hickok. Situated on the top of a hill overlooking the city of Deadwood, it’s a beautiful place that also includes the graves of Calamity Jane and Sheriff Seth Bullock. I insisted that we see the location for possibly the most superficial reason possible… because Charles Bronson played Hickok in THE WHITE BUFFALO.

Based on a novel by Richard Sale, the story opens with Hickok having a recurring nightmare of a snowy showdown with a giant white “spike.” And if he has pistols handy, he wakes up firing them uncontrollably and you’d better not be nearby. Determined to face his fear, he heads out into the hills with his friend Charlie Zane (Jack Warden), hoping to find the albino buffalo, so he can put him down and end the nightmares. Around the same time, the great beast has stampeded the camp of Crazy Horse (Will Sampson) killing his child in the process. Convinced that the child cannot have peace in the afterlife, Crazy Horse sets out to kill the buffalo so he can wrap his child in its white “robe” and free her spirit. With Hickok a prolific killer of Indians, and Crazy Horse a brave Lakota Oglala warrior, the two men seem to be on a deadly collision course in those snowy hills.

Charles Bronson’s final western, THE WHITE BUFFALO has a lot of the scenes you’d expect. With Bronson playing a famous gunman, we get to see several gunfights as he makes his way through various Wyoming towns, featuring well-known actors like Clint Walker and Ed Lauter. We also get to see him visit various saloons, as well as the widow Schermerhorn, played by Kim Novak. When he really “knew” her, she was a prostitute named Poker Jenny. Along with those I’ve already mentioned, it’s an all-star affair as we see such familiar faces as Stuart Whitman, John Carradine, Slim Pickens, and even a young Martin Kove sprinkled throughout the film. And of course, we get to see Bronson take on the gigantic white buffalo of the title, first in his dreams, and then later in reality! Directed by veteran filmmaker J. Lee Thompson, these scenes are staged and executed well, with Hickok’s nightmares given an especially eerie quality.

Will Sampson as Crazy Horse

While the movie has the expected scenes, it’s the unexpected character moments that sets THE WHITE BUFFALO apart as a uniquely strong entry in Bronson’s filmography. Hickok may be a man haunted by dreams of a monstrous white buffalo, but Bronson plays him in such a way that we can feel his exhaustion and literal sickness from too many years of a dangerous and difficult life. The buffalo is more than just an animal… it’s a symbol of guilt, fear and the coming of death itself. Bronson could always underplay a role better than just about anyone else, but here he’s reflective and haunted in way that I’ve not seen before, and he’s really good.

I also think the movie gets better every time Bronson shares a scene with Will Sampson. Sampson brings dignity and intelligence to Crazy Horse. His mission is more noble than Hickok’s, and an unexpected friendship develops between the two men, despite their vast differences. Ultimately, it’s this relationship that provides the film an emotional weight that sneaks up on you by the end, even if it’s not meant to last.

THE WHITE BUFFALO is not a perfect film. The animatronic buffalo may look a little hokey, and the film may seem a little slow at times for those expecting an action-packed western or monster movie. However, Bronson and Sampson are so good in their myth-making performances that the film eventually becomes something more. It’s the idea of watching two aging warriors, bound together through the bravery of confronting death, that I found to be more interesting and compelling than anything else on display.

THE WHITE BUFFALO is currently streaming on Amazon Prime, Tubi, PlutoTV, and The Roku Channel.

Wild Bill Hickok’s gravesite in Mount Moriah Cemetery in Deadwood, South Dakota

Review: Observe and Report (dir. by Jody Hill)

Posted on by Arleigh

“I’m not a good person. I’m not a bad person. I’m just not a person that things happen to.” — Ronnie Barnhardt

There’s a specific kind of whiplash that comes from watching Observe & Report, Jody Hill’s 2009 dark comedy about a bipolar mall cop named Ronnie Barnhardt. On its surface, the film invites comparisons to Paul Blart: Mall Cop, which came out the same year, but that’s like comparing a punch to the gut with a tickle fight. Where Paul Blart plays it safe with slapstick and heart, Observe & Report dives headfirst into uncomfortable, ugly, and strangely profound territory. This is not a movie for everyone, and that’s precisely why it has earned a cult following over the years. It’s a film that hides a serious character study inside a dirty joke, and depending on your mood, it’s either a misunderstood masterpiece or a mean-spirited mess. Honestly, it’s a bit of both.

The plot, such as it is, follows Ronnie (played with terrifying commitment by Seth Rogen), the head security guard at the Forest Ridge Mall. Ronnie sees himself as a warrior-poet of law enforcement, constantly vying for the respect he feels he deserves from the local police, specifically the smug Detective Harrison (Ray Liotta). When a flasher starts terrorizing the mall, Ronnie sees his chance to prove his worth. But the film is less about catching the pervert and more about Ronnie’s slow, volatile unraveling. He pops antipsychotic meds, lives with his alcoholic mother (Celia Weston), and harbors a delusional crush on a makeup counter girl named Brandi (Anna Faris), who is openly using him. It’s a recipe for a tragedy, but Hill frames it as a comedy so deadpan and abrasive that you’re never quite sure when you’re allowed to laugh.

Let’s talk about performance, because Rogen does something here that he’s rarely done before or since. He sheds the lovable stoner schtick entirely. Ronnie is not charming. He’s awkward, prone to violent outbursts, and genuinely frightening in his conviction. When he goes off his medication, the film shifts from quirky indie comedy to something closer to Taxi Driver. Rogen plays Ronnie with a straight-backed, chest-out posture that suggests a man holding himself together with duct tape and delusion. There’s a scene where he interrogates a group of teenagers—pulling one kid’s pants down and pepper-spraying another—that is so uncomfortably realistic in its abuse of authority that you might wince instead of chuckle. That’s the point. Hill isn’t interested in making Ronnie a hero. He’s interested in the gap between how Ronnie sees himself (a lone crusader for justice) and how the world sees him (a dangerous liability).

The supporting cast deserves a shout-out here. Anna Faris is pitch-perfect as Brandi, a shallow, cocaine-snorting mess who treats Ronnie’s affection as a minor inconvenience. She never plays for sympathy, which makes her character brutally honest. And it’s in her most uncomfortable scene with Ronnie that the film’s entire thesis snaps into focus. Without spoiling exactly what happens, Brandi invites Ronnie to her apartment after a long night of drinking and using. For a brief, hopeful moment, the film seems to be offering him a genuine connection. But Brandi is too self-absorbed to notice Ronnie’s desperate, medication-starved sincerity, and Ronnie himself misreads every signal she doesn’t bother to send. What unfolds is a hollow, mechanical act that Ronnie mistakes for intimacy and Brandi barely registers as an inconvenience. The scene is shot flatly—no music, no punchline, just the awful silence of two broken people failing to see each other. Ronnie sees a fantasy of Brandi that doesn’t exist. Brandi sees a tool she can use and discard. It’s a car crash you know you shouldn’t slow down for, but you do anyway, and when you get close enough to see the human damage, the film refuses to let you look away. That moment is emblematic of Observe & Report as a whole: it dares you to laugh, then makes you feel gross for even considering it. Most dark comedies use shock for a quick gag. Hill uses it as a mirror.

Michael Peña shows up as Ronnie’s loyal but dim partner Dennis, providing the film’s few genuine moments of warmth. And then there’s Ray Liotta, practically playing a parody of his Goodfellas persona, but in a way that underscores the film’s central irony: the real cops are just as arrogant and flawed as Ronnie, but they have badges, so it’s allowed. Liotta’s Detective Harrison isn’t a hero; he’s just a bully with better legal standing.

From a craft perspective, Observe & Report is deceptively smart. Jody Hill, who came from the brilliant but uncomfortable HBO show Eastbound & Down, directs with a strange kind of sincerity. The mall is shot like a battlefield or a Western town, all wide angles and lonely corridors. There’s a scene where Ronnie imagines a slow-motion shootout set to a cover of “Rocket Man,” and it’s both hilarious and deeply sad. Hill uses music ironically but not cruelly. The film’s climax, which I won’t spoil, involves a literal parking lot confrontation that descends into shocking, bloody violence—and then immediately undercuts it with a joke so tasteless it almost works as social commentary. This is where the film splits audiences. Some see a juvenile attempt to shock. Others see a pointed satire of vigilantism and the American male ego.

The biggest critique of Observe & Report is its tonal chaos. The movie can’t decide if you’re supposed to laugh at Ronnie’s mental illness or cry for him. In one scene, he’s horrifically mean to a genuinely kind love interest (played by Collette Wolfe). In the next, he’s delivering a surprisingly vulnerable monologue about being a “security guard for his own heart.” The Brandi apartment scene sits right at the center of this chaos, a perfect little engine of discomfort that powers everything around it. If you walk in expecting a stoner comedy, that scene will leave you unsettled. If you walk in expecting a gritty character study, the dick jokes and mall-cop absurdity surrounding it will feel out of place. That’s the point. The film deliberately rubs its contradictions in your face, and the Brandi scene is where those contradictions burn hottest.

That said, the film’s final act is where it earns its cult status. Without giving too much away, Ronnie essentially achieves his goal—but the victory is hollow, pointless, and tinged with tragedy. The very last shot is a freeze frame that asks you to reconsider everything you’ve just watched, including that awful night in Brandi’s apartment. Is Ronnie a hero? A monster? A pathetic man who got lucky? Hill refuses to label him, which is rare in mainstream American cinema. Most movies would either punish or redeem a character like this. Observe & Report simply watches him continue, the same broken person he always was, now with a slight bump in self-esteem. That’s either a brilliant subversion of the “loser succeeds” trope or a cop-out. I lean toward brilliant, but I wouldn’t argue with someone who hated it.

So, final verdict? Observe & Report is not a film I can recommend easily. If you need your comedies to be warm, predictable, or morally clear, stay far away. But if you’re interested in a movie that uses the mall-cop setup to ask uncomfortable questions about masculinity, mental health, and the thin line between community guardian and domestic terrorist, this is a fascinating artifact. It’s messy, mean, and occasionally transcendent. Seth Rogen has never been braver, and Jody Hill has never been more himself. Just don’t watch it back-to-back with Paul Blart unless you want emotional whiplash. This is the dark, spiky, unapologetic alternative—the film that says the quiet part out loud, then laughs at you for being surprised. For better or worse, you won’t forget it.

Villain Of The Day: Willie Cicci (The Godfather & The Godfather Part II)

Posted on by Lisa Marie Bowman

Willie Cicci. Was he a villain or was he a hero?

It depends on how look at it.

Played by the legendary character actor Joe Spinell, Willie Cicci made his first appearance in The Godfather. For whatever reason, Spinell isn’t credited in The Godfather. In fact, we don’t even learn that name of his character until the sequel. Unlike Tom Rosqui’s Rocco Lampone and Richard Bright’s Al Neri, he spends the majority of the film standing in the background. However, he definitely makes an impression. With his acne-scarred face, his thin mustache, and his menacing stare, Willie Cicci is probably the menacing Corleone soldier not named Luca Brasi.

Towards the end of the film, as Michael settles all accounts, it falls on Willie Cicci to assassinate one of the heads of the rival families. Cicci traps the man in a revolving door and then guns his helpless victim down. In a finale that is notable for its violence, Cicci’s sadism leaves the viewer shaken. It’s all in the eyes. Other soldiers kill as a part of the job. Cicci seems to enjoy his work.

Later, Willie is among the soldier who stands in the background while Tom Hagen informs Tessio that he can’t get him out of trouble for old time’s sake. Willie doesn’t necessarily look happy about taking Tessio on a final ride but one gets the feeling that it’s still not going to keep him up at night.

And yet, Willie Cicci is not quite a villain in The Godfather, mostly because he works for the Corleones. By the end of the first film, it’s impossible not to cheer a little when the Corleones get their revenge. As savage as it is, they’re taking out people who tried to take them out. The Corleones may have been bad but Barzini, Cuneo, Stracci, and Tattaglia were far worse.

Willie Cicci really doesn’t achieve true villain status until The Godfather, Part II. That’s when, having been arrested after the attempt by the Rosato brothers to kill Frankie Pentangeli, Willie Cicci resurfaces as a witness at the congressional hearings on organized crime. Cicci, obviously enjoying the attention, testified about the Family’s activities. “Yeah,” he says, with a laugh, “the family had lots of buffers.”

That’s the moment that Willie truly becomes a villain. In a gangster movie, you can do a lot of bad things and still be a hero. But the minute you turn rat, it’s over.

Willie Cicci doesn’t get a lot of screentime in either Godfather movie. In The Godfather Part II, he’s even spared Michael’s vengeance. While Hyman Roth, Frankie, and Fredo Corleone all die on-screen, we never see what happened to Willie. It’s as if Michael doesn’t even consider Willie worth worrying about. For viewers, though, Willie Cicci is one of the many unforgettable characters to show up over the course of the film. A lot of Willie’s unexpected popularity is due to the memorably unhinged performance of Joe Spinell. If one was not familiar with Spinell’s other films, one might be forgiven for assuming that he was an actual mob associate who just happened to be hanging out on the set.

Willie Cicci was originally slated to appear in the third film. By this point, his character would have been one of New York’s most feared mob bosses. (I guess the whole testifying before Congress thing wasn’t held against him.) However, Spinell died before shooting began and Willie Cicci was replaced by Joey Zasa, the debonair mobster played by Joe Mantegna.

Personally, I’ll never forget Willie Cicci. He’s one of the unforgettable characters who makes The Godfather special.

Villain of the Day

Review: Identity (dir. by James Mangold)

Posted on by Arleigh

“As I was going up the stairs, I met a man who wasn’t there. He wasn’t there again today. I wish, I wish he’d go away.” — Malcolm Rivers

There’s a certain kind of movie that thrives on a rainy Sunday afternoon or a late-night cable scroll—something pulpy, clever, and self-contained, with a cast that makes you sit up a little straighter. James Mangold’s Identity from 2003 is exactly that breed of thriller. It’s not trying to reinvent the wheel, but it’s having a damn good time spinning it through mud, rain, and a whole lot of psychological fog. On the surface, Identity is a slasher-adjacent whodunit set in a deserted Nevada motel during a biblical storm, and it wears its debt to Agatha Christie’s And Then There Were None like a bloodstained badge of honor. That classic novel—where strangers are lured to an isolated island and picked off one by one according to a nursery rhyme—provides the blueprint. Mangold swaps the island for a rundown motel, the nursery rhyme for room keys, and adds a thick layer of rainy noir atmosphere. But underneath the jump scares and dripping dread, Identity is also a sly, shaggy-dog meditation on identity, trauma, and the stories we tell ourselves to survive. Mangold, who’d go on to direct Walk the Line and Logan, shows his genre dexterity here—he treats the material with just enough seriousness to keep you invested, but not so much that you can’t laugh at the absurdity when the twist finally snaps into place.

The setup is classic Christie with a tar pit of dread. A motley crew of strangers gets stranded at a rundown motel when a flash flood washes out the roads, just as the guests in And Then There Were None find themselves cut off from civilization. There’s a former cop turned limo driver (John Cusack), a has-been actress (Rebecca De Mornay), a newlywed couple, a cop escorting a prisoner, a nervous motel manager, a prostitute with a heart of gold (Amanda Peet), and a few others who might as well have target silhouettes painted on their backs. The storm rages, the power flickers, and one by one, they start turning up dead. The killer leaves behind clues—room keys, specifically—and the survivors realize the bodies are being dropped in the order of the motel’s room numbers. It’s a wonderfully cheap gimmick that works because the film leans into its own artificiality. The rain never stops. The Nevada landscape is featureless and black. The motel feels less like a real place and more like a diorama in a psychiatrist’s office. Which, as it turns out, is almost exactly what it is.

Now, here’s where the review has to carefully step around spoilers, because Identity lives and dies on its midpoint rug-pull. But seeing as the movie is over twenty years old, a gentle acknowledgment is fair: the motel carnage is intercut with scenes of a criminal psychologist (Alfred Molina) arguing with a judge during a late-night hearing about a convicted serial killer’s sanity. That killer, Malcolm Rivers, is awaiting execution, and the defense is presenting new diary evidence. You don’t have to be a detective to start connecting dots. Mangold and screenwriter Michael Cooney aren’t interested in subtlety; they want you to squirm as the two storylines begin to converge. The motel guests, we gradually realize, are not random travelers. They are fractured pieces of a single damaged psyche—personalities inside Rivers’ mind, duking it out for survival as his body faces a real-world lethal injection. The killer in the motel isn’t a man in a mask; it’s the most malevolent alter among them, systematically erasing the others. Where Christie’s novel uses a hidden murderer working through a fixed list, Identity twists that formula by making the setting itself a psychological construct.

On a technical level, Identity is a masterclass in low-budget atmosphere. Phedon Papamichael’s cinematography drenches every frame in gray-blue gloom, and the sound design makes every creak and drip sound like a gunshot. Mangold directs the ensemble with a steady hand, and the cast clearly knows what movie they’re in. Cusack brings his usual blue-collar soulfulness to Ed, the ex-cop with a guilty conscience. Ray Liotta, as the suspicious cop, chews scenery in the best way—he’s all twitchy aggression and bad intentions. But the real standout is Amanda Peet as Paris, a call girl who just wants to start over on a Florida orange farm. She’s smarter and tougher than the archetype usually allows, and her final scene in the motel’s office carries an unexpected tenderness. That’s the trick of Identity: it makes you care about figments. For a good hour, you’re genuinely invested in whether the newlyweds survive or if the motel manager will finally clean that damn room 6.

Where the movie loses some people is in the execution of its twist. When the narrative finally snaps from the motel to the real-world courtroom, there’s a jarring shift that feels almost like a different film. The last fifteen minutes become a race to explain the rules of this shared-mind universe, and here the logic gets wobbly. How exactly does a personality “die” inside a system? Why does the motel order matter? And without giving too much away, the film’s famous final reveal—which involves a third-act twist on the twist—pushes credibility to the breaking point. Some viewers will throw their hands up and groan. Others will grin and applaud the audacity. I land somewhere in the middle. On one hand, the final image is genuinely chilling, a perfect little joke about evil’s persistence. On the other hand, the film spends so much time setting up the motel’s internal rules that it forgets to make the real-world stakes feel as urgent.

Still, Identity works best if you don’t overthink it. Think of it as a B-movie with an A-movie haircut, or as And Then There Were None filtered through a late-night cable dream about multiple personality disorder. Mangold directs the violence with a knowing wink—there are no gratuitous gore shots, just quick, sharp cuts and clever misdirection. One death involving a baseball bat and a laundry machine is as goofy as it is brutal, and that tonal tightrope is hard to walk. The film also has a sneaky thematic resonance beneath the pulp. At its heart, Identity asks whether people can truly change. Every character is trapped not just by the storm, but by their own backstory: the cop who failed a case, the actress past her prime, the prostitute who dreams of orange groves. In the motel of the mind, these backstories are just narratives the personality uses to justify itself. When Paris pleads, “I get to start over,” she’s speaking for anyone who’s ever wished they could delete a bad version of themselves. The film’s bleak final twist suggests that some stories are stronger than we think—the ones we tell ourselves about who we are, and who we’ve always been.

For a thriller that runs just over ninety minutes, Identity has surprising legs. It’s not a masterpiece, but it’s a tight, well-oiled machine of suspense with a gimmick that still feels fresh if you haven’t been spoiled. The dialogue crackles with noir-lite attitude, and the pacing never sags—once the bodies start dropping around the twenty-minute mark, you’re locked in. The biggest flaw is that the movie is so proud of its puzzle-box structure that it forgets to breathe between twists. You never get a quiet moment to sit with the characters as real people because, well, they’re not real people. But that’s also the point. Identity is a movie about a metaphor, and like most metaphors, it works until you poke it too hard. If you’re looking for a rainy-night thrill ride with a cast that commits to the bit and a final shot that’ll stick in your brain like a bad dream, check in. Just maybe avoid room 6.

Brad revisits A BETTER TOMORROW II (1987), starring Chow Yun-Fat & directed by John Woo!

Posted on by Bradley Crain

John Woo’s A BETTER TOMORROW was such a gigantic hit in Hong Kong cinemas when it came out in 1986 that you had to know that a sequel would soon follow. A BETTER TOMORROW II would open a year later, bringing back all the stars from the original. This film would go even bigger with both the action and the melodrama, with varying levels of success, but we’ll get to that in a little bit.

The plot seems familiar at first, as ex-gangster Ho (Ti Lung) is let out of prison to work with the police to dig up dirt on his old friend Lung (Dean Shek), a former criminal who’s trying to run a legitimate business down at the shipyard. The main reason he agrees to help though, is because his younger brother / undercover cop Kit (Leslie Cheung) is working on the case and Ho wants to protect him. After a series of double-crosses and betrayals, it seems that we’re in for the same type of story that we got in the first film. Key differences emerge when Lung is framed for murder and escapes to New York City. There we meet Ken Gor (Chow Yun-Fat), the conveniently discovered twin brother of tragic hero Mark Gor. Ken tries to help Lung, who has fallen into a state of catatonic shock upon learning that his daughter has been killed. When death squads come after him in New York, Ken shows his badass cred and saves his ass. Lung eventually snaps out of it and the two head back to Hong Kong together. There they team up with Ho and Kit to exact bloody vengeance on all who have gotten in the way of their efforts at personal reform!        

The first thing I’ll say about A BETTER TOMORROW II is that the film has some incredible action sequences, some of the best you’ll ever see, and some of Woo’s best work. The finale where the trio of Ken, Ho and Lung storm the bad guy’s mansion is a masterpiece of extended and creative bloody violence. I 100% recommend the film for the action.

The second thing I’ll say about A BETTER TOMORROW II is that it has some of the most over the top melodrama that you’ll ever see. My comment is mainly aimed at the section of the film where Ken tries to get Lung to snap out of his shock. I really don’t enjoy these scenes, with my least favorite being the scene where Chow Yun-Fat tries to force a completely zoned out Dean Shek to eat. There is a lot of good-looking food wasted in that scene, and I cringe every time I watch it!   

I’ve read that the film was a troubled production, and that John Woo and producer Tsui Hark had very different ideas on the type of movie that each wanted to make. Both tried to produce different edits of the film, and with too many cooks in the kitchen, we ended up with this glorious Frankenstein. When the dust settled, John Woo mostly disowned the film except for that majestic, crimson-stained finale. Tsui Hark would take over the series and turn out A BETTER TOMORROW III a couple of years later, while Woo would move on to THE KILLER.  

There are interesting ideas here, and the film almost wants to turn into a comic book. For example, the scene that first introduces us to Ken Gor, Mark’s twin brother, features an old man who’s devoted his life to drawing storyboard illustrations of the adventures of Mark, Ho and Kit. He even has Mark’s trademark sunglasses and blood-stained, bullet-riddled coat, which you know Ken will put on at some point. This seems appropriate to many of the shenanigans that go on, but then the film will switch its focus to extended scenes of a depressed Kit or a drooling Lung, and it seems like we’re in a different movie. There are parts of this film that I love and there are parts that I just want to be over.

At the end of the day, if you’ve come to A BETTER TOMORROW II for the promise of John Woo’s awesome action, you will get your fill. You’ll get to see Chow Yun-Fat at his charismatic best, wearing his long coat and sunglasses, and wielding twin barettas as he takes out hordes of henchmen. You’ll get to see Ti Lung swinging a sword that might bring back images of his Shaw Brothers heydays! Just be prepared to watch Dean Shek spill milk, eat through an orange (peel and all), and gnaw on a piece of frozen meat along the way.       

A BETTER TOMORROW II is currently streaming on Amazon Prime, Tubi, and Plex.

Rustlers On Horseback (1950, directed by Fred C. Brannon)

Posted on by Jedadiah Leland

Before I say anything else,  want to express how much I appreciate how straight-forward the title of Rustlers On Horseback is.  There are horses and there are rustlers and often the rustlers do ride the horses.  No lies detected.

Mistaken for being an outlaw, Marshal Rocky Lane (Allan Lane) becomes a member of a gang that’s led by Leo Straykin (Roy Barcroft).  Leo has taken over the Reynolds Ranch and he’s planning on cheating a land agent out of $100,000 so that he can finance his future crimes.  However, Leo isn’t working on his own and Lane and Nugget Clark (Eddy Waller) work to discover who the outlaw’s secret boss really is.  (This is a low-budget, Poverty Row western so there aren’t that many possibilities.)  However, Lane is not the only person working undercover.  George Nader plays the son of the murdered ranch owner.  Nader is looking for his own revenge.

This is a pretty standard Poverty Row western, with Lane looking convincing while riding a horse and shooting a gun.  The “secret boss” makes the film a little bit more interesting than I was expecting but not that much more interesting.  As is so often the case with these movies, how you react will depend on whether nor not you’re already a fan of the western genre when you watch it.  If you like westerns that don’t have much filler between the chases and the gunfights, a western like this will be up your alley.  If you’re not a fan of the genre, this film won’t change your mind.

This film was one of George Nader’s early roles.  Nader made a handful of B-movies, including the infamous Robot Monster, before he branched into more mainstream films.  Eventually, he found work in Europe and found fame as FBI Agent Jerry Cotton in a series of German films.  After an accident left him sensitive to light and ended his acting career, Nader found success as a writer.

As for Allan Lane, he went on to become the voice of Mr. Ed.

Brad reviews SMOKE SIGNALS (1998), starring Adam Beach!

Posted on by Bradley Crain

There’s a scene early in SMOKE SIGNALS where Victor Joseph, played by Adam Beach, tries to teach Thomas Builds-the-Fire (Evan Adams) how to be a real Indian. He ends the scene with “This ain’t Dances-with-Salmon you know?!” It’s a funny exchange, but it also clues the audience in on the fact that this isn’t going to be your typical Hollywood movie about Indians. Directed by Chris Eyre and written by Sherman Alexie, it’s the first feature-length film written, directed, and produced by Native Americans to reach a wide audience both in the United States and beyond. As such, we get a story that feels fresh while tackling a variety of difficult subjects with humor and optimism.

The story focuses on Victor as he travels from the Coeur d’Alene Indian Reservation in Idaho to Phoenix, Arizona to retrieve his father’s possessions after learning that he’s passed away. His father abandoned him and his mother when he was just a boy, and he’s clearly been scarred by the situation. Along for the ride, mainly because he can afford to pay their bus fare, is Thomas Builds-the-Fire, his nerdy and talkative friend. From this point, the film becomes a road trip, and we follow along as they make it to Arizona and back. While there is funny stuff along the way, the movie is mostly interested in observing Victor as he comes to terms with the trauma and pain left behind when his dad went away.

I’ve always liked Adam Beach, and he’s very good here as Victor. His character spends a lot of the movie angry at the world, but from time to time, he’ll flash this big, wonderful smile. It’s a nice inside-out performance as he seems to be simmering on the inside and just trying not to explode. And then there’s Evan Adams, whose Thomas is awkward and optimistic, and who loves to tell big stories about Victor’s dad. For example, they have this awesome exchange where Thomas tells Victor that his dad looks like Charles Bronson. As Bronson’s biggest fan, I can tell you that Victor’s dad, played by Gary Farmer, looks nothing like Charles Bronson. The scene has a nice punchline as Thomas tells him that he doesn’t mean the Charles Bronson from the first DEATH WISH, but more like the Charles Bronson of DEATH WISH 5! The movie has several unexpected scenes like this, and the genuine chemistry between these two guys is what makes the movie work for me. I believe it when their characters begin to understand and appreciate each other, and it’s their emotional connection that gives the film some staying power even after the credits roll.

There are some additional performances that I enjoyed. I mentioned Gary Farmer, who plays Victor’s dad. His Arnold Joseph is not the most sympathetic character in the world, as he chooses to run away from a guilt that he can never deal with. Somehow, by the end, we have some understanding of his actions. And then there’s Irene Bedard as Suzy Song, the young lady who befriends Victor’s dad and calls his mom when he passes away. Best known for being the voice of Pocahontas in the Disney animated classic, she conveys kindness and compassion in her relatively small role. Tantoo Cardinal is good as Victor’s mom, and Tom Skerritt even shows up in a cameo as a police chief in Arizona. Sherman Alexie’s screenplay, based on his book “The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven,” is simple, yet full of depth, and it’s brought to life by an excellent cast.        

Even though SMOKE SIGNALS was made almost thirty years ago, it’s still a very relevant film to this day. It’s funny, it tackles difficult subjects that are universal to all of us, and it’s told from a Native American perspective that we seldom see. In other words, it feels like we’re dealing with real people, not the romantic caricatures or noble victims that Hollywood still tries to push on us in movies about Indians. It’s not a flashy film in any way, and that’s okay. It’s one of those movies that understands its characters and trusts the audience enough to just hang out and observe them. Anchored by an excellent performance from Adam Beach, it’s a perfect example of how movies can be a lot better when Hollywood gets out of the way and let’s genuine, talented people tell their stories.  

I watched SMOKE SIGNALS on the Paramount Plus streaming service.

Sicario: Day of the Soldado (dir. by Stefano Sollima) Review

Posted on by Arleigh

“I mean, I wouldn’t take out a cartel leader. Turn one cartel into 50. Besides, killing kings doesn’t start wars, it ends them.” — Matt Graver

Sicario: Day of the Soldado is a tense, often entertaining follow-up that never quite reaches the same level of dread, complexity, or visual identity as the first Sicario. It’s a movie that knows how to hit hard in the moment, but it doesn’t linger in the mind the same way, and a big reason for that is how much it shifts from being a layered border thriller into something more like a blunt-force crime action movie.

What stands out right away is that the film still has strong ingredients. Taylor Sheridan’s script gives Josh Brolin and Benicio Del Toro plenty of room to do what they do best, and both actors make this thing watchable even when the movie itself starts feeling thinner than it should. Brolin brings that loose, swaggering menace to Matt Graver, making him feel like the kind of guy who smiles while ordering something morally awful. Del Toro, meanwhile, gives Alejandro a cold, haunted intensity that fits the character perfectly. He doesn’t need much dialogue to sell the idea that this man is basically a weapon walking around in human form.

But that’s also where the movie’s biggest issue starts to show. For all the credit Sheridan deserves for keeping the world of Sicario alive, the absence of Denis Villeneuve in the director’s chair is obvious. The first film had this slow-burning, oppressive grip on you; every scene felt like it was pulling you deeper into a nightmare that had structure, purpose, and a real sense of moral unease. Here, that layered feeling is much weaker. The sequel becomes more interested in forward motion, shootouts, and tension-by-incident than in developing the deeper political and thematic weight that made the original so memorable.

That doesn’t mean Sicario: Day of the Soldado is empty. It just feels like it has less on its mind than the first film. The original Sicario was about systems, corruption, compromise, and the way law enforcement and criminal violence blur together until nobody gets to stay clean. This sequel touches on similar territory, but it often feels like the movie is more focused on creating a harsh atmosphere around its two lead men than on really digging into what all of it means. In that sense, it starts to feel like a vehicle for Brolin and Del Toro first, and a larger statement second.

Stefano Sollima does a solid job with the action, and to his credit, he understands that this world should feel mean, chaotic, and stripped of comfort. There’s a gritty professionalism to the violence that works well enough, and the film certainly doesn’t shy away from brutality. Still, the action doesn’t always carry the same weight as it did in the first movie because the buildup isn’t as rich. The tension is there, but the emotional and thematic buildup behind it is thinner, so some of the set pieces land more as effective genre beats than as moments that actually deepen the story.

The film’s biggest strength, beyond the performances, is its atmosphere of moral corrosion. Nobody in Day of the Soldado feels especially noble, and that’s part of what keeps it interesting. Brolin’s Graver is still the kind of operator who treats human lives like pieces on a board, while Del Toro’s Alejandro remains a deeply damaged figure who seems to exist somewhere between avenger, assassin, and ghost. Their relationship gives the movie a sharp edge, because you’re never really sure whether these guys are working together, manipulating each other, or simply following the same dark logic from different angles.

Still, the movie’s structure is less satisfying than the first one’s. It leans harder into a straightforward escalation of events, and once that happens, some of the mystery and suspense gives way to a more familiar crime-thriller rhythm. That isn’t automatically a bad thing, but it does mean the film loses some of the special quality that made Sicario feel so bracing. The sequel is darker in tone, sure, but not necessarily deeper. It’s more aggressive than observant, more kinetic than reflective.

A lot of this is why the movie works best when it keeps its focus on the two men at the center. Brolin and Del Toro are compelling enough to hold attention even when the screenplay starts feeling a little schematic. Their characters are so insulated by violence and secrecy that they almost seem to belong to a different kind of movie than everyone else around them. The downside is that this also makes the surrounding story feel less important. The first film balanced character and theme in a way that felt inseparable; this one often feels like it is using theme as a backdrop for the characters rather than letting the ideas shape the entire film.

Even so, Sicario: Day of the Soldado isn’t a failure. It’s a good-looking, well-acted, often tense sequel that knows how to stay nasty and efficient. It just doesn’t have the same confidence in its own ideas. The result is a film that is entertaining in a hard-edged, grim way, but also one that makes you think about what it could have been with a stronger directorial voice pulling everything together. Taylor Sheridan’s fingerprints are still all over it, but Villeneuve’s absence leaves a noticeable gap in the film’s pulse and perspective.

In the end, the movie feels like a solid but diminished return to a brutal world. It gives you Brolin and Del Toro doing sharp, controlled work inside a story that never fully rises to match them. That’s enough to make it worthwhile, but not enough to make it essential. Compared to the first Sicario, this one is more of a hard-nosed spin-off in spirit than a true continuation of the original’s power, and that difference is felt in almost every scene.

Brad reviews COLD WAR II (2016), with Chow Yun-Fat, Aaron Kwok & Tony Leung Ka-fai!

Posted on by Bradley Crain

As soon as I finished watching COLD WAR (2012), I went to the fridge, grabbed myself a refreshing beverage and immediately started up COLD WAR II (2016). The original film ends on a cliffhanger, so I was excited to see what happens next!

COLD WAR II opens right after the events of the first film, resolves its pressing cliffhanger in the first 20 minutes, and then doubles down on the intrigue and political power plays that defined the original. I don’t want to give away too much of the plot, so as not to take away some of the fun surprises. I will say that most sequels go bigger by doubling body counts or explosions, but in this film the conspiracies just get a lot deeper, and the political manipulations start reaching for much broader power. I still found the situations to be interesting thanks to the intense atmosphere of the film and the strong performances of the cast.   

In the roles of Sean Lau and M.B. Lee, Aaron Kwok and Tony Leung Ka-fai continue to excel, but circumstances quickly erode some of the goodwill that was created between their characters at the end of the first film. This temporarily creates the risk that this follow-up could end up feeling like a retread of their heated rivalry in part 1. Higher, even more personal stakes helped alleviate some of that concern.

The best thing that happens for COLD WAR II is the addition of Chow Yun-fat to the cast in the important supporting role of Oswald Kan. Kan is a former judge and brilliant legal mind who leads a special committee investigating the fallout from the events of the first film. The middle section of the film features a series of scenes with Chow in intense confrontations with both Tony Leung and Aaron Kwok. It’s especially fun seeing Chow mix it up with Tony as their careers go way back to working with each other in classics like PRISON ON FIRE (1987) and A BETTER TOMORROW III (1989). These scenes freshen up the material, but they also connect us emotionally to Hong Kong cinema of the golden years through one of its biggest, most honorable stars. Chow gives the film a moral center as Oswald Kan seems free from the ethical compromises that our other main characters are having to make. It’s an impressive and charismatic turn from Hong Kong’s all-time greatest leading man.

Just as in the first film, there aren’t a lot of action scenes, but the ones we have are bigger and even more impressive. There’s an action sequence in a tunnel about an hour into the film that blew me away with its execution and intensity. Its resolution also surprised me, which is not always easy to do. Still, this incredible scene serves the plot well, providing clear and obvious motivation for the actions of each of the main characters throughout the remainder of the film.

COLD WAR II follows the motto of most sequels to box office smashes… “Go big or go home!” While the plot becomes even more complicated this time around, the continued excellence in the performances, especially with the addition of Chow Yun-Fat, helps to provide the solid emotional payoffs needed to keep the series moving forward. With the excellent action set pieces also adding to the fun, the filmmakers have managed to create a sequel that I rate just as high as the original. Now, bring on COLD WAR 1994!

COLD WAR II is currently streaming on Amazon Prime, Tubi, PlutoTV, Plex, and the Roku Channel!