Here to help you get in the holiday spirit, we’ve got a British film from 1999!
The Greatest Store In The World tells the story of a single mother and her two daughters. When the film begins, they’re living in a van but, after the van catches on fire, they upgrade things by moving into a luxurious London department store. Along with coming together as a family and celebrating the holidays, they also thwart an attempt to rob the store. It’s a good-natured little movie, one that reminds the viewer of how fun the world once was. It was filmed in Harrods, though the name itself is not actually uttered in the film. Fans of Doctor Who will want to keep an eye out for Peter Capaldi while fans of larger-than-life actors will be happy to see the great Brian Blessed.
(I should admit that, when I was little and my family was constantly moving from one state to another and I was always having to say goodbye to whatever new friends I had made, I used to fantasize about living in a big mall. Perhaps that’s one reason why this sweet-natured film brought a tear to my mismatched eyes.)
“I’m a politician. Which means that I am a cheat and a liar, and when I’m not kissing babies, I’m stealing their lollipops.” — Dr. Jeffrey Pelt, National Security Advisor
The Hunt for Red October glides into the tail end of Cold War cinema like a stealthy sub cutting through midnight swells, packing a smart mix of spy intrigue and nail-biting underwater showdowns that keep you locked in from the opening credits. Directed by John McTiernan, fresh from helming Die Hard, this 1990 adaptation of Tom Clancy’s doorstopper novel smartly distills pages of naval geekery into a taut, propulsive thriller where Soviet skipper Marko Ramius—Sean Connery in full brooding mode—pilots the formidable Red October, a behemoth sub with a hush-mode propulsion system that ghosts past detection like a shadow in fog.
McTiernan shines in wrangling the script from Clancy’s tech-heavy tome, slicing through the babble to propel the story with crisp momentum and unrelenting suspense, turning potential info-dumps into pulse-quickening beats that hook casual viewers and sub nerds alike. The premise grabs fast: Ramius’s bold maneuvers ignite a transatlantic frenzy, with U.S. and Soviet forces locked in a paranoid standoff over what looks like an imminent crisis. That ’80s-era distrust simmers perfectly here, crammed into a runtime that pulses with fresh urgency decades later, amplified by those dim-lit sub corridors in steely teal tones that squeeze the air right out of the room.
Alec Baldwin embodies Jack Ryan as the reluctant brainiac from CIA desks, sweaty and green around the gills yet armed with instincts that cut through official noise like a periscope through chop. Pulled from family downtime—teddy bear in tow—he injects everyday stakes into the global chessboard, proving heroes don’t need camo or cockiness, just smarts and stubbornness. Connery’s Ramius dominates as a haunted vet with a personal chip on his shoulder, steering a tight-knit officer corps including Sam Neill’s devoted second-in-command, their quiet bonds hinting at deeper loyalties amid the red menace.
Standouts fill the roster seamlessly: James Earl Jones lends gravitas as the steady Admiral Greer backing Ryan’s wild cards; Scott Glenn commands the American hunter sub with laconic steel; Jeffrey Jones brings quirky spark to the sonar savant whose audio tricks flip the script on silence. The dialogue crackles with shorthand lingo and understated jabs, forging a crew dynamic that’s as pressurized as the hull plates, pulling you into hushed command post vibes without a whiff of cheesiness.
McTiernan elevates the genre by leaning on wits over blasts—thrilling pursuits deliver without dominating, letting mind games and split-second calls drive the dread, all while streamlining Clancy’s minutiae into seamless propulsion. Gadgetry gleams without overwhelming: the sub’s whisper-quiet tech sparks clever cat-and-mouse in hazard-filled depths, ramping uncertainty to fever pitch. Pacing builds masterfully from war-room skepticism—Ryan battling brass skepticism—to heart-in-throat ocean dashes, every frame taut as a bowstring. Practical models and effects ground the peril in gritty tangibility, no digital gloss, evoking Ice Station Zebra‘s frosty traps but streamlined into a relentless machine that dodges the older film’s drag. It’s a clinic in balancing spectacle and smarts, where tension coils from isolation’s cruel math: one ping too many, and it’s lights out.
On the eyes and ears front, the movie plunges into submersed nightmare fuel—consoles pulsing crimson in battle stations, scopes piercing mist-shrouded waves, silo bays looming like sleeping leviathans. McTiernan tempers his action flair for thinker-thrills; Basil Poledouris’s great orchestral score surges with iconic power through the chases—those brooding horns, choral swells, and rhythmic pulses echoing engine throbs have etched into legend, pounding your chest like incoming cavitation and elevating every dive. Audio wizardry seals the immersion: hull groans, ping echoes, bubble roars craft a metallic tomb where errors echo eternally. Flaws peek through—early scenes drag with setup chatter, foes skew broad-stroked—but the core hunt erases them, surging to a sharp, satisfying close that nods to Ryan’s budding legend without overplaying the hand.
’90s tentpole lovers and thaw-era history fans find a benchmark here, as the film plays the long con of trust amid torpedoes, fusing bombast with nuance that reboots chase in vain. It bottles superpower jitters spot-on—frantic commands clashing with strike debates—yet softens adversaries via Connery’s world-weary depth and Neill’s subtle conviction. Endless rewatches uncover gems: crew hints dropped early, sonar hacks foreshadowing real tech leaps. Baldwin’s grounded Ryan—chopper-barfing, suit-clashing, chaos-navigating—earns triumphs the hard way, contrasting Das Boot‘s bleak grind with upbeat ingenuity that feels won, not waved. Poledouris’s motifs linger post-credits, a symphonic anchor boosting replay pulls.
Endurance stems from mastering sub-horror’s essence: solitude sharpening choices, where flubs invite apocalypse. Ramius embodies defector realism—war-weary idealist mirroring history’s turncoats—while Clancy’s specs (sub classes, velocities) anchor without anchoring down. McTiernan sidesteps flags; zero flag-waving, pure operator craft in dodges and climactic finesse that blends brains with boom. Quirks delight—the premier’s bluster, aides’ cool calculus—padding a 134-minute gem that exhales you surfacing, amped. Expands on score’s role too: “Hymn to Red October” choral rise mirrors Ramius’s quiet rebellion, threading emotional undercurrents through mechanical mayhem, a Poledouris hallmark outlasting the film.
Bottom line, The Hunt for Red October captivates via cerebral kick—shadow games in fluid physics, intellect over muscle, audacious plays punking empire folly. Sparks post-view chin-strokes on allegiances and risks. Connery’s gravelly “One ping only, Vasily” endures as gold; storm-watch it, trade sofa for sonar station—raw thrill spiked with savvy. Sub saga staple? This silent stalker nails every target.
Ice Station Zebra, directed by John Sturges in 1968, slides into guilty pleasure territory like a submarine slipping under polar ice—full of big Cold War ambitions, shadowy spy games, and submarine peril that tease something epic, but so loaded with pacing hiccups, studio shortcuts, and earnest overreach that it ends up a lopsided, lovably messy ride. Sturges had already cemented his rep with crowd-roaring hits like The Magnificent Seven, where a ragtag posse of gunslingers delivered razor-sharp tension and quotable showdowns, or The Great Escape, a WWII breakout yarn crackling with clever schemes, sweaty escapes, and Steve McQueen’s motorcycle glory. Those films moved like a well-oiled engine, every scene stacking stakes and character beats into unforgettable momentum. By contrast, Ice Station Zebra feels like Sturges chasing that same high-wire ensemble vibe—a U.S. nuclear sub, the USS Tigerfish, barreling toward a trashed Arctic outpost—but bloating into a 148-minute sprawl that swaps tight plotting for endless red-lit corridor glares and withheld mission secrets. It’s not in the same league as his earlier triumphs, lacking their propulsive drive and lived-in grit, yet that very shortfall turns it into quirky comfort viewing for fans who dig flawed ’60s spectacle.
The setup hooks you quick: Commander James Ferraday, Rock Hudson’s square-jawed everyman at the helm, gets tapped for a hush-hush run to Ice Station Zebra after a satellite supposedly carrying spy photos crashes nearby. No full briefing for him, just orders to play it cool while three mystery passengers board—Mr. Jones, a buttoned-up British agent with evasive smirks; Boris Vaslov, Ernest Borgnine’s barrel-chested Russian turncoat oozing fake bonhomie; and Captain Anders, Jim Brown’s steely Marine barking orders over a squad of jarheads. As the Tigerfish dives under thickening ice floes, the sub’s innards come alive with flickering sonar pings, steam-hissing valves, and crewmen hunched over gauges in perpetual sweat. It’s claustrophobic gold at first, the hull creaking like it’s got a bad case of frostbite, echoing the trapped dread Sturges nailed in his POW camp classic but without the same spark of rebellion. Then sabotage strikes—a flooded missile bay, a wild plunge toward crush depth—and fingers start pointing. Who tampered with the ballast? Jones with his locked trunk of gadgets? Vaslov’s too-friendly vodka toasts? The Marines itching for a fight? The scene builds real sweat, divers suiting up in the nick of time, but Sturges lets the fallout drag, turning interrogation into a tea party of suspicions rather than the cutthroat blame game his best films thrived on.
These early stumbles set the tone for a film that’s promising yet perpetually off-kilter, far from the seamless revenge rhythm of The Magnificent Seven‘s dusty trails. Production fingerprints show everywhere: rumors swirl of Navy brass forcing script tweaks to glorify their boats, last-minute casting shifts from bigger names to Hudson, and a roadshow rollout with overture, intermission, and 70mm pomp that screams overambition. The Arctic plunge delivers tense highlights—the sub ramming upward through ice chunks like a whale breaching, sparks flying from shorted panels, crew barking damage reports—but lulls follow with tech jargon dumps and characters circling motives without committing to conflict. Hudson anchors it all with unflappable poise, barking commands like a TV dad in a crisis, but he lacks McQueen’s sly charisma or Yul Brynner’s brooding fire. Borgnine hams it up as Vaslov, his accent flipping from gravelly growl to vaudeville schtick during mess-hall ribbing, while McGoohan brings the sharpest edge as Jones, his dry barbs hinting at deeper layers. Brown’s Anders gets muscle but little nuance, leading a Marine crew that feels like stock tough guys waiting for their cue.
Pushing topside, the flaws bloom into full charm. The ice cap arrival unfolds in sweeping widescreen vistas—endless white expanses, howling gales whipping snow devils—but close-quarters betray the soundstage: actors plodding through “blizzards” in lightweight jackets, no puffing breath in the deep freeze, sets that wobble if you squint. It’s the kind of earnest cheesiness that sinks modern blockbusters but endears this relic, especially when the station siege erupts. Soviets drop from the sky in parachutes like deadly snowflakes, scouring the charred ruins for a buried film capsule packed with NATO missile coords. Americans fan out in white camo, trading potshots amid smoke grenades and collapsing tunnels, loyalties cracking as Vaslov’s true colors flash. Ferraday’s cool bluff seals a three-way stalemate, denying everyone the prize in a nod to mutually assured secrets. Michel Legrand’s score surges here, horns blaring over the chaos like a war drum, giving Sturges’ action chops a late workout. Yet even this payoff sprawls, talky standoffs eating screen time where his peak films would’ve sprinted to the finish.
What seals Ice Station Zebra‘s guilty pleasure status is embracing its dated quirks as features, not bugs—hammy all-male bravado, Cold War jitters turned quaint, plot gaps you could park a destroyer in. Sturges conjures submerged panic and frosty fireworks that nod to his glory days, the sub’s practical effects holding up better than some CGI today, but without the narrative steel of The Great Escape‘s tunnel triumphs or The Magnificent Seven‘s mythic standoffs, it coasts on atmosphere over precision. Clocking 148 minutes, it tests patience with filler like extended sail sequences and coy reveals, yet rewards surrender: grin at Borgnine’s bear hugs masking menace, chuckle at the Navy polish glossing gritty potential, savor the sheer balls of staging Arctic Armageddon on a backlot. Howard Hughes reportedly looped it endlessly in his casino screening rooms, and you get why—it’s hypnotic in its wonkiness, a time capsule of late-’60s Hollywood flexing before New Wave grit crashed the party.
Pop this on a stormy night with cocoa and zero expectations, and Ice Station Zebra shines as cozy flawed fun. Sturges’ touch keeps the chills coming amid the clunkers, delivering submarine squeezes, betrayals under the aurora, and a finale with enough brinkmanship bang to forgive the bloat. It’s no peer to his earlier masterpieces, more a quirky footnote, but that’s the hook: imperfect promise wrapped in icy spectacle, begging a rewatch to spot every goofy grace note. For ’60s thriller buffs, submarine nuts, or anyone needing a break from slick reboots, it’s a frosty, flawed feast worth the dive.
To the East, there’s a cemetery that sits near a bus stop. It’s surrounded by a fence and, judging from the gravestones that I’ve seen, it was last used in 1917. It was a private cemetery, one that functioned as the final resting place for the members of one of the families who founded my hometown. To the west, there’s a park that is home to another private cemetery. It’s also surrounded by a fence. That fence wasn’t always there but it went up a few years ago because people were vandalizing the tomb stones and breaking the statues that had stood there for over a hundred years. How sick to do you have to be vandalize a graveyard?
Occasionally, when I’m near either one of the two cemeteries, I’ll take some time to look at the names on the headstones. The names are of people who I will never know. I’ll never know what they were like to live with or to eat dinner with. I’ll never know what hobbies occupied their time. I’ll never know what books they read. I’ll never know who they were. But I will always know that someone cared enough to erect a tombstone to let the world that person had once been alive. I will always know that, at some point, they were alive and they were a part of society.
I thought about those two cemeteries as I watched Train Dreams. Based on the award-winning novella by Denis Johnson, Train Dreams stars Joel Edgerton as Robert Grainier. At the start of the film, the narrator (Will Patton) tells us that Grainier lived for 80 years and he spent most of his life in Idaho. He never saw the ocean. He was an orphan who never learned who his parents were, when he was born, or how he came to be placed on a train in the late 19th century. The film follows Grainier as he goes from dropping out of school to working as a logger to marrying Gladys (Felicity Jones). He builds a cabin for Gladys to live in while he’s away looking for work. He and Gladys have a daughter named Kate.
Growing up at a time when the frontier had only recently been tamed and when death was considered to be acceptable risk for the men cutting down trees and laying down railroad tracks, Robert sees his share of disturbing things. As a child, he comes across as a mountain man who is slowly dying. Working for the railroad, he watches as one of his co-workers is casually tossed off a bridge. Later, the elderly and kind-hearted Arn Peebles (William H. Macy) is mortally injured in a random accident. When loggers die, their boots are hammered into a tree. Years, later those same trees are cut down and the boots are forgotten. And yet, for all the danger in Robert’s life, there are the moments that make it all worth it. Robert always returns home to his cabin and to the embrace of Gladys and the sight of his daughter growing up. He always returns to his family until he can’t anymore. As he ages, Robert isolates himself from civilization and becomes semi-legendary in the nearby town. But, as always, legends are eventually forgotten.
Visually, it’s a hauntingly beautiful film. The scenery is stunning, even while Robert and his fellow loggers are busy changing it by chopping down trees. But there’s always a hint of danger hiding behind the beauty. A forest fire brings an eerie, orange tint to the sky but it also destroys many lives and dreams. Joel Edgerton gives a strong performance as Robert, proving once again that he’s one of the few actors who can star in a period piece without looking out-of-place. Edgerton’s performance gives the film the humanity needed to keep it from becoming purely a film about visuals. As Robert, Edgerton rarely yells or shows much emotion at all. But his eyes tell us everything that we need to know.
With its stunning visuals, its narration, and its emphasis on nature, Train Dreams owes an obvious debt to Terence Malick. That said, it’s not quite as thematically deep as Malick’s best films. Whereas Malick would have been concerned about Robert’s place in both the universe and the afterlife, Train Dreams is more content to focus on Robert’s 80 years in Idaho (and occasionally Spokane). Whereas Malick often seems to be daring his audience to walk out, Train Dreams is very much about keeping you watching as Robert grows old. That’s not necessarily a criticism, of course. It’s just an acknowledgment that Train Dreams is the rarest of all creatures, an arthouse film that’s also a crowd pleaser. It doesn’t alienate its audience but it does so at the cost of the risks that make Malick’s later films so fascinating, if occasionally frustrating. That said, Train Dreams does stick with you. I’ll be thinking about the final 20 minutes for quite some time.
Train Dreams tells the story of a man — one of many — who may have been forgotten by history but who mattered during his 80 years on this Earth. In the end, Robert Grainier serves as a stand-in for all the people who lived their lives as American rapidly changed from being a frontier to being a superpower. The world may forget him but the viewer never will.
After her father dies in an accident, teenage Nicole (Aimee Teargarden) is sent to Santa Cruz for the summer by her mother. In Santa Cruz, Nicole meets her grandmother, Sue (Patricia Richardson), for the first time. At first, Nicole is bitter and angry and doesn’t want a thing to do with Santa Cruz or its culture of surfing. That changes when she learns about her grandfather, Max (Lance Henriksen). Max was a legendary surfer who went to Vietnam and never returned. When Nicole comes across Max’s old map of surfing spots, she and her friend Kayla (Alicia Ziegler) go on a journey that leads to Nicole not only appreciating surfing but also discovering the truth about her grandfather.
Beautiful Wave is pretty predictable and, at first, Nicole is so sullen that she can sometimes be difficult to take even if she does have a good reason for not being in a cheerful mood. I liked the idea of Nicole and Kayla going on a journey together but I didn’t like that they brought two knucklehead surfers with them. What could have been a celebration of sisterhood instead became a film about two women having to deal with two idiots.
Beautiful Wave still won me over, with its gorgeous beach footage and its story of paying respect to the past and discovering your own roots. Even with the two idiot surfers getting in the way, I appreciated the way the film showed the bond between Nicole and Kayla. The ending was heartwarming, even if it did raise more questions than it answered. There are some movies that you have to be in the right mood for and I guess my mood was the right one for Beautiful Wave.
Since we had a few hours to kill before the Cowboys game started, Lisa and I decided to watch a movie. I wanted a love story. She wanted something with dancing. We settled on Sidelined 2.
Sidelined 2 picks up where the first Sidelined ended. Drayton (Noah Beck) is the starting quarterback at USC, even though he’s only a freshman and he’s really scrawny for a football player. (All of the football players in this movie looked too scrawny to be playing for a top-ranked program.) Dallas (Siena Agudong) is studying dance at Cal Arts and trying to figure out how to pay for her semester after she learns her scholarship won’t cover everything.
They’re in love but they still struggle because they’re going to different schools and they both have to figure out how to balance their relationship with all of their other responsibilities. Drayton tears his ACL and becomes bitter. Dallas gets a job at a coffeehouse and her boss has really messy bangs and keeps singing songs on his guitar. Dallas and Drayton realizes that there are other possibilities out there. Will their relationship last?
I thought the first Sidelined was cute for what it was. The second one was pretty boring and whatever charm the two leads had in the first film disappeared during the sequel. Drayton’s not much of a boyfriend, even before he ruins his knee. Dallas says she’s never even been to Dallas, which is weird. If I was named after a city, I would visit. It’s a Wattpad movie and all of the dialogue sounds like it was written by an AI that had been programmed to try to sound young by dropping random slang. Drayton asks Dallas if she’s “hangry.” Lisa made me go back three times to make sure he actually said that.
James Van Der Beek comes back for five minutes. He used to be the teenager with a dream. Now, he’s playing the father of a teenager with a dream. Feel old, yet?
“This year, there will be no leftovers.” — Sheriff Eric Newlon
Thanksgiving (2023) is Eli Roth’s ambitious take on the slasher genre, blending elements of gory horror, dark comedy, and social commentary rooted in the holiday’s American origins. The film follows a masked killer, inspired by the historical Plymouth Colony governor John Carver, who stalks the small town of Plymouth, Massachusetts, weaving a path of violence around the Thanksgiving festivities. The movie opens strongly with a tense, chaotic Black Friday mob scene that effectively captures the frenzy of consumerism and sets a sharp tone of societal critique through horror. However, as the film progresses, it drifts more into a conventional slasher revenge plot that lacks the depth expected from its promising premise.
Visually, Thanksgiving is sharp and well-crafted, abandoning the low-budget aesthetic of Roth’s original 2007 fake trailer and adopting a slick, modern horror style reminiscent of recent elevated slashers. The kills are signature Roth—extremely graphic and creatively brutal—offering plenty of gore that will satisfy fans of extreme slasher violence. The cast delivers solid performances, portraying a range of characters that touch on themes from corporate greed to family tension. While some characters feel underdeveloped, the film does maintain a whodunit element that keeps the mystery alive until the later stages, engaging the audience in the killer’s identity.
The film attempts a tricky balance between paying homage to nostalgic slasher films and delivering dark social satire. This tonal uncertainty emerges as its main weakness; the mix of campy horror and dramatic narrative sometimes feels disconnected and uneven. Although the premise hints at a sharp critique of consumerism and the problematic legacy of Thanksgiving, these themes remain superficially explored. The clashing tones—between over-the-top murder scenes and serious town investigations—can disengage viewers, leading to a jarring experience that affects overall cohesion.
The film leans heavily on extreme violence and a parade of signature kills, but it lacks the sharp wit or cohesive satire needed to maintain sustained interest. It tries to balance being both artful and absurd, yet ends up feeling off-balance and somewhat numbing, stretching a brief satirical concept into a 106-minute feature without clear follow-through or a unified purpose. While it delivers plenty of gore and horror moments, Thanksgiving ultimately falls short of being a polished homage or a compelling modern reinvention of the slasher genre. The result is entertaining mainly for fans who appreciate relentless slasher violence but may leave others feeling the film is uneven and overstuffed without fully satisfying either as a tribute or as a fresh take on the genre.
In terms of entertainment value, Thanksgiving offers a chaotic mix of gore, dark humor, and missed opportunities that make it an uneven but occasionally thrilling watch. It delivers a fresh avalanche of horror and inventive kill sequences packed with kitschy Thanksgiving references and humorous touches, especially in its opening Black Friday massacre. Fans of Eli Roth’s style will recognize his penchant for mixing intense violence with comedic timing, and the film does a respectable job reviving the feel of classic ’80s slashers with a modern twist. However, it’s a film best suited for devotees of graphic slashers rather than casual horror viewers seeking strong narrative or thematic depth.
Ultimately, Thanksgiving stands as a gutsy effort buoyed by bold kills and nostalgic flair, but one that struggles to find a fully satisfying balance between homage, horror, and social commentary. Its impact is intense but uneven, making it a film that may carve out a cult following among gore enthusiasts while leaving others wishing for a sharper, more cohesive final product.
BREAKING IN (1989) opens with veteran safecracker Ernie Mullins (Burt Reynolds) pulling a job at a rich guy’s house, only to be surprised when a young, amateurish thief named Mike (Casey Siemaszko) turns up at the same place to raid the fridge. Immediately taking a liking to the kid, Ernie decides to offer Mike a chance to learn his trade. Thus begins a partnership, and odd-couple friendship, where the two men pull a series of jobs together, with Ernie passing on his knowledge to his young protege who seems to be enjoying the sudden influx of cash into this life. Unfortunately, the generation gap causes some problems as Mike doesn’t necessarily take heed to Ernie’s advice to never being too greedy or flashy. Soon, Mike is renting high rise apartments and buying fancy cars with cash. When they pull a big job on the 4th of July, will Mike’s less than frugal ways drag them both down?!
Written by the excellent, independent writer and director John Sayles (MATEWAN, EIGHT MEN OUT) and directed by Scottish director Bill Forsyth (LOCAL HERO), BREAKING IN is a reminder of just how great Burt Reynolds is in the right role. In his 50’s at the time this was filmed, Reynolds gives a relaxed, lived-in, character performance that comes across as effortlessly cool, and he does it without having to rely on his trademark charm and big grin. The late 80’s were a time when Burt was no longer a box office superstar, and BREAKING IN seems to be an unjustly forgotten entry in his hugely successful career. After this, Burt would find TV success on EVENING SHADE, and he’d be nominated for an Oscar for his role in BOOGIE NIGHTS (1997), but his Ernie Mullins stands out to me as one of his last great film roles. Casey Siemaszko is good as Mike, but this is Reynolds’ show and he’s overshadowed even in a solid performance. As far as the other supporting performances, Sheila Kelley stood out to me as a sharp-tongued prostitute who Siemaszko falls in lust with. The poem she shares about a man’s “balls” is a highlight of the film as far as I’m concerned, and further illustrates the quality of Sayles’ screenplay!
I like the way that BREAKING IN feels low-key, even as the characters engage in their various criminal heists. This can be credited to director Bill Forsyth who turns what could have been a standard master / apprentice crime film into something that feels somewhat realistic. The pacing is slow as Reynolds passes on his knowledge, and for some people it may be too slow, but that’s one of the things I really liked about the movie. The two men really get to know each other. That way, when they have disagreements and blow ups a couple of times, they’re still able to respect each other and patch things up. That’s how things are in the real world, as opposed to most movies where a simple disagreement will almost certainly lead to ridiculous consequences. BREAKING IN respects its characters in a way that’s unique to most crime films.
At the end of the day, BREAKING IN is a gem that is at its best as a lighthearted character study of a professional thief whose time is passing him by. Burt Reynolds rarely got to play roles this subtle, and I think he made the most of the opportunity. As a big fan of Reynolds, I highly recommend this one.
“One missing piece doesn’t make you any less whole.” — Ava Fremont
The Silent Hour is the kind of mid-budget thriller that used to quietly fill up Friday night multiplex lineups, and there’s something refreshing about that. It is not reinventing the genre, but it does just enough with its premise of hearing loss, a deaf witness, and a sealed-off apartment block to feel engaging instead of disposable. When it leans into that sensory angle and the physical geography of the building, it clicks; when it falls back on stock corrupt-cop beats, you can feel the air go out of the room a little.
The setup is straightforward: Boston detective Frank Shaw (Joel Kinnaman) is struggling with permanent hearing loss after an on-the-job accident, trying to find a way back onto the force and into his own life. He is brought in because he knows some sign language and is asked to help take the statement of Ava Fremont (Sandra Mae Frank), a deaf photographer who has video evidence of a brutal gang murder. Once Frank leaves her run-down apartment building, he realizes he forgot his phone, heads back, and walks straight into a hit team sent to silence Ava; the rest of the film traps them inside the almost-condemned complex with a crew of killers who, crucially, they often cannot hear coming.
Director Brad Anderson has always had a knack for tense, contained spaces, and you can feel the same instincts here that powered films like Session 9 and Transsiberian, even if The Silent Hour is more conventional. The apartment block is shot as a grim, half-abandoned maze: flickering lights, long hallways, and just enough remaining tenants to complicate any hope of a clean escape. Anderson stages several sequences as slow, creeping cat-and-mouse instead of wall-to-wall gunfire, which fits the “you can’t hear the danger” concept nicely and gives the movie a more claustrophobic vibe than the plot synopsis might suggest.
Where the film genuinely distinguishes itself is in how it uses sound—or sometimes refuses to use it. Scenes that shift into Frank’s perspective often dampen or distort the audio, letting the score fall away so small vibrations, visual cues, and body language carry the tension, while Ava’s point of view goes further, dropping into near-total silence and forcing the audience to scan frames the way she would. It is not as radical as something like A Quiet Place, but it is effective, and the sound department clearly understands that “absence” can be as expressive as any bombastic action mix.
Kinnaman slides comfortably into this kind of bruised, low-key action role, and here he plays Frank as a guy permanently half a step behind the world around him, frustrated but not wallowing. The script gives him some predictable beats—guilt, self-destructive drinking, a shot at redemption—but Kinnaman sells the physical awkwardness of someone relearning how to move and work while not fully trusting his own body. Sandra Mae Frank is the movie’s secret weapon, though; as Ava, she never reads as a passive victim, and there is a practical, almost sardonic edge to the way she navigates the situation that helps keep the film from turning mawkish about disability.
The dynamic between Frank and Ava is also where the film finds its heart, even if it is pretty lightly sketched. Their communication is messy at first—his sign language is rusty and limited, hers is fast and precise—but that awkwardness becomes part of the tension, because a misread sign or delayed understanding can get people killed in this environment. As they settle into a rough rhythm, the movie quietly nudges Frank toward accepting that his hearing loss is not just a temporary obstacle but a permanent part of who he is now, and Ava is allowed to be more than a symbolic “guide” through that, with her own fears and bad decisions hanging over her.
On the flip side, the actual crime plot is about as standard as they come. The villains are corrupt cops cleaning up a messy murder, and if you have seen more than a couple of thrillers, you will probably guess who is dirty long before the script “reveals” it. There are a few half-hearted attempts at moral compromise and temptation—a hefty bribe, old loyalties—especially around Frank’s former partner Doug Slater (Mark Strong), but the story never digs into systemic rot or moral ambiguity in any meaningful way; it just uses corruption as a convenient engine to keep the bullets and double-crosses coming.
Structurally, the film works best as a series of mini-scenarios inside the building rather than as a twisty conspiracy. You get sequences where Frank and Ava navigate dark stairwells while trying to stay ahead of men they can feel but not hear, tense face-offs in cramped apartments with panicked tenants, and a few well-staged bursts of violence that remind you this is still a pretty nasty situation. The climax leans into fire, chaos, and one last push for survival, and while the resolution lands exactly where you’d expect, the final quieter beats give the characters a bit of closure that feels earned rather than tacked on.
Performance-wise, the supporting cast does its job without stealing the movie. Mekhi Phifer and Mark Strong bring some veteran presence as fellow cops circling around Frank, and even when the writing nudges them toward archetype, they at least feel like people who have known each other for years rather than walking plot devices. The henchmen are more one-note, essentially “the guys with guns” hunting through the building, but the film leans on their physicality and menace instead of trying to give everyone a tragic backstory, which is probably the right call for a lean thriller like this.
If there is a frustration here, it is mostly about missed potential. The core hook—two people with hearing loss trying to survive in a sound-dependent cat-and-mouse game—is strong enough that you can imagine a slightly sharper script pushing much harder on point of view, communication breakdown, and the way the police institution treats disability. Instead, The Silent Hour uses those elements as flavoring around a very familiar skeleton, resulting in a movie that is solid and sometimes gripping but rarely surprising.
Taken on its own terms, though, The Silent Hour is a tight, competently staged thriller that understands how to milk a confined space and an offbeat sensory angle for suspense. The running time is under two hours, the pacing stays brisk, and there are enough well-executed set pieces and committed performances to make it an easy recommendation if you are in the mood for a darker, low-key action night. It will not stick with you the way the very best of Brad Anderson’s work does, but as a late-night watch with the lights down and the volume doing most of the heavy lifting, it gets the job done.
“People don’t always know who they are… ’til it’s too late.” — Frank Hamer
The Highwaymen, as directed by John Lee Hancock, delivers a character-driven, period crime drama that refreshes a story so often mythologized in American pop culture. Instead of glamorizing Bonnie and Clyde, the film spotlights the two former Texas Rangers tasked with ending their crime spree: Frank Hamer (played by Kevin Costner) and Maney Gault (played by Woody Harrelson). Set against the bleak dustbowl landscape of 1934, the film opens with the criminal duo breaking their associates out of Eastham Prison, setting the state of Texas into a panic. In desperation, Governor “Ma” Ferguson authorizes the return of Hamer, a seasoned lawman whose old-school methods have largely been left behind in modern policing.
From the start, The Highwaymen takes its time, inviting viewers into a slower, more contemplative chase rather than the kinetic action often associated with outlaw stories. Hamer, long retired and resistant to rejoining the fight, is persuaded both by the severity of Bonnie and Clyde’s violence and the humiliation his state faces in failing to catch them. Gault, for his part, is recruited despite his own personal struggles, adding a layer of regret and weariness to their partnership. Their pursuit is marked by straightforward detective work—staking out small towns, following trails, and confronting a public that is strangely captivated by the criminals they hunt. The film repeatedly draws attention to the way crowds and the press elevate Bonnie and Clyde, reflecting on an early version of true crime celebrity culture.
The dynamic between Hamer and Gault forms the emotional core of the movie. Their bond is shaped by years of experience, mistakes, and a real sense of being out of place in a society that now doubts their relevance. There’s plenty of banter and friction, but also reflective moments that dig into the costs of life spent in pursuit of justice. Throughout the investigation, the film uses the Texas and Louisiana landscape as a powerful backdrop—the vast, windswept highways underscore the isolation and existential gravity faced by these lawmen. The cinematography favors wide shots and muted colors, giving the chase a feeling of endlessness and melancholy.
Instead of showcasing Bonnie and Clyde as glamorous anti-heroes, the film keeps them at a distance, rarely granting much screen time or dialogue. Violence is handled abruptly and unsentimentally. When it finally arrives, most notably in the climactic ambush, it is portrayed as brutal and inevitable, reminding the viewer that myths are built on blood and public spectacle. The lawmen’s final confrontation results in the infamous shootout, depicted with documentary-like restraint. The aftermath involves a bullet-riddled car towed through throngs of onlookers—an eerie scene that highlights how tragedy becomes spectacle.
One of the film’s greatest strengths is in its portrayal of moral ambiguity. Both Hamer and Gault operate by principles shaped in a different era. Their methods can be rough and unorthodox; they clash with younger law enforcement and the FBI, whose approaches are more bureaucratic, less personal. The film hints at the toll violence and a lifetime in law enforcement has taken on them, including a poignant story from Gault about a tragic accident in his past. These reflections draw out the muted sadness underlying their pursuit, exploring themes of justice, changing times, and what remains after one’s era passes.
Performance-wise, Costner and Harrelson bring authenticity and gravity to their roles. Their chemistry is quiet and real, developed largely through understated scenes—silent drives, awkward motel breakfasts, and occasional arguments broken up by mutual respect. Supporting roles, like Kathy Bates’s steely governor and John Carroll Lynch’s earnest corrections chief, flesh out the historical setting and institutional pressures.
The film doesn’t always dig as deep as it could into the complexities of Depression-era justice, but its restraint and focus on character make up for that. Rather than indulging in nostalgia or sensationalizing violence, it keeps its lens on the human cost—the consequences for the victims, the weariness of the men trying to restore order, and the strange cultural fascination with outlaws. If you’re looking for a grounded historical drama that trades fast action for thoughtful pacing, and puts working-class grit front and center, The Highwaymen is worth the ride.
Through the Shattered Lens 