Review: Justified (by Graham Yost)

Posted on August 20, 2026 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: Banshee (by Jonathan Tropper & David Schickler)

Posted on April 30, 2026 by Arleigh

“And behold a Pale Rider, and his name that sat upon him was Death, and Hell followed with him. Revelations 6:8. This is God’s country—you better acquire a taste for it.” — Kai Proctor

There’s a show that’s been criminally underappreciated, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with some of the prestige heavyweights of the last 10-15 years despite its cult-status rabid fans. It’s a gem that blends pulpy noir tropes like antiheroes, femme fatales, and morally gray characters flipping from foes to allies, all fused with brutal action choreography second to none that could hold its own against any big-screen blockbuster. That show is Banshee, delivering action that’s as raw and relentless as it gets, with choreography so tight and brutal it turns every fight into a visceral event you can’t look away from.

The series thrives on that intricate staging, where punches land with bone-crunching impact and chases spill across entire towns. But it’s the core performances anchoring it all that make the violence feel human and the drama stick through four wild seasons. Antony Starr as Lucas Hood, Ulrich Thomsen as Kai Proctor, and Hoon Lee as Job don’t just carry the show—they ground its over-the-top brutality in characters you buy into, making the punches hit harder emotionally as well as physically.

Starr’s Lucas Hood is the beating heart of Banshee, a tattooed ex-con who slips into the skin of a dead sheriff and never quite shakes the impostor vibe, even as he owns the role. This was the role that made him known to TV watchers well before his star turn as the diabolical Homelander in The Boys, showcasing his coiled menace and raw charisma in a way that demanded attention. He’s got this coiled intensity that explodes in the action scenes, where his fights feel like extensions of his fractured psyche—desperate, improvisational brawls that leave him bloodied but standing. You see it in those long-take beatdowns, like the prison riot or the bar fights that turn rooms into war zones, where Starr sells every grunt, stagger, and counterpunch with a physicality that’s equal parts athletic and unhinged.

Over four seasons, he evolves from a smirking thief to a man wrestling his own darkness, but his charisma keeps you rooting for him even when he’s pummeling half the town. It’s a star-making turn that holds the show’s reckless energy together, making Hood’s brutal choreography feel personal and earned. From there, the dynamic shifts seamlessly to his key adversaries and allies.

Then there’s Ulrich Thomsen as Kai Proctor, the ice-cold crime boss whose calm menace makes him the perfect foil to Hood’s chaos. Proctor doesn’t throw punches like a street fighter; he’s calculated, almost surgical, which amps up the brutality when he unleashes. Thomsen plays him with this quiet menace simmering under a polished exterior—think Amish roots clashing with modern savagery—and it pays off in scenes where Proctor’s fights turn primal, like the knife work or those family feuds that escalate into full-on carnage.

His performance anchors the series’ criminal underbelly, giving the action a strategic edge; every beatdown he orders or delivers feels like a chess move in a blood-soaked game. Through the seasons, as Proctor’s empire crumbles and rebuilds, Thomsen’s steely gaze and understated violence keep the stakes feeling lethal, turning what could be a generic villain into a chilling force. Completing this powerhouse trio is the one who brings a wildly different energy.

Hoon Lee’s Job rounds out the core, a brilliant hacker whose razor-sharp intellect makes him indispensable to Hood’s crew, cracking systems and outsmarting foes from the shadows while his loyalty to Lucas remains unshakable. This holds firm even amid the absurdity of his fabulous, urban edge clashing with Banshee’s sleepy countryside vibe. Lee nails Job’s dual nature: the tech wizard who can dismantle security grids or reroute funds with a few keystrokes, turning digital battles into the show’s cerebral counterpoint to the physical brutality.

Yet always backing Hood with a fierce devotion that shines through in clutch moments. But it’s Job’s comedic flair—those sassy one-liners, the glittering outfits and heels that scream big-city glamour in this podunk town of pickup trucks and dive bars—that tempers his seriousness, making him the series’ sparkling wildcard who lightens the grim action without ever undercutting it. Lee plays it with magnetic charm, his fish-out-of-water antics (strutting through cornfields or snarking at rednecks) adding hilarious contrast to the bone-crunching fights.

Those rare physical outbursts—like improvised knife work or quick takedowns—feel earned because they stem from intellect-fueled precision rather than brute force. Across four seasons, as Job’s past traumas surface and alliances strain, Lee keeps the character’s loyalty as the emotional core, blending brainy hacks, loyal grit, and out-of-place humor into a performance that elevates the show’s savage rhythm. Together, these leads create a perfect storm for the action.

These three performances don’t just elevate the fights; they make the choreography sing by tying the physicality to emotional undercurrents. Starr’s raw desperation clashes beautifully with Thomsen’s cold precision and Lee’s brainy, flamboyant flair, powering the series’ best action set pieces—like the multi-man melees where their styles bounce off each other and the stunt team’s work shines. The show’s willingness to let them go full throttle, season after season, without pulling punches (literally) keeps the brutality fresh; you feel the toll on their bodies and souls, which makes the intricate staging hit deeper.

Sure, Banshee can get cartoonishly violent, with limbs snapping and blood spraying in glorious excess, but these actors anchor it, proving that great action needs great performers to make the mayhem matter. That synergy carries the series forward without missing a beat.

It’s that interplay that powers Banshee through its four seasons of escalating insanity. Hood’s barroom demolitions, Proctor’s calculated hits, and Job’s digital disruptions feeding into physical chaos aren’t isolated spectacles—they build in storylines that lead to climactic brawls, like season finales where the whole town becomes a battlefield. The choreography is brutally efficient, using practical effects and minimal cuts to let you track every impact, and these leads sell it with commitment that borders on masochistic.

Starr takes hit after hit, emerging grimier each time; Thomsen’s subtle menace makes his rare outbursts explosive; Lee turns smarts and sass into action catalysts, his hacks setting up the brutal payoffs. They weather the show’s weaker plot detours—those soapier subplots or Native American gang arcs—by keeping the energy dialed up, ensuring the action remains the glue. Even under scrutiny, their work holds strong.

Critically, there’s a slight edge to how they handle the excess: Starr occasionally overplays Hood’s brooding, Thomsen can feel too restrained amid the pulp, and Lee’s comedic beats sometimes flirt with caricature in the rural backdrop, but it rarely derails the momentum. Instead, it adds texture to the brutality, making fights feel like character clashes rather than random violence. Take the recurring motif of improvised weapons—shards of glass, chair legs, car hoods—where their physicality shines, turning everyday objects into extensions of their rage or cunning.

The stunt coordinators deserve props for matching their intensities, crafting sequences that are as punishing as they are precise, with geography and exhaustion playing key roles in every throwdown. This builds to a fitting crescendo by the end.

By season four, as the body count climbs and alliances fracture, these performances reach a peak, culminating in action that’s not just brutal but poignant. Hood’s final stands feel tragic because Starr has made us invest; Proctor’s downfall stings with Thomsen’s quiet devastation; Job’s loyalty and hacks culminate in high-stakes saves, his out-of-place flair making the countryside carnage even more surreal. The choreography evolves too, incorporating more group dynamics and environmental havoc, but it’s always anchored by their work.

Banshee could have been just another forgettable action romp, but these three make its intricate, bone-snapping violence unforgettable, proving that in a show this unapologetically savage, the right actors can turn pulp into something profound.

Cleaning Out The DVR Yet Again #17: 13 Hours (dir by Michael Bay)

Posted on November 29, 2016 by Lisa Marie Bowman

(Lisa recently discovered that she only has about 8 hours of space left on her DVR! It turns out that she’s been recording movies from July and she just hasn’t gotten around to watching and reviewing them yet. So, once again, Lisa is cleaning out her DVR! She is going to try to watch and review 52 movies by Wednesday, November 30th! Will she make it? Keep checking the site to find out!)

I recorded 13 Hours off of Epix on October 14th.

Before I say anything else about 13 Hours, I would like to be point out something that I haven’t seen mentioned in any of the other reviews of this film. 13 Hours is not just a recreation of the September 11th, 2012 attack on the American diplomatic compound in Benghazi, Libya. (This attack led to death of Ambassador Chris Stevens, Tyone Woods, Sean Smith, and Glenn Doherty, all of whom are portrayed in the film.) 13 Hours is also a very unexpected The Office reunion. On The Office, John Krasinski played Jim Halpert while David Denman played Roy Anderson, the ex-fiance of Jim’s wife, Pam. In 13 Hours, they both play members of the American security detail who spend 13 terrifying hours trying to protect the compound from a violent and heavily armed mob.

They’re both surprisingly well-cast. As someone who absolutely loved The Office, I had my doubts as to whether or not I’d be able to believe John Krasinski — he of the iconic smirk and the adorable eye roll — as a battle-hardened, former Navy SEAL. Jim Halpert with a gun!? I wondered. But Krasinski brings an unexpected gravity to his role, as does David Denman. For that matter, the entire cast — and this is truly an ensemble film, even if it is dominated by Krasinski and James Badge Dale (in the role of Tyrone Woods) — does surprisingly well. If I sound surprised, that’s because 13 Hours was directed by Michael Bay, a director who is not exactly known for his skill with actors.

It says something about how messed up 2016 has been that, for a few weeks in January, 13 Hours was the most controversial film in America. When the film was first released, many commentators and critics were convinced that it was all part of a grand conspiracy to keep Hillary Clinton from being elected President. Now, 11 months later, we can look back and — well, hmmm. Hillary Clinton wasn’t elected President but that probably has nothing to do with 13 Hours. If I remember correctly, 13 Hours didn’t exactly set the box office on fire. It was pretty much forgotten by February. Unless 13 Hours somehow convinced Hillary Clinton to not campaign in Wisconsin or Michigan, I imagine that it had little influence on the actual election.

Neither Hillary Clinton nor, for that matter, Barack Obama are ever mentioned in 13 Hours. (Then again, the film also never tries to convince us that the attack was solely the result of a YouTube video, either.) That’s not to say that there isn’t a political subtext to 13 Hours. (It’s impossible to make a movie about Americans with guns in the Middle East without there being some sort of political subtext.) However, that subtext has less to do with what happened during the attack and more about whether or not the U.S. should have even gotten involved in the Libyan Civil War in the first place. If anything, 13 Hours seems to be suggesting that any sort of American military intervention in the Middle East is doomed to failure.

Make no mistake about it. Thematically, 13 Hours is Michael Bay’s darkest film. It starts with disturbing footage of the Libyan revolution and it ends with shots that linger over the ruins of the compound that several men were either killed or wounded attempting to defend. Even those who manage to survive the 13-hour battle are left scarred, both physically and emotionally. For perhaps the first time in a Bay film, no attempt is made to make war look heroic or inviting. There’s none of the over the top sentimentality that typifies so many of Bay’s other films. Instead, there’s just John Krasinski sobbing as he realizes that his friends are dead.

That said, Bay has to be Bay. In some ways, 13 Hours is his most mature film to date but that doesn’t mean that it doesn’t showcase a lot of Bay’s flaws as a filmmaker. At 2 and a half hours, the film is at least 50 minutes too long and the scenes of Krasinski talking to his pregnant wife feel like they were lifted from an unpolished second draft of American Sniper and, as a result, they’re never as powerful as they were obviously meant to be. As usual, Bay does better with the action sequences than with the human element.

In the end, 13 Hours is a frequently harrowing, if rather uneven, film. If nothing else, it may be remembered for heralding the unlikely emergence of John Krasinski, action star.