Tag Archives: crime drama

Review: Justified (by Graham Yost)

Posted on by Arleigh

“You do a good job of hiding it. And I suppose most folks don’t see it. But honestly? You’re the angriest man I have ever known.” — Winona Hawkins (describing Raylan Givens)

Justified is one of those rare TV shows that feels like a perfectly aged whiskey—smooth, rich, and with a kick that lingers long after you’ve finished a glass. Adapted from Elmore Leonard’s stories featuring the sharp-shooting, quick-witted U.S. Marshal Raylan Givens, the FX series is a masterclass in character-driven storytelling, sharp dialogue, and the kind of moral ambiguity that makes you question who you’re really rooting for. At the heart of it all is Timothy Olyphant as Raylan, a man who carries the weight of his past like a well-worn leather jacket, and Walton Goggins as Boyd Crowder, the charismatic, Bible-quoting criminal who might just be the most compelling villain—or antihero—you’ve ever seen on screen.

What makes Justified stand out in a sea of crime dramas is its refusal to take itself too seriously, even when the stakes are life-or-death. The show thrives on its dialogue, which crackles with the kind of wit and rhythm you’d expect from Leonard’s work. Raylan’s dry, understated humor is a constant delight, whether he’s trading barbs with a suspect, outsmarting a room full of criminals, or just trying to keep his cool in the face of his own family’s dysfunction. Olyphant delivers every line with a mix of charm and menace, making Raylan feel like a man who’s seen it all but hasn’t lost his sense of humor—or his moral compass, however bent it might be. There’s a scene early in the series where Raylan gives a criminal 24 hours to leave town, and the way Olyphant sells the quiet intensity of that moment is a testament to his ability to command the screen without raising his voice. He’s the kind of hero who doesn’t need to shout to be heard.

But as good as Olyphant is, Justified might just belong to Walton Goggins as Boyd Crowder. Boyd is the kind of character who could’ve been a cartoonish villain in lesser hands, but Goggins turns him into something far more fascinating. A former coal miner turned criminal mastermind, Boyd is equal parts philosopher, showman, and cold-blooded killer. He quotes the Bible one minute and pulls a trigger the next, all while delivering monologues that somehow make his twisted logic sound almost reasonable. Goggins’ performance is electric, and his chemistry with Olyphant is the kind of alchemy that elevates the entire series. Their dynamic is a dance—sometimes a waltz, sometimes a knife fight—where neither man is entirely sure who’s leading. Boyd isn’t just a thorn in Raylan’s side; he’s a dark reflection of him, a man who also grew up in the same rough-and-tumble world of Harlan County, Kentucky, but chose a different path. Their rivalry is the backbone of the show, and every scene they share is a masterclass in tension and subtext.

Then there’s Ava Crowder, Boyd’s sister-in-law and a force of nature in her own right, portrayed with fierce intelligence by Joelle Carter. Ava’s relationship with Boyd is a rollercoaster of love, hate, and everything in between. Their dynamic is just as compelling as the one between Raylan and Boyd, filled with a volatile mix of loyalty, betrayal, and an undeniable connection that neither can fully shake. Ava’s journey from a woman trying to escape her family’s criminal past to a power player in her own right is one of the show’s most compelling arcs. She’s tough, resourceful, and just as morally complex as the men around her, and her interactions with Boyd crackle with the same energy and tension as his showdowns with Raylan. Whether they’re working together, scheming against each other, or caught in some messy in-between, their relationship adds another layer of depth to the show’s already rich tapestry of characters.

The supporting cast is just as strong, filled with characters who feel like they’ve been lifted straight out of a Leonard novel. There’s Art Mullen, Raylan’s boss and the closest thing he has to a father figure, played with gruff warmth by Nick Searcy. And let’s not forget the various criminals, informants, and eccentric locals who populate Harlan County, each one memorable in their own right. Whether it’s the hilariously unhinged Dickie Bennett or the stoic, loyal Limehouse, the show’s roster of side characters ensures that every episode is packed with personality.

What’s so refreshing about Justified is that it never feels the need to over-explain itself. The dialogue is sharp and efficient, often delivering character development and plot twists in the same breath. The show trusts its audience to keep up, and it rewards that trust with some of the most satisfying writing on television. The banter isn’t just clever—it’s purposeful, revealing layers of the characters and their relationships without ever feeling like exposition. And the action? It’s as tight and precise as Raylan’s aim. The shootouts are sudden and brutal, but they’re never gratuitous. Every pull of the trigger feels earned, and the tension leading up to those moments is often as gripping as the violence itself.

The setting of Harlan County is almost a character in itself. The show paints a vivid picture of a place where the law is more of a suggestion than a rule, and where family loyalty often trumps justice. The rugged, coal-dusted landscape mirrors the moral grayness of the stories being told. This isn’t a world of clear-cut heroes and villains; it’s a world where everyone has their own code, and where the line between right and wrong is as blurry as the smoke from a freshly fired revolver. Raylan himself is a product of this environment, and his struggle to reconcile his past with his present is one of the show’s most compelling threads. He’s a man who left Harlan to become a marshal, but Harlan—and its ghosts—never really left him.

One of the show’s greatest strengths is its ability to balance humor and darkness. Even in its grimmest moments, Justified never loses its sense of fun. The writers have a knack for undercutting tension with a well-placed joke or a bit of absurdity, and the result is a show that’s as entertaining as it is thought-provoking. Whether it’s Raylan’s deadpan reactions to the chaos around him or Boyd’s theatrical antics, there’s always a moment to lighten the mood, even when the stakes are at their highest. This balance keeps the show from ever feeling too heavy, and it makes the darker moments hit even harder when they do arrive.

If there’s one thing Justified doesn’t get enough credit for, it’s its consistency. Over six seasons, the show rarely misfires. The writing remains sharp, the performances stay top-notch, and the stories continue to surprise. Even when it dips into more serialized storytelling in its later seasons, it never loses sight of what makes it special: the characters and their relationships. And when the series finally reaches its conclusion, it does so in a way that feels both satisfying and true to everything that came before. There are no easy answers in Justified, no neat bows tied around its themes. Instead, it leaves you with the sense that life—and justice—is messy, complicated, and often unfair.

At its core, Justified is a show about men and women shaped by their pasts, trying to carve out a future in a world that doesn’t always make it easy. Raylan Givens is a hero, but he’s not a saint. Boyd Crowder is a villain, but he’s not without his own twisted sense of honor. Ava Crowder is a survivor, navigating a world where loyalty is a currency and trust is a luxury. The beauty of the show is that it lets these characters exist in all their complexity, never forcing them into boxes they don’t fit into. And with dialogue that snaps like a twig underfoot and performances that bring every word to life, it’s a series that’s as rewarding to revisit as it is to experience for the first time. If you’re a fan of stories where the characters are as rich as the plot, and where every line of dialogue feels like it’s been polished to a shine, then Justified is the kind of show you’ll want to savor. It’s a modern classic, plain and simple.

Review: Colors (dir. by Dennis Hopper)

Posted on by Arleigh

“You got problems with the whole fuckin’ world.” — Officer Bob Hodges

Consider, for a moment, the cultural landscape of 1988. Inner-city gang violence was hardly a new phenomenon, but it remained largely relegated to local news broadcasts and distant urban nightmares for most of the country. Dennis Hopper’s Colors changed that dynamic almost overnight, serving as a brutal, unfiltered introduction to a world that mainstream America had collectively chosen to ignore. Hopper, whose own countercultural credentials were cemented decades earlier with Easy Rider, took a considerable risk here, and while the final product is undeniably uneven, its cultural footprint is impossible to overstate. The film functions simultaneously as a historical document, a cautionary tale, and a cinematic watermark that forever altered how audiences perceived the volatile landscape of Los Angeles.

The basic setup is old-school buddy-cop material. Robert Duvall plays Bob Hodges, a seasoned LAPD officer in the CRASH unit—Community Resources Against Street Hoodlums—who has spent enough years policing Los Angeles to understand that aggression does not automatically produce respect. Sean Penn plays Danny McGavin, his hotheaded new partner, a guy who approaches every situation like he has something to prove. They are assigned to patrol neighborhoods divided by Bloods, Crips, and Chicano gangs, attempting to keep retaliation killings from escalating into full-scale warfare. The main plot is not especially complicated, and that is probably intentional. Hopper is less interested in a twist-heavy police procedural than in dropping the viewer into a city where tension seems to hang over every street corner, traffic stop, and act of public bravado.

Duvall is the film’s anchor. Hodges is not written as a saint—he is still a cop working inside a hostile and often brutal institution—but Duvall gives him a weary, almost paternal quality that makes him more compelling than the standard “veteran teaching the rookie a lesson” archetype. He understands that policing gangs is not as simple as walking in, making arrests, and congratulating yourself afterward. He has a kind of street fluency, knowing when to talk, when to threaten, and when to step back before a small humiliation becomes a body count. Penn, meanwhile, is all sharp edges. McGavin is reckless, racist in ways he may not fully recognize, and always a half-second away from making a situation worse. Penn can be exhausting here, but that is the point. His character embodies the movie’s fear that a badge, a gun, and an appetite for confrontation can be as combustible as any gang rivalry.

Hopper directs Colors with a lot of energy and an almost documentary-like alertness to its setting. The film’s Los Angeles feels sun-blasted, crowded, and perpetually unstable, not the glossy dream factory of postcards and celebrity magazines. Haskell Wexler’s cinematography does huge work in making the city feel tactile and lived-in. Hopper also has a sharp ear for the way music, cars, clothing, graffiti, and neighborhood boundaries become a visual language of identity. The title is not subtle, but it works: colors signify affiliation, pride, danger, and the instantly visible lines people are willing to kill or die over. The film’s soundtrack, including Ice-T’s title song, further locks it into the cultural moment, giving the movie a rawness that separates it from more generic police thrillers.

What makes Colors uncomfortable is also what makes it valuable. Its attention to gangs was controversial from the beginning, with critics and community voices arguing that it risked sensationalizing violence and reducing Black and Latino communities to dangerous backdrops for a cop story. The criticism is fair. The film sees gang life largely from the windshield of the LAPD cruiser; its gang-affiliated characters are often treated as threats, symbols, or tragic consequences rather than people granted the same interiority as Hodges and McGavin. Even at its strongest, Colors can make complex social realities feel like an arena in which two white cops test their methods and masculinity.

Still, it would be wrong to dismiss it as empty exploitation. Colors does not really romanticize its violence. Hopper shoots drive-bys, funerals, and retaliations with a nasty abruptness; nobody comes out looking triumphant. The gang members are not cleanly divided into monsters and victims either. Some are cruel, some are frightened, some are locked into a status they may not know how to escape, and some clearly enjoy the power that comes with being feared. The movie may not fully examine poverty, segregation, institutional racism, the drug economy, or generational trauma, but the instability of its world comes through. The police are not presented as saviors, either. They are frequently antagonistic, operating through intimidation and humiliation, while McGavin’s actions repeatedly demonstrate how easily law enforcement can intensify exactly the conflict it claims to contain.

This is where Colors matters most historically. Before it, movies had certainly depicted urban crime, racial conflict, and youth violence, but Hopper’s film made contemporary L.A. gang culture recognizable as a major studio subject. It helped bring gang culture, strained police-community relations, and inner-city issues into a much wider popular conversation. The film did not invent the genre that followed, but it helped clear a path for the wave of gang-related and urban-crime movies that arrived in the late ’80s and especially the ’90s. Films such as Boyz n the Hood, American Me, South Central, New Jack City, and Menace II Society inherited some of its urgency, its focus on neighborhoods under siege, and its refusal to pretend gang violence was merely a distant news-story problem.

The major difference is that many of those later movies also corrected Colors’ biggest limitation: they shifted the point of view inward. Boyz n the Hood does not treat South Central as a backdrop for police work; it makes the residents’ friendships, families, dreams, grief, and daily routines the emotional center. American Me follows the historical and institutional roots of Chicano gang identity with a scope Colors never attempts. South Central turns toward redemption, fatherhood, and the possibility—however fragile—of interrupting the cycle. In that sense, Hopper’s film can feel like an important opening statement rather than the final word. It showed mainstream audiences the subject; the films that followed increasingly demanded that audiences understand the people living inside it.

Its influence can also be felt internationally, though it is best understood as part of a broader transnational exchange of urban-crime cinema, hip-hop culture, and anti-police sentiment rather than a simple one-to-one blueprint. Mathieu Kassovitz’s La Haine is far more formally daring and politically focused than Colors, but both films draw power from a city divided by territory, race, policing, and simmering retaliation. La Haine brought France’s banlieues to mainstream French audiences and put police violence and marginalized youth at the center of the frame. Where Colors views the street crisis through law enforcement’s eyes, La Haine makes its young Black, Jewish, and Arab protagonists the whole point. Yet the resemblance is there in the oppressive sense of escalation, the combustible police encounters, and the idea that one violent incident can send an already alienated community toward catastrophe. Colors helped establish a mainstream vocabulary for this kind of story, while La Haine transformed that vocabulary into something more intimate, stylized, and politically devastating.

In the end, Colors is messy, dated in places, and frustratingly narrow in its perspective, but those flaws are part of why it is worth revisiting. It captures a Hollywood industry beginning to confront an issue it did not fully understand, using the sturdy frame of a cop thriller to look at a social wound much larger than its plot. Dennis Hopper brings volatility, Duvall brings soul, Penn brings danger, and Los Angeles itself does the rest. It is not the definitive gang film—later movies would surpass it in depth, perspective, and emotional force—but it is a crucial precursor. Colors made the subject visible to the mainstream, and the films that came after kept pushing the camera closer to the people trapped inside the picture.

Review: Scarface (dir. by Brian De Palma)

Posted on by Arleigh

“All I have in this world is my balls and my word.” — Tony Montana

Brian De Palma’s Scarface is one of those movies that seems almost impossible to discuss at a normal volume. Everything about it is loud, excessive, sweaty, violent, vulgar, and deliberately too much. The movie does not simply tell the story of Tony Montana, a Cuban immigrant who rises through Miami’s cocaine trade before destroying himself. It turns that rise and fall into a neon-lit, operatic explosion of greed, paranoia, sex, money, and violence. At first, Scarface can feel like an overlong, incredibly entertaining gangster fantasy. But underneath all the cocaine mountains and machine guns, it is also a deeply cynical story about the American dream and what happens when ambition is allowed to become a substitute for an actual soul.

Tony arrives in Miami during the Mariel boatlift, immediately presenting himself as someone who refuses to be intimidated. He is not interested in being grateful, polite, or patient. Tony wants power, and he wants it quickly. That impatience is both his greatest strength and the obvious source of his downfall. He is willing to do things that other people are too afraid to do, which helps him climb the criminal ladder. At the same time, he cannot understand the idea of limits. Every success only makes him want something bigger: more money, more cocaine, more influence, a bigger house, a more beautiful wife, and absolute control over everyone around him.

The screenplay by Oliver Stone gives Tony a kind of blunt, almost cartoonishly direct philosophy. He believes that the world belongs to people who take it. In Tony’s mind, morality is mostly an excuse invented by people who lack the courage to seize what they want. That attitude makes him magnetic, but the film never truly presents his worldview as admirable. Tony may have the confidence of a king, but he behaves more like a man who is constantly terrified that someone will discover he is not really in control. His bravado is a shield against humiliation, poverty, and powerlessness. The more successful he becomes, the more obvious it is that he is still fighting the same emotional battle he was fighting when he first arrived.

Al Pacino’s performance is the central reason Scarface remains so watchable. He plays Tony as a human grenade, a character who seems to be vibrating with anger even when he is sitting still. The accent, the posture, the rapid shifts in mood, and the exaggerated physical gestures could easily have turned Tony into a parody. In fact, there are moments when Pacino absolutely does push the character into parody. Yet that is also part of the performance’s strange power. Tony is a man who has constructed himself as a larger-than-life personality, so Pacino makes him seem like someone performing Tony Montana even while he is alone.

Pacino understands that Tony’s violence is not simply about cruelty. It is about insecurity, pride, and the panic of losing status. Tony cannot tolerate being laughed at, challenged, ignored, or treated as inferior. A casual insult can become a life-or-death confrontation because he experiences disrespect as an existential threat. Pacino makes those reactions frightening, but he also gives them a pathetic quality. Tony is powerful enough to terrify an entire room, yet emotionally he often behaves like a wounded child demanding recognition.

That contradiction is what keeps the performance from becoming empty scenery chewing. Tony is ridiculous, but he is also tragic. He is disgusting, but he has flashes of genuine feeling, especially in his relationship with his sister Gina. Unfortunately, even his love for her becomes possessive and destructive. Tony wants to protect Gina, but he also wants to own her choices, her sexuality, and her future. He cannot separate love from control. The same problem affects his relationship with Elvira, played by Michelle Pfeiffer, and eventually his entire empire. Tony does not know how to care for people without turning them into extensions of himself.

De Palma’s direction matches Tony’s personality. The film is staged like a gangster epic filtered through a fever dream. Miami becomes a place of bright colors, glass surfaces, giant mansions, tropical heat, and constant artificial light. The city feels less like a real environment than a hallucination of wealth. Tony’s home is especially important because it looks like a monument to success but gradually becomes a prison. The famous final shootout transforms that mansion into a battlefield, with Tony defending his kingdom even after it has already collapsed around him.

The violence in Scarface is often shocking, but it is also theatrical. De Palma uses suspense, wide compositions, sudden bursts of brutality, and moments of grotesque visual humor to make the violence feel both horrifying and unreal. The movie’s excess can be exhausting, particularly in the middle section, where Tony’s rise begins to blur into an endless parade of deals, parties, arguments, and drug use. The length is part of the point: we are meant to feel Tony’s world becoming bloated and unstable. Still, some of the film’s scenes repeat ideas that it has already established. Tony is ambitious, Tony is paranoid, Tony is violent, and eventually Tony is high. The movie sometimes keeps shouting after the audience has already heard it.

That criticism matters because Scarface is not a flawless film. Its dialogue can be clumsy, its supporting characters are sometimes more functional than fully developed, and its treatment of women is frequently limited by Tony’s perspective. The film wants to condemn male domination and criminal capitalism, but it is also fascinated by the same things it condemns. It shows us the luxury, the clothes, the cars, the glamorous parties, and the apparent freedom of Tony’s lifestyle. Even while warning that this life ends in misery, it makes the fantasy visually seductive.

That tension helps explain the movie’s complicated legacy. When Scarface was first released in 1983, many critics found it excessive, ugly, and morally confused. Over time, however, its reach expanded dramatically through home video and popular culture. The movie became especially important to hip-hop, where artists recognized Tony’s language of survival, hustle, ambition, and self-invention. Al Pacino has credited hip-hop with helping the film find its audience, saying that rappers understood and embraced it. That relationship became one of the most important parts of Scarface’s afterlife.

Hip-hop did not simply treat Tony as a cool gangster. It also turned him into a symbol. The character could represent ruthless ambition, immigrant struggle, street credibility, material success, or the danger of becoming trapped by one’s own myth. Lines from the movie entered rap lyrics, album skits, music videos, and stage names. The film’s imagery became a shorthand for a certain kind of rise-from-nothing fantasy, even when the original movie was trying to show how poisonous that fantasy could be. In this sense, Scarface became bigger than its initial critical reputation. It stopped being only a crime film and became a cultural text that people could quote, remix, parody, and reinterpret.

Its influence on video games is just as obvious, especially in Grand Theft Auto: Vice City. That game’s 1980s Miami setting, neon colors, criminal empire structure, radio culture, and flamboyant protagonist clearly operate in the same general territory as Scarface. The film has also been connected directly to other games, including Scarface: The World Is Yours, which imagines an alternate continuation after the movie’s ending. The game allows players to rebuild Tony’s empire, purchase businesses, intimidate rivals, and expand across Miami. It turns the movie’s rise-and-fall structure into an interactive fantasy in which the player gets to ignore the ending and keep climbing.

That difference between film and game is revealing. Scarface ultimately insists that Tony’s dream cannot survive because Tony himself is incapable of moderation, trust, or self-knowledge. Video games can take the same world and make the player feel rewarded for doing exactly what Tony does: acquiring territory, collecting money, buying weapons, and becoming more powerful. In that format, the critique of excess can easily become a celebration of excess. Yet that is also why the film remains so influential to games. It provides an instantly understandable fantasy of criminal ascent, complete with a distinctive visual style and a protagonist whose personality is impossible to ignore.

In the end, Scarface is both a warning and a temptation. It tells us that Tony Montana is doomed, but it makes his climb so entertaining that we understand why generations of viewers, rappers, and game designers kept returning to him. Al Pacino’s performance is the movie’s beating heart: outrageous, funny, frightening, and occasionally heartbreaking. De Palma’s film may be messy and overstuffed, but its messiness is part of its identity. Scarface does not want to be tasteful or balanced. It wants to overwhelm you, seduce you, and then leave you staring at the wreckage of a man who mistook having everything for being somebody.

Review: Shot Caller (dir. by Ric Roman Waugh)

Posted on by Arleigh

“The fact is, we all started out as someone’s little angel. And a place like this forces us to become warriors or victims. Nothing in between can exist here.” — “Bottles”

Shot Caller (released in 2017), directed by Ric Roman Waugh, is a gritty, morally complex crime drama that dives deep into the brutal world of prison gangs, redemption, and the blurred lines between justice and survival. Clocking in at just over two hours, it’s a tense, character-driven story that doesn’t shy away from the harsh realities of its setting, delivering a raw and unfiltered look at life behind bars and the psychological toll it exacts.

The film follows Jacob Harlon, played by Nikolaj Coster-Waldau, a successful businessman whose life spirals out of control after a DUI accident leaves his best friend dead. Sentenced to prison, Jacob is thrust into a violent, hierarchical world where survival means adapting to the rules of the Shot Callers—high-ranking gang members who control the prison’s underground economy. The film’s title itself is a nod to this brutal hierarchy, where every decision, every move, is dictated by those at the top. As Jacob navigates this treacherous landscape, he transforms from a naive new inmate into a hardened, strategic player, adopting the moniker “Money” for his financial acumen. His journey is as much about physical survival as it is about the psychological toll of losing his identity and grappling with the moral compromises he’s forced to make.

What makes Shot Caller stand out is its unflinching portrayal of prison life. Waugh, who also co-wrote the screenplay, doesn’t romanticize the violence or the characters. The film opens with a visceral, almost documentary-like sequence of Jacob’s first days in prison, where he’s immediately targeted by a white supremacist gang. The brutality is shocking, but it sets the tone for a story that refuses to sugarcoat the realities of incarceration. The prison scenes are claustrophobic, the tension palpable, and the stakes feel painfully real. Waugh’s direction ensures that every punch, every stab, every whispered threat carries weight. There’s no glorification here—just the cold, hard truth of a system that chews people up and spits them out. Even the brief but chilling appearance of Holt McCallany as The Beast, a high-ranking Aryan Brotherhood member, leaves a lasting impression. Though his screen time is limited, McCallany’s performance is unforgettable, exuding a quiet, menacing authority that underscores the danger lurking in every corner of the prison.

Nikolaj Coster-Waldau delivers a career-best performance as Jacob. Known to many as Jaime Lannister from Game of Thrones, Coster-Waldau sheds his noble, charismatic image to embody a man broken by guilt and reshaped by circumstance. His physical transformation is striking—he bulked up significantly for the role, but it’s his emotional range that truly impresses. Jacob’s arc is one of the most compelling aspects of the film. Early on, he’s a fish out of water, a man clinging to his old life and morals. But as the story progresses, we see the gradual erosion of his principles. The moment he finally snaps and fights back is a turning point, not just for his character but for the audience’s perception of him. By the time he’s released from prison, he’s almost unrecognizable—both physically and psychologically. Coster-Waldau makes you believe every step of this transformation, and it’s a testament to his skill as an actor that you’re rooting for Jacob even as he makes increasingly questionable decisions.

The supporting cast is equally strong. Omari Hardwick plays Shotgun, a high-ranking member of the black gang who becomes Jacob’s reluctant mentor. Hardwick brings a quiet intensity to the role, balancing threats with moments of unexpected humanity. Lake Bell plays Jacob’s wife, Kate, and her performance is heartbreaking in its restraint. Kate’s struggle to hold her family together while her husband is in prison is a grounded counterpoint to the chaos unfolding behind bars. Jon Bernthal, another standout, plays a prison guard with a morally ambiguous role in Jacob’s journey. Bernthal, as always, brings a raw, simmering energy to his scenes, making his character’s motivations feel authentic, even when they’re not entirely clear.

The film’s pacing is deliberate, almost methodical. Waugh takes his time building the world and the characters, and while this might frustrate viewers looking for constant action, it pays off in the long run. The first act is heavy on exposition, introducing the prison’s power structures and the various factions at play. But once Jacob starts to find his footing, the story picks up momentum. The middle act is where Shot Caller really shines, as Jacob’s alliances and rivalries become more complex. The film’s climax is a high-stakes heist that feels both inevitable and earned, a culmination of everything Jacob has learned—and lost—during his time inside.

One of the most interesting themes in Shot Caller is the idea of control. The title itself refers to those who call the shots, but the film constantly questions who really has power in this world. Jacob starts as a man who thinks he’s in control of his life, only to have that illusion shattered. In prison, he learns that control is a fragile, often violent thing, constantly shifting hands. Even after his release, he’s not truly free—he’s still bound by the rules of the criminal underworld he’s now a part of. The film suggests that in a system as broken as this one, no one is ever truly in control. It’s a bleak message, but one that feels authentic to the story being told.

The cinematography, by Dana Gonzales, is another highlight. The prison scenes are shot in a way that emphasizes the claustrophobia and tension of the environment. The color palette is muted, with lots of grays and blues, reflecting the cold, harsh reality of Jacob’s new world. The action sequences, when they do occur, are brutal and realistic, with a handheld camera style that puts you right in the middle of the chaos. There’s no glamour to the violence here—it’s messy, desperate, and often over in seconds.

If Shot Caller has a weakness, it’s that some of its themes and plot points might feel familiar to fans of the genre. The story of a man falling into the criminal underworld and struggling to escape isn’t exactly new. What saves the film from feeling derivative is its commitment to authenticity and its strong performances. Waugh’s script also avoids easy answers. Jacob isn’t a hero, and the film doesn’t pretend he is. He’s a flawed, complicated man making the best of a series of terrible situations. The ending, without spoiling too much, is bittersweet and ambiguous, leaving you to ponder just how much of Jacob’s old self is left—and whether he can ever truly escape the life he’s been drawn into.

Another aspect worth praising is the film’s soundtrack. The score, composed by Antonio Pinto, is understated but effective, using a mix of electronic and orchestral elements to underscore the tension and emotional beats of the story. The use of silence is also notable—there are moments where the absence of music makes the violence or the weight of a decision hit even harder.

Shot Caller is a film that lingers with you long after the credits roll. It’s not an easy watch, and it’s certainly not for the faint of heart. The violence is graphic, the language is harsh, and the themes are heavy. But for those willing to engage with it, the film offers a gripping, thought-provoking experience. It’s a story about survival, identity, and the cost of redemption. Ric Roman Waugh has crafted a prison drama that stands alongside classics like The Shawshank Redemption and American History X, even if it doesn’t quite reach their lofty heights. What it lacks in originality, it makes up for in execution, with stellar performances and a relentless commitment to its vision. In a world where crime dramas often glorify the outlaw life, Shot Caller is refreshingly honest. It doesn’t ask you to root for Jacob because he’s a good guy—it asks you to understand him, flaws and all. And by the end, you do. You understand the choices he makes, even if you don’t agree with them. That’s the mark of a great character study, and Shot Caller delivers on that front in spades. It’s a film that will leave you thinking, long after the final shot fades to black.

Villain of the Day: Vic Mackey (The Shield)

Posted on by Arleigh

“Good cop and bad cop have left for the day. I’m a different kind of cop.” — Vic Mackey

From the moment he shot a fellow detective in the face in the pilot episode, Vic Mackey of The Shield redefined the television antihero, establishing himself as one of the most mesmerizing and morally complex villains ever to grace the small screen. Unlike the charming mobsters or conflicted drug dealers that populated the era’s prestige dramas, Mackey was a cop—a figure sworn to uphold the very laws he so casually and brutally shattered. This foundational transgression was the show’s masterstroke, forcing the audience into a complicity that would only deepen over seven seasons, as they rooted for a man who was, by any conventional measure, a monster. His character wasn’t just a villain; he was a challenge to the very concept of heroism in a “gray time,” as actor Michael Chiklis aptly described it.

The bedrock of Vic Mackey’s charisma lies in his unwavering, almost terrifying, conviction in his own moral code. He is the ultimate “ends justify the means” pragmatist, operating in a world he sees as too dangerous for the niceties of due process. Mackey views his brutality and corruption as necessary tools to fight a greater evil, a twisted sense of duty that makes him simultaneously repulsive and indispensable. As the show’s creator, Shawn Ryan, noted, the audience was shown a man who was “a protector” in a frightening world, and that primal allure is potent. He steals from drug dealers, beats suspects, and burns a man’s face on a stove, yet all of this is framed as a means to keep the streets of Farmington safe—a justification that, for many viewers, became tragically persuasive.

This duality is what makes him so compelling; Vic Mackey is not a one-dimensional sociopath but a man of fierce, contradictory loyalties. He is a devoted, if deeply flawed, father who steals to pay for his autistic children’s medical bills, and a protector of the vulnerable, like the prostitute Connie and the young victims of a child pornography ring. Walton Goggins, who played his partner Shane Vendrell, suggested that the character’s core was “compartmentalization.” This allowed Mackey to show genuine compassion in one breath and coldly blackmail a fellow officer for being gay in the next, using that knowledge as a tool for control. He is an “Even Evil Has Loved Ones” archetype, but pushed to such an extreme that his love for his family becomes yet another justification for his escalating sins. This constant oscillation between good and evil creates a magnetic dissonance, making him impossible to dismiss as a simple monster.

The show’s genius was in ensuring that this dissonance was a source of agonizing tension for the audience. Creator Shawn Ryan was genuinely surprised to find that viewers overwhelmingly rooted for Mackey against a “clean” Internal Affairs investigator, proving that Chiklis’s performance had woven an almost unbreakable spell. To watch The Shield is to engage in a constant, uncomfortable negotiation with one’s own morality. The show sparked intense debate about whether Vic deserved punishment or absolution, a testament to the complexity of the character. The show’s narrative, as Goggins put it, is a “morality tale” where “you reap what you’ve sown,” but the path to that reckoning is paved with so many justifications and compelling moments of “good” that the audience is left hoping against hope for his redemption, even as his sins pile up.

Ultimately, Vic Mackey’s mesmerizing villainy lies in his chillingly relatable humanity. He is not a cackling antagonist or a far-removed tyrant; he is a man who, when presented with a choice between his survival and his soul, consistently chooses the former with an unnerving lack of remorse. The show’s iconic final scene, where he is trapped in a bureaucratic purgatory at an ICE desk, is a perfect, ironic punishment for a man who lived for action and control. It’s a fate that feels both just and heartbreaking. Vic Mackey remains a towering figure in television history because he forces us to confront a disturbing question: if a man who commits such evil can still command our sympathy and allegiance, what does that say about us, and what are we willing to forgive?

Villain of the Day

Review: Hell or High Water (dir. by David MacKenzie)

Posted on by Arleigh

“I’ve been poor my whole life… like a disease passing from generation to generation. But not my boys, not anymore.” == Toby Howard

Hell or High Water is a gritty neo-Western that captures the desperation of rural America with sharp dialogue and tense heists. Directed by David Mackenzie and written by Taylor Sheridan, it stars Chris Pine and Ben Foster as brothers robbing banks across West Texas to save their family ranch. As the second film in Sheridan’s American Frontier Trilogy, it dives deep into economic despair on the fraying edges of modern America, carving out a raw, personal tale of survival amid systemic rot.

The story kicks off with Toby Howard (Pine), a quiet divorced dad scraping by at a casino, teaming up with his wild older brother Tanner (Foster), fresh out of prison and itching for chaos, for a string of quick bank jobs. They’re targeting branches of the Texas Midlands Bank, the same predatory outfit that’s been bleeding their late mother’s ranch dry with reverse mortgages that ballooned after her death. Toby’s motive is pure and heartbreaking: he wants to pay off the debt and hand the property—now sitting on untapped oil reserves—to his estranged kids, breaking a multi-generational cycle of poverty that’s crushed their family under debt, divorce, and dead-end jobs. It’s not about greed; it’s survival, wrapped in a fierce code of brotherly loyalty that feels timeless, echoing the blood oaths of classic Westerns like The Searchers or Unforgiven. Sheridan builds this setup methodically, letting the brothers’ quiet desperation simmer before the first robbery, making their partnership feel inevitable and doomed from the start. You get these early glimpses of their bond—Toby’s measured calm clashing with Tanner’s explosive energy—over shared meals or late-night drives, hinting at the fractures that prison and hardship have carved into their lives.

What stands out right away is how the film paints West Texas as its own brutal character—dusty highways stretching into infinity, faded diners serving coffee and Whataburger breakfast tacos, ghost towns where the only new construction is more banks or payday loan shacks preying on the broke. Giles Nuttgens’ cinematography turns the landscape into a vast, unforgiving canvas, with wide shots of endless plains, shimmering heat haze, and abandoned oil pumps that mirror the characters’ isolation and the weight of their choices. The visuals aren’t flashy; they’re oppressive, framing lone figures against horizons that swallow them whole, emphasizing how small these men feel against the indifferent sprawl. Nick Cave and Warren Ellis’ score adds a haunting twang—sparse piano notes, eerie strings, and subtle guitar plucks that build tension without ever overpowering the dialogue or action. It’s masterfully subtle, letting the silence between robberies speak volumes about the boredom, hopelessness, and fleeting camaraderie of these small, overlooked lives in flyover country. Even the sound design nails it: the rumble of getaway trucks, the click of slot machines in casinos, the distant wail of sirens—all weaving a sonic tapestry of gritty realism.

Chris Pine shines as Toby, completely shedding his action-hero polish for a layered everyman performance full of bottled-up resolve and quiet pain. You see the weight of his failures—a loveless marriage shattered, kids he barely knows living hours away—in every furrowed glance, every deliberate pause before he pulls a mask down. He’s the planner, the reluctant criminal whose moral compass wavers just enough to justify the heists in his mind, but you sense the toll it’s taking, like a man grinding his teeth through every moral compromise. Ben Foster, though, steals every scene he’s in as Tanner, the hothead ex-con with a wolfish grin that barely masks his pent-up rage and damage. His unhinged energy explodes during the heists—like firing warning shots at terrified tellers or flipping off pursuing cops mid-chase—but it’s always undercut by real pathos; years in prison have broken something fundamental in him, turning brotherly love into a volatile lifeline. Their dynamic is the beating heart of the film—casual banter over stolen cars, casino poker games, or roadside Whataburger runs feels achingly genuine, a brief respite from the doom that’s closing in. Moments like Tanner teasing Toby about his ex-wife or the brothers sharing a rare laugh humanize them, making their inevitable collision with fate hit that much harder.

Then there’s the pursuit side of the equation: Texas Rangers Marcus Hamilton (Jeff Bridges) and his partner Alberto Parker (Gil Birmingham), who provide the perfect counterpoint to the brothers’ frenzy. Bridges chews the scenery with gleeful abandon as the grizzled vet nearing retirement, obsessed with cracking one last big case before hanging it up. His folksy drawl delivers casual racist jabs at his Native American partner—not out of outright malice, but as a form of twisted, old-school affection that reveals Marcus’s own deep-seated insecurities about aging and obsolescence. It’s uncomfortable, authentic, and played with such charm that it lands as character revelation rather than cheap shock. Birmingham matches him beat for beat with deadpan comebacks that land like quiet thunder, turning their stakeouts into a buddy-cop routine laced with sharp cultural commentary. Chats about diner waitresses’ curves, Comanche history, or the ethics of bank robbery add unexpected levity and depth, transforming the cat-and-mouse chase into something richer, almost philosophical, amid the choking West Texas dust. Bridges’ Marcus isn’t just hunting criminals; he’s confronting his own mortality, piecing together the brothers’ pattern like a puzzle that might define his legacy.

Taylor Sheridan’s script nails modern American malaise without ever slipping into preachiness or melodrama. Poverty isn’t some abstract talking point; it’s visceral—Toby’s trailer-park existence with its peeling paint and flickering lights, the single mom’s quiet despair over her mortgage payments, the rusted oil rigs promising riches that never trickle down to anyone local. The banks emerge as the true villains, plastering billboards with false salvation (“Texas Midlands: Your Friend in Need”) while gobbling up ranches through fine-print loopholes and aggressive collections. Sheridan weaves in these details organically—no info-dumps, just overheard conversations at diners or glimpses of foreclosure signs dotting the highway—that build a world where desperation breeds crime. Violence erupts organically from this pressure cooker—robbers improvise with stolen cars and sawn-off shotguns, rangers swap hunches over lukewarm diner coffee—not in overblown Hollywood set pieces, but in raw, consequential bursts that leave real scars. A botched heist introduces innocent blood on their hands, forcing you to grapple with whether Toby’s noble ends can ever justify Tanner’s reckless means, a moral tightrope Sheridan walks with unflinching precision. It’s this nuance that elevates the film: no one’s purely good or evil, just products of their environment, clawing for a scrap of dignity.

The film’s slow burn pays off in spades. Early jobs are clinical and methodical: masks on, small bills only from the tellers’ drawers, in-and-out in under two minutes to avoid dye packs or alarms, always hitting small branches mid-morning when staff is light. Tension simmers in the mundane details—laundering dirty cash at Native casinos amid blinking lights and cigarette smoke, dodging security cams with cheap disguises, or holing up in cheap motels with peeling wallpaper—building inexorably to a final showdown that’s as brutal as it is poetic. No heroes ride off into the sunset unscathed; justice twists unpredictably like the West Texas wind, leaving you questioning who’s really won in this rigged game. It’s balanced too—no glorifying crime without consequences. Toby’s noble intent constantly clashes with Tanner’s powder-keg recklessness, while Marcus’s dogged pursuit peels back layers of his own regrets about a life spent chasing ghosts. Everyone’s deeply flawed, chasing some form of redemption in a system that’s stacked against the little guy from the jump, and Sheridan lets those contradictions breathe without forcing resolutions.

Pacing does drag a tad in the middle, with those ranger stakeouts testing patience at times, but it masterfully mirrors the tedious grind of real low-level crime—the waiting, the watching, the endless coffee refills—making the climaxes land with twice the force. Character depth is rock-solid across the board, though side players like the waitress (Katy Mixon) or the casino manager get a bit short shrift in the script’s tight focus. Still, the core quartet carries the weight effortlessly, with Bridges delivering a masterclass in weathered charm—part crusty mentor, part comic relief, all heart. Even smaller beats, like a teller’s trembling hands or a deputy’s split-second choice, add texture without stealing focus.

Hell or High Water revives the Western genre for the 21st century—less six-guns and saloons, more economic gunslinging and ATM skimmers. At its core, it’s about family ties that bind even as they strangle, personal failures that haunt like ghosts on the plains, and faceless corporations devouring the heartland one foreclosure at a time. Toby’s final call to his ex-wife, hinting at a freer future for his boys on the now-clear-titled ranch, lands with bittersweet punch, his voice cracking just enough to sell the lie he tells himself. Marcus, surveying the bloodied aftermath from a ridge, mutters about Comanches losing their land centuries ago—a stark reminder that history’s cycles of loss and revenge remain unbroken, no matter who holds the deed. No tidy Hollywood bows, just hard-earned truth staring you down from the screen.

In a landscape clogged with summer blockbusters, this indie gem—backed by bold financiers—proves that small-scale stories pack the biggest emotional wallop. Watch it for the immersive vibes and regional flavor, from the twangy accents to the sun-bleached pickups; stay for the soul-stirring performances and themes that linger long after the credits. If you dug the Coens’ No Country for Old Men, this slots right in—tense as a taut wire, thoughtful without pontificating, unflinching in its gaze at America’s underbelly. Hell yeah, it’s absolutely worth your time.

Forever Knight – S1:E3 – “For I Have Sinned”

Posted on by Leonard Wilson

“He was brought across in 1228. Prayed on humans for their blood. 
Now, he wants to be mortal again.To repay society for his sins. 
To emerge from his World of Darkness. From his endless Forever Night.”

The Prologue opens in the back of an electronic store, where a couple is making out. The woman pushes her Security Guard lover away playfully and states she has to go, fastening a cross around her neck before leaving. Inside her car, the woman puts on a wedding ring. Before she can leave, a figure grabs her from the back seat, ripping the cross from her neck and whispering “You don’t deserve this.” as she screams. It’s time for another case!

Nick arrives at Janette’s nightclub, greeting each other with a small dance before Nick relays the recent murders in the city. “Two women, one decapitated, one disembowled.” Janette wonders why he came to her. She doesn’t care about mortals and reminds Nick that he’s “not people”, by dipping her finger in her blood filled glass, offering a taste. Schanke arrives in the club, getting a little close to one of the vampire patrons when Nick escorts him out. “It’s dangerous in there, Schanke.”, to which Schanke argues that his entire lineage are filled with ladies men who fooled around. They don’t have much time to go into details as he tells Nick about the latest crime scene.

With the chalk outline and blood splatter, Nick is quickly able to discern the crime as a crucifixion and has the cops on the scene bring in the guard as a suspect. One thing is certain, there is a an incredible about of blood loss. Could another vampire be doing this? At the morgue, Natalie’s analysis supports Nick’s theory. Death by a coronary. As she removes the victim’s cross, she sees Nick flinch and says “These things really make you uncomfortable, don’t they?” His response is that they make him sick. Natalie apologizes, noting he’ll have to keep the cross as evidence, with the other two woman all having had crosses with them and were all Catholic. 

In a church, a priest listens to a confession. The voice in the other room explains that he’s not a sinner, that he holds the keys of perdition and of death. Father Pierre Rochefort (Michael McManus, TV’s Lexx) tries to dissuade the individual, but only receives a warning that more sinners will face his wrath. The priest hears footsteps scamper away, visibly shaken. 

At his apartment, Nick tries some garlic pills that send him into a short fit. As he recovers, he examines the cross Natalie gave him that causes him to remember being in a chapel in the Dark Ages. He recalls Joan(Christine Cox, who ironically played a cop in her own vampire show, Blood Ties) who tells him he’s cursed because his salvation has him living in fear of death. As he raises his hand to the nearby cross in the flashback, his hand catches fire. At the same time, he drops the evidence cross into his palm, which burns a small imprint. “Well, the garlic pills are definitely an improvement.”, he whispers. 

The next day, Father Pierre approaches another priest and asks his advice about going to the police. The elder price reminds him that what’s said in the confessional stays there, and has to be protected. This leaves Father Pierre a bit troubled. That night, Schanke makes a visit to Janette’s nightclub, where he catches the attention of Alma (Tracey Cook). She dazzles him with her vampire eyes and leads him into the back of the club, away from the others. Janette breaks up Alma and Schanke before she can have a drink. Janette warns Schanke to stay away from the club, else he might find himself a permanent member of the night shift. Schanke quickly runs out of the room and the club.

At a Naughty phone line service desk, a woman named Magda receives a call from the villain. He tells her he knows her name and that she “profanes the church by feeding the fires of lust”, threatening to burn her alive. Playing the call for her manager, she’s sent home. The poor girl can’t even make it out of the building before she’s caught by the masked killer. Nick, who happens to just be driving in the vicinity, hears her screams and pulls over his car, taking flight. He arrives in the building from the room and pulls his firearm on the villain. The villain pushes the girl into Nick’s arm and reveals a revolver of his own, shooting Nick at point blank range before darting down the stairs. Nick makes the girl call an ambulance, using the moment to change the villain out into the alleyway. He stops the masked individual who turns out to be Father Pierre. Nick’s seen a lot over the years, but even he seems shocked at the revelation. 

In the Interrogation Room, Father Pierre says that he’s not protecting the killer, but the rules and beliefs of his religion. Nick scoffs at this, but the Captain (who’s also in the room) kicks Knight out after his outburst. Father Pierre poses a question: “Faith is the cornerstone of the church…I believe in it. Is there nothing you believe in that strongly?” We see another flashback, with Nick talking to Joan, who is due to be burned at the stake. He offers to make her a vampire, but she refuses. It’s something Nick can’t understand. She gives him her cross to remind him that “the faith you’ve lost is always there to regain.”

At the Precinct, Magda finds Nick, asking him if he’s okay. He shrugs off the shooting as just a grazing and that he’ll be fine. Magda suggests setting herself up as bait, but Knight refuses, sending her away. She then turns to Father Pierre, who comes into the hallway from the interrogation room, but he sends her away as well. The Captain has Nick find someone to put Magda in a hotel until everything’s safe. 

Back at Nick’s apartment, Natalie discovers the old wooden cross and Nick tells her it belonged to Joan of Arc. Natalie is amazed by this, gently caressing the cross while listening as Nick talk about Joan. “You know, she had this incredible strength, this courage…” he smiles, reminiscing. “Faith.” Natalie smiles, still admiring the cross. Nick asks Natalie to bring the cross closer to him. When she does, he flinches, but fights against it. To Nat’s question of why he fears it, he says it’s because it’s “the One True Light and we’re creatures of the Dark.” Nick tells Natalie that he has to spend the day in the church in case the villain returns. 

Dawn. We find Nick staring at the front of Father Pierre’s church. He has a quick conversation with Schanke, letting him know he doesn’t need any extra backup as it might tip the villain off. In the church, Knight moves through the pews, pausing at a row of candles. He remembers watching Joan, burning at the cross. He tries to run out the door, but with the sun already out, he’s trapped. Instead, he hides himself inside Father Pierre’s confessional box. Schanke, still feeling some guilt over his antics at Janette’s, steps into the church and into the other area of the confessional. Knight hears Schanke out, having some fun at the poor guy’s expense. 

As the evening starts, the police are ready to close the stakeout when Schanke catches sight of Magda. She snuck out of the hotel and made her way into the church. Schanke gets knocked out in his car, and Magda is kidnapped by the villain and is taken behind the church to a hilltop where a large cross awaits. The villain ties Magda to the cross, preparing to start a bonfire. Knight arrives (via flight) and tackles the villain, eventually knocking him out. The villain’s torch lands in the kindling, starting the bonfire. Remembering Joans words about Faith being ready to be reclaimed, he leaps over the fire onto the platform and unties Magda. He covers her head with his jacket and jumps away from the bonfire saving them both. “How….” she breathes, “How did you do that?!” to which Knight replies…”A little bit of adrenaline…and a lot of faith.” 

With the day (or night) saved, everyone’s at the precinct. Magda thanks Father Pierre and Nick as well, giving him her cross. He refuses at first, but she places it in his hand and closes it, smiling. Nick makes his way to the recovering Schanke and Natalie. Natalie notices the cross in Knight’s hand, amazed he’s able to hold it. “It still burns, but not as much.”, he says. Natalie suggests that he’s perhaps one step closer to redemption. Schanke offers to get them all food, but Nick states he can’t, putting on his sunglasses in a move that would make CSI’s Horatio Caine proud…”..the sun is coming up.” are his final words. 

Forever Knight – S1:E1 – “Dark Knight, Part I”

Posted on by Leonard Wilson

“He was brought across in 1228. Prayed on humans for their blood. 
Now, he wants to be mortal again. To repay society for his sins. 
To emerge from his World of Darkness. From his endless Forever Night.”

I stumbled onto Forever Knight late one early pre-dawn Sunday Morning, which would show up on a special “Crimetime After Primetime”. Although the cast was different (save for John Kapelos, still playing Don Schanke), it still had the flavor of the 1989 TV Film. It also ended up trading the streets of Los Angeles for Toronto, Canada, which meant that the production also had to include Canadian talent. The two part pilot, which aired in May of 1992, was just a beat for beat revamp of the TV film’s story. I’ll try to find a way to not make these so long as this progresses. 

In the prologue, we open in Paris in the year 1288. A young woman welcomes a man to the rest of his unlife, letting him know that while he’s now as eternal as the city, he must kill. This trio of vampires are our hero, Nicholas (Geraint Wyn Davies, Airwolf), his maker LaCroix (Nigel Bennett, HBO’s Gotti), and Janette (Deborah Duchene, TV’s Street Legal). Moving to the present day, the night watchman of a museum is murdered, and a jade cup stolen. 

At the crime scene, Schanke is still going wild with the camera, assisting the forensic crew. He and Nick have a few words before Nick interviews the assistant curator, Dr. Alyce Hunter (Christine Reeves) about the missing cup. Alyce seems somewhat fascinated about Knight’s knowledge of the history and the use of the jade cup in blood drinking rituals. There’s a moment of quiet between them as they consider what that could mean. 

Heading over to the morgue, we’re introduced to Natalie (Catherine Disher, who voiced Jean Grey in Fox’s X-Men and Val Cooper in Disney Plus’ X-Men ’97). She offers Nick some tea that he can’t quite stomach, but he’s making some progress in staying away from blood. The victim from the museum is one of three, all with large blood loss and some tell-tale puncture marks on their necks. “Nick, Is this something I should worry about?” she asks. Nick doesn’t have an answer. Back at the Precinct, the Captain (Gary Farmer, Tales From the Crypt: Demon Knight) is nervous about these murders and wants some results. A food order comes in, giving Nick three hamburgers that the Captain snarks over. “Skinny guy. Eats like a pig.” The Captain pairs Knight with Schanke, to Don’s delight and Nick’s aggravation. 

The 2 elderly hobos from the film are now 3 people. Dr. Dave (George Buza, the voice of Beast in both Fox’s X-Men and in X-Men ’97), Topper (Zack Ward, Transformers) and Jeannie (Deep Space Nine’s Nicole De Boer). Nick warns the three to spend their nights inside with the murders going around. Jeannie lets Nick know they’ll be careful. 

Nick heads home for the day, turning on the window shutters for the coming dawn. His fridge is stocked with bottles of the good stuff. He pours himself two glasses full of blood and drinks heartily. It’s been a long night, indeed. 

Knight regroups with Schanke the following night. Schanke asks about Nick’s Cadillac and Nick explains that it has some incredible trunk space (for daytime sleeping, though he doesn’t share that tidbit). While on patrol, Nick hears some commotion in a building and detours the car. When they arrive at a nearby building, a woman informs Nick in Mandarin that her daughter’s inside and someone has an Uzi. Running inside, Nick and Schanke stack up on the door to the perp’s room, kicking the door open. The response is a blaze of gunfire. Thankfully, Knight’s vision clearly picks up the enemy with the hostage and has Schanke hold in place while he heads around to the back. Nick floats up to the window and pulls the gunman through it, quickly dispatching him outside of Schanke’s view. 

Relaxing in a dark alley, Topper and Jeannie are arguing over what to do for the evening. Topper suggests that they could go to Nick’s Garage, where it’s much warmer, but Jeannie won’t want to have to owe him anything. Dr. Dave is no where to be found, but someone approaches the pair from the dark, attacking Topper causing Jeannie to scream. 

Nick takes flight, paying Alyce a late night visit. Just before he shows up, however, Alyce finds a picture of Nick in an old book on archeology. Unlike the film, this doesn’t bring any kind of questioning or curiosity about why he was in the picture. What we do get is a nice flirtatious moment between Nick and Alyce. She loves the dark, and he’s all about the dark. Nick gets a little too close with a kiss, nearly losing control of himself. He pulls away and leaves Alyce be, just in time for a guard to show up. The romance will have to wait for another night. At the same time, Schanke debriefs the Captain, relaying that the captured perp claimed a vampire attacked him. The Captain relays a legend about how burning scorpions attaches other ones from miles around, which spooks Schanke. The Captain reminds him it’s just a legend, like vampires, and he should focus on the real world. 

With Nick failing to check in the following morning, Natalie borrows his Caddy from the precinct and visits him at home. She finds him in a blood drunken self pitying stupor. With no fear of who or what she is, she lays into him for falling off the wagon. “You don’t want help, hey, I’m a dot on the horizon.”, she says. Their argument is interrupted by Alyce’s voice message, asking Nick to “talk about last night.” Nat, a little shaken by this, inquires what happened. Nick confesses that he kissed Alyce and then nearly killed her. Nat softens and asks him about the other vampires. Nick shares that the jade cup is part of a pair that could possibly cure vampirism. LaCroix has been keeping Nick away from both cup to ensure he stays immortal. Could he be the source of the current killings? 

The next day, Topper’s body is discovered in a barrel. According to Nat, he was hit by a blunt object and then had the neck incision done. Nick becomes livid that he lost Topper on his watch and that Jeannie is missing, though we get a major clue in that there was a blood mobile that recently visited the area. Nick snaps at Schanke and pays a visit to Jeanette to find LaCroix. She’s adjusted to modern times pretty well, owning her own vampire nightclub. They share a quick discussion in French, with Jeanette informing Nick that LaCroix is indeed very much around and is keeping his eyes on him. As he leaves the nightclub and drives away, we find Alyce trailing behind him. 

We end the episode with Nick turning on the car radio, hearing the voice of the Nightcrawler (LaCroix) who laments being in town and not having heard from his friend. The music station is still Metal, and yet the show still decides to play something different, this time a violin. “I am waiting.” LaCroix says to the microphone. 

Anime You Should Be Watching: MONSTER

Posted on by Arleigh

“For you, all lives are created equal. That’s why I came back to life. But you’ve finally come to realize it now, haven’t you? Only one thing is equal for all, and that is death.” — Johan Liebert

Naoki Urasawa’s MONSTER stands as one of the most accomplished psychological thrillers not just in manga, but in modern storytelling as a whole. Widely regarded as one of the greatest mangaka, Urasawa has built a reputation for crafting deeply human narratives that transcend genre boundaries. While his works span science fiction (20th Century Boys), sports (Happy!), and beyond, MONSTER represents perhaps his most fully realized exploration of morality, identity, and the fragile line between good and evil. Both the original manga (1998–2001) and its anime adaptation (2004–2005) serve as masterclasses in long-form storytelling, though each medium offers a slightly different experience in how these themes are conveyed.

At its core, MONSTER is a story about moral responsibility and the consequences of choice. Dr. Kenzo Tenma’s fateful decision to save the life of a young boy—who would grow up to become the enigmatic and terrifying Johan Liebert—forms the backbone of the narrative. What begins as an ethical stand against institutional corruption evolves into a haunting question: can a single act of good inadvertently unleash unimaginable evil? Urasawa refuses to offer easy answers. Instead, he constructs a world where morality is rarely absolute, and where even the most well-intentioned actions can ripple outward in unforeseen ways.

Johan himself is less a conventional antagonist and more an embodiment of philosophical dread. He represents the void—the idea that human identity can be hollowed out, shaped, or even erased entirely. Throughout the series, Urasawa interrogates whether evil is innate or constructed. Is Johan born a “monster,” or is he the product of trauma, manipulation, and systemic failure? This ambiguity is central to the story’s power. Unlike many thrillers that seek to explain or rationalize their villains, MONSTER leans into discomfort, suggesting that some truths may be fundamentally unknowable.

Another key theme is the search for identity, particularly in the aftermath of trauma. Characters across the narrative grapple with fractured pasts, false names, and reconstructed selves. Nina Fortner (Anna Liebert) serves as a compelling counterpoint to Johan—someone who has endured similar horrors but struggles toward healing rather than destruction. Through her and others, Urasawa presents identity not as something fixed, but as something constantly negotiated. Memory, in this context, becomes both a burden and a battleground. To remember is to risk pain; to forget is to risk losing oneself entirely.

The manga’s strength lies in how patiently and meticulously it develops these ideas. Urasawa’s paneling, pacing, and use of silence create a reading experience that feels almost surgical in its precision. He allows tension to build gradually, often dedicating entire chapters to side characters whose lives intersect with the central narrative in unexpected ways. These detours are not distractions but essential threads that reinforce the story’s thematic tapestry. They emphasize that MONSTER is not just about Tenma and Johan, but about a broader human landscape shaped by fear, ideology, and history—particularly the lingering shadows of post-Cold War Europe.

When Madhouse adapted MONSTER into an anime, the primary challenge was translating this deliberate pacing and narrative density into a different medium without losing its essence. Many adaptations of complex manga falter by condensing material or prioritizing spectacle over substance. MONSTER, however, takes the opposite approach. Spanning 74 episodes, the anime commits itself to a remarkably faithful retelling, often recreating scenes from the manga with near shot-for-shot accuracy.

This fidelity is both the anime’s greatest strength and, depending on the viewer, a potential limitation. On one hand, it preserves the integrity of Urasawa’s storytelling. The slow-burn pacing remains intact, allowing tension and atmosphere to develop organically. The anime resists the temptation to sensationalize its material, maintaining the grounded, almost clinical tone that defines the manga. On the other hand, this adherence means that the anime inherits the same demands it places on its audience. It requires patience, attention, and a willingness to sit with ambiguity—qualities that are increasingly rare in more fast-paced, contemporary anime.

Where the anime distinguishes itself is in its use of audiovisual elements to enhance the story’s emotional and psychological impact. The soundtrack, composed by Kuniaki Haishima, is particularly effective in reinforcing the series’ eerie, unsettling tone. Subtle musical cues and ambient sound design heighten tension in ways that static panels cannot. Silence, too, is used masterfully—moments of quiet often feel heavier and more oppressive when experienced in real time.

Voice acting further deepens character portrayal, especially in Johan’s case. His calm, almost hypnotic delivery adds an additional layer of menace that complements the manga’s more interpretive presentation. Similarly, Tenma’s internal conflict becomes more immediate and visceral when expressed through performance rather than internal monologue. These elements collectively make the anime a more immersive sensory experience, even as it mirrors the manga’s narrative structure.

Visually, the adaptation remains grounded and realistic, avoiding the exaggerated stylistic flourishes common in other anime. This restraint works in its favor, reinforcing the story’s mature tone. The European settings are depicted with care and authenticity, contributing to a sense of place that is crucial to the narrative. While the animation itself may not be as dynamic or visually striking as other series, it is consistently purposeful, prioritizing mood and clarity over spectacle.

In comparing the two, it becomes clear that the manga and anime function less as competing versions and more as complementary experiences. The manga offers a slightly more intimate engagement, allowing readers to control pacing and linger on specific panels or moments. Its visual storytelling invites interpretation, particularly in how it frames Johan’s presence—or absence—within a scene. The anime, by contrast, provides a more guided experience, using sound, timing, and performance to shape the viewer’s emotional response.

Ultimately, the success of the MONSTER anime lies in its restraint. Rather than attempting to reinterpret or modernize the source material, it recognizes the strength of Urasawa’s original vision and commits to preserving it. This makes it one of the rare adaptations that can stand alongside its source as an equal, rather than merely a derivative work.

MONSTER endures because it refuses to offer comfort. It challenges its audience to confront unsettling questions about human nature, morality, and the structures that shape our lives. Whether experienced through the manga or the anime, it remains a deeply affecting work—one that lingers long after its final moments. The anime may not surpass the manga in every respect, but it honors it with a level of care and seriousness that is all too rare, solidifying MONSTER as a benchmark for what adaptations can and should strive to be.

Anime You Should Be Watching

Scenes I Love: Mr Inbetween

Posted on by Arleigh

There’s something to say about an individual who follows a code of behavior and has a moral compass that may seem archaic for today’s sensibilities, but when one really thinks about it…well, they’re not wrong.

We may hate that such people may be correct in their way of thinking and that it may offend certain sensibilities but that doesn’t necessarily means its wrong.

And on that note let me introduce you to Ray Shoesmith aka Mr Inbetween. This scene of him attending an anger management class best describes not just who Ray is but sets the tone for what this series is all about.