Tag Archives: Netflix

Review: Mercy for None

Posted on by Arleigh

“The deal was clear—his life for mine. You broke it.” — Nam Gi-jun

Mercy for None is a gritty, intense Korean action drama that drops you into the shadowy underbelly of Seoul’s criminal world, where revenge is less a personal choice and more a brutal currency everyone ends up paying. Adapted from the webtoon Plaza Wars: Mercy for None by Oh Se-hyung and Kim Geun-tae, the series runs a lean seven episodes at roughly 40–45 minutes each, making it a compact but powerful binge. It follows Nam Gi-jun, a former gang enforcer who once carved out a bloody reputation for himself before literally cutting himself out of the life—he slices his own Achilles tendon to walk away after a disastrous job. Years later, when his younger brother Gi-seok, now a rising figure in the underworld, is murdered in what looks like a calculated move in a larger power struggle, Gi-jun is dragged back into the orbit he tried so hard to escape. What begins as a simple quest for payback slowly mutates into a full-blown gang war between rival factions, where old debts, broken promises, and rotten institutions all collide.

The show’s webtoon roots are easy to feel in its storytelling style and visual sensibility. Plaza Wars: Mercy for None was known for its grim noir tone, sharp sense of place, and explosive outbursts of violence, and the drama leans into that DNA rather than sanding it down. The adaptation keeps the basic spine of the story—an aging, wounded enforcer returning to a city carved up by criminal empires—and translates the panels’ rough, kinetic energy into tight, live-action set-pieces. So Ji-sub’s casting as Nam Gi-jun is spot-on: he looks and moves like someone who has survived more fights than he cares to remember, and his presence gives the character that blend of weariness and danger that fans of the source material wanted to see. The direction and writing embrace the original’s grimy, unforgiving atmosphere, focusing on high-stakes confrontations and the emotional cost of violence rather than trying to make the material more broadly “feel-good” or conventional.

At the center of everything is Gi-jun’s arc, and that’s where the series finds its emotional weight. He isn’t written as a slick, wisecracking antihero; he’s a man who carries his history in his body and on his face. When he’s living in hiding, you can feel the way his past still sits on his shoulders, and once he learns how his brother died, the shift in him is less about explosive rage and more about grim resolve. The limp from his old injury, the way he braces himself before every fight, and the quiet moments where he weighs what he’s about to do all help make him feel like a person first and a genre archetype second. That keeps the show from collapsing into pure revenge fantasy, even when Gi-jun tears through rooms full of armed men; there’s a sense that every win costs him something.

The supporting cast gives the drama a lot of texture, especially the older gangsters who make up the city’s criminal backbone. These men are written as survivors who’ve spent decades navigating backroom deals, territory disputes, and shifting alliances; they don’t just feel like generic “boss” figures but people with their own codes and grudges. Their scenes have a heavy, lived-in tension, even when nobody is throwing a punch. By contrast, some of the younger characters—the hotheaded heirs and ambitious underlings—can feel more sketched in. They bring energy and chaos, but their motivations and personalities aren’t always explored as deeply as they could be, which sometimes makes their big turning points land a little softer. The show also makes the deliberate choice to center almost entirely on men, with women mostly absent or on the fringes. That tight focus suits the idea of a closed, hyper-masculine underworld, but it does limit the emotional and thematic range.

Where Mercy for None really swings for the fences is in its action. The fights are brutal, messy, and grounded, full of close-quarters grappling, improvised weapons, and bodies hitting concrete hard. There’s a clear sense of geography in most of the set-pieces: you can tell where everyone is in a hallway brawl or a parking garage ambush, and the camera usually holds long enough to showcase the choreography without turning everything into a blur. Gi-jun’s physical limitations are baked into the way he moves; he fights like someone who knows his body can betray him at any second, relying on experience, ruthlessness, and timing more than sheer athleticism. As the series goes on, though, it does start to push him closer to the edge of believability, with him surviving punishment that would realistically stop anyone else. Whether that bothers you will depend on how much you’re willing to accept heightened genre logic in exchange for cathartic, over-the-top showdowns.

Stylistically, the series leans into a very specific mood: lots of night shots, harsh lighting, and cramped locations that make the city feel like a maze of traps and dead ends. Bars, offices, stairwells, garages, and back alleys all start to feel like different battlegrounds in the same endless war. When the show occasionally cuts to quieter, more open environments—like scenes from Gi-jun’s life in seclusion—they almost feel like they belong to a different world. That contrast reinforces just how suffocating his return to Seoul is. The music tends to underscore rather than dominate, and while it may not be the kind of score you walk away humming, it adds an extra layer of tension to confrontations and a sense of heaviness to the aftermath of each fight.

Structurally, Mercy for None benefits from being short and focused. With only seven episodes, there isn’t much room for filler, so the story keeps moving—information is revealed, allegiances shift, and every episode pushes Gi-jun further into conflict. There’s no attempt to pad things out with a romance subplot or quirky comic relief, which makes the series feel more like a long crime film than a traditional drama season. At the same time, the show occasionally leans on familiar rhythms: Gi-jun confronts a new layer of the conspiracy, storms another stronghold, leaves a trail of bodies, and moves on. A bit more variation in the types of obstacles he faces or the perspectives we follow might have made the middle stretch feel less repetitive. Still, the relatively tight run helps prevent that repetition from becoming a serious drag.

On a thematic level, the drama keeps circling back to ideas of debt, loyalty, and the illusion of getting out clean. Gi-jun once believed that sacrificing part of himself physically would allow him to walk away from the life he lived and protect the people he cared about. The story systematically tears that belief apart. The bosses he helped rise are still entangled in their old patterns, the institutions that are supposed to enforce justice are compromised, and his brother’s death becomes proof that the system he once upheld ultimately consumes everyone in its reach. The ending doesn’t offer easy comfort: the people who engineered the power struggle pay a price, but what’s left behind is not some hopeful new order, just ruins. Gi-jun’s revenge lands, but it doesn’t look or feel like a victory.

As a whole package, Mercy for None works very well as a stripped-down, no-frills revenge saga with a strong sense of character and place. Its strengths lie in So Ji-sub’s committed performance, the weighty, bruising action, and the way it translates its webtoon source into something that feels cinematic rather than purely episodic. Its weaknesses—limited female representation, some underdeveloped younger characters, and occasional repetition in structure and escalation—keep it from feeling completely fresh, but they don’t undermine what the show is clearly trying to be. It isn’t out to reinvent the gangster genre; it’s out to inhabit it fully, with a distinctly Korean noir flavor and a protagonist who feels like he’s been carved out of regret and rage.

If you’re looking for a character-driven revenge thriller that leans into dark atmosphere, grounded yet stylized violence, and the slow unraveling of a criminal ecosystem, Mercy for None is absolutely worth the time. If you’re hoping for a broader ensemble piece with varied perspectives, rich female characters, or a more hopeful worldview, this will probably feel too narrow and bleak. As a webtoon adaptation and a compact action drama, though, it stands out as a confident, hard-edged entry that knows exactly what it wants to do and largely pulls it off.

Review: The Killer (dir. by David Fincher)

Posted on by Arleigh

“Stick to your plan. Anticipate, don’t improvise. Trust no one. Never yield an advantage. Fight only the battle you’re paid to fight. Forbid empathy. Empathy is weakness. Weakness is vulnerability.” — The Killer

David Fincher’s The Killer lands like a perfectly aimed shot: clean, methodical, and laced with just enough twist to make you rethink the whole trajectory. At its core, the film follows an elite assassin—brilliantly played by Michael Fassbender—who suffers a rare professional failure during a high-stakes hit in Paris. After days of obsessive preparation in a WeWork cubicle, complete with hourly surveillance checks, yoga breaks, protein bar sustenance, and a nonstop loop of The Smiths, he pulls the trigger only to miss his target entirely.

This one slip shatters his world of ironclad redundancies and contingencies. Retaliation soon hits close to home, striking his secluded Dominican Republic hideout and drawing in his girlfriend. What begins as a routine job quickly escalates into a personal cleanup mission, spanning cities like New Orleans, Florida, New York, and Chicago. Fincher transforms these stops into taut, self-contained vignettes, layering precise bursts of violence over the protagonist’s gradual psychological fraying—all while keeping major reveals under wraps to maintain the film’s coiled tension.

The structure dovetails perfectly with Fassbender’s commanding performance. He embodies a man radiating icy zen on the surface, while a relentless machine churns underneath. His deadpan voiceover delivers self-imposed rules like a deranged productivity gospel—”forbid empathy,” “stick to your plan,” “anticipate, don’t improvise”—even as he slips seamlessly into civilian guises: faux-German tourist, unassuming janitor, casually ordering tactical gear from Amazon like it’s toothpaste.

The result is darkly hilarious, conjuring a corporate bro reborn as high-functioning sociopath, where bland covers clash absurdly with lethal intent. Yet as stakes mount, subtle cracks appear: split-second hesitations, flickers of unexpected mercy that betray buried humanity. Fassbender nails this evolution through sheer minimalism—piercing stares, economical gestures, weaponized silence—morphing the killer from untouchable elite into a flawed, expendable player in the gig economy’s brutal grind.

These nuances echo the film’s episodic blueprint, quintessential Fincher territory. On-screen city titles act as chapters in a shadowy assassin’s handbook, with tension simmering through drawn-out prep rituals: endless surveillance, gear assembly, contingency mapping that drags just enough to immerse you in the job’s soul-numbing tedium. The Paris mishap ignites the chase—he evades immediate pursuit, sheds evidence, and races home to fallout, then pursues leads through handlers, drivers, and rivals in a chain of escalating confrontations.

Fincher deploys action sparingly but with devastating impact. A standout brawl erupts in raw, prolonged chaos—captured in extended, crystal-clear shots with improvised weapons and no shaky-cam crutches—perfectly embodying the killer’s ethos even as it splinters around him. Each sequence builds without excess, from tense interrogations to standoffs that flip power dynamics, underscoring how the world’s rules bend unevenly.

This kinetic progression meshes flawlessly with Fincher’s visual command. Cinematographer Erik Messerschmidt crafts a hypnotic palette of cool desaturated blues, sterile symmetries, and digital hyper-reality, evoking unblinking surveillance feeds into an emotional void. Tactile details obsess: the rifle case’s satisfying zip, suppressed gunfire’s sharp snick, shadows creeping across WeWork pods, dingy motels, and gleaming penthouses—all mirroring the killer’s frantic grasp for order amid encroaching disarray.

Sound design heightens every layer, sharpening ambient clacks of keyboards, hallway breaths, and gravel footsteps to a razor’s edge. Integral to the immersion is the minimalist electronic score by Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross, Fincher’s trusted collaborators from The Social Network to Mank. Their eerie ambient drones and ominous rhythmic pulses bubble like a suppressed heartbeat—swelling subtly in stakeouts, throbbing through violence, threading haunting motifs into voiceovers. It mirrors the protagonist’s inner turmoil without overwhelming the chill precision, turning silences between notes into weapons as potent as any sniper round.

This sonic and visual restraint powers the film’s bone-dry irony, which methodically punctures the protagonist’s god-complex. He preaches elite status among the “few” lording over the “many sheep,” yet reality paints him as sleep-deprived, rule-bending, and perpetually improvising—empathy leaking through denials in quiet, humanizing beats. Fincher weaves these into his signature obsessions—unmasked control freaks, dissected toxic masculinity, exposed capitalist churn—but with playful lightness, sidestepping the heavier preachiness of Fight Club or Seven.

The killer’s neurotic Smiths fixation injects quirky isolation amid globetrotting nomadism; their melancholic lyrics (“How Soon Is Now?”) punctuate stakeouts and flights like wry commentary on his fraying detachment. It all resolves in a low-key homecoming: no grand redemption or downfall, just weary acknowledgment that even “perfect” plans crack under chaos’s weight.

This sleight-of-hand elevates The Killer beyond standard assassin tropes into a sharp study of elite evil’s banality. Supporting roles deliver pitch-perfect economy: Tilda Swinton’s poised, lethal rival in mind-game restaurant tension; Arliss Howard’s obliviously entitled elite; Charles Parnell’s wearily betrayed handler; Kerry O’Malley’s poignant bargainer; Sala Baker’s raw, physical menace. Under two hours, Fincher packs density without bloat—layered subtext, rewatchable craft everywhere.

Gripes about its procedural chill or emotional distance miss the sleight entirely: this is a revenge thriller masking profound dissection of a borderless mercenary world, where pros prove as disposable as their untouchable clients. Fans of methodical slow-burns like Zodiac, The Game, or Gone Girl will devour the razor wit, process immersion, and unflinching thematic bite.

Ultimately, The Killer crystallizes as a sly late-period Fincher gem, fusing pitch-black humor, visceral horror, and surprising humanism into precision-engineered sleekness. It dismantles mastery illusions in unforgiving reality, leaving Fassbender’s killer stubbornly human: loose ends mostly tied, slipping back to obscurity as a survivor adapting. In a flood of bombastic action sludge, it offers bracing cerebral air—proving restraint, dark laughs, and surgical insight remain the filmmaker’s deadliest tools. For obsessive breakdowns of the human machine at its breaking point, it’s Netflix essential.

Scenes I Love: The Highwaymen

Posted on by Arleigh

I reviewed the film The Highwaymen (directed by John Lee Hancock) earlier this week and there was always one scene from the entire film that I always go back to rewatching. It’s pretty much a sequence where Texas Ranger Frank Hamer (played by Kevin Costner) stops by a local gun store and begins naming off pistols and rifles that he wants to examine.

It’s a random scene, but it also shows how much has changed from how American treated the purchase and ownership of guns during the Prohibition and gangland era of the late 20’s and early 30’s. This was a time when any adult could go into a store and purchase any type of gun (from pistols, rifles, shotguns and all the way up to machine guns) as long as they had the money. No license required to purchase whatever one desired and no waiting period and background check.

All of this would just a month after the deaths of Bonnie and Clyde as depicted in the film when Congress would pass the National Firearms Act of 1934 when certain firearms would be heavily restricted (such as short-barreled shotguns, machine guns, short-barreled rifles aka submachine guns, etc.) requiring specific licenses and up to restricted for law enforcement use-only.

This scene shows a time that was still holding onto the ways of the frontier and the Old West, but was about to end as the government began to centralize regulation on the federal level and away from the states. It’s a scene that on its own was a small random one that almost borders on the ridiculous as Hamer just names off guns after guns then answering the store owner’s question of which he would buy with a simple answer of “all of them.”

I also love this scene being a gun enthusiast who has his own large collection. What I wouldn’t give to be able to just do what Frank Hamer did in this scene. Though my wallet would cry if I was given the chance.

Review: The Highwaymen (dir. by John Lee Hancock)

Posted on by Arleigh

“People don’t always know who they are… ’til it’s too late.” — Frank Hamer

The Highwaymen, as directed by John Lee Hancock, delivers a character-driven, period crime drama that refreshes a story so often mythologized in American pop culture. Instead of glamorizing Bonnie and Clyde, the film spotlights the two former Texas Rangers tasked with ending their crime spree: Frank Hamer (played by Kevin Costner) and Maney Gault (played by Woody Harrelson). Set against the bleak dustbowl landscape of 1934, the film opens with the criminal duo breaking their associates out of Eastham Prison, setting the state of Texas into a panic. In desperation, Governor “Ma” Ferguson authorizes the return of Hamer, a seasoned lawman whose old-school methods have largely been left behind in modern policing.

From the start, The Highwaymen takes its time, inviting viewers into a slower, more contemplative chase rather than the kinetic action often associated with outlaw stories. Hamer, long retired and resistant to rejoining the fight, is persuaded both by the severity of Bonnie and Clyde’s violence and the humiliation his state faces in failing to catch them. Gault, for his part, is recruited despite his own personal struggles, adding a layer of regret and weariness to their partnership. Their pursuit is marked by straightforward detective work—staking out small towns, following trails, and confronting a public that is strangely captivated by the criminals they hunt. The film repeatedly draws attention to the way crowds and the press elevate Bonnie and Clyde, reflecting on an early version of true crime celebrity culture.

The dynamic between Hamer and Gault forms the emotional core of the movie. Their bond is shaped by years of experience, mistakes, and a real sense of being out of place in a society that now doubts their relevance. There’s plenty of banter and friction, but also reflective moments that dig into the costs of life spent in pursuit of justice. Throughout the investigation, the film uses the Texas and Louisiana landscape as a powerful backdrop—the vast, windswept highways underscore the isolation and existential gravity faced by these lawmen. The cinematography favors wide shots and muted colors, giving the chase a feeling of endlessness and melancholy.

Instead of showcasing Bonnie and Clyde as glamorous anti-heroes, the film keeps them at a distance, rarely granting much screen time or dialogue. Violence is handled abruptly and unsentimentally. When it finally arrives, most notably in the climactic ambush, it is portrayed as brutal and inevitable, reminding the viewer that myths are built on blood and public spectacle. The lawmen’s final confrontation results in the infamous shootout, depicted with documentary-like restraint. The aftermath involves a bullet-riddled car towed through throngs of onlookers—an eerie scene that highlights how tragedy becomes spectacle.

One of the film’s greatest strengths is in its portrayal of moral ambiguity. Both Hamer and Gault operate by principles shaped in a different era. Their methods can be rough and unorthodox; they clash with younger law enforcement and the FBI, whose approaches are more bureaucratic, less personal. The film hints at the toll violence and a lifetime in law enforcement has taken on them, including a poignant story from Gault about a tragic accident in his past. These reflections draw out the muted sadness underlying their pursuit, exploring themes of justice, changing times, and what remains after one’s era passes.

Performance-wise, Costner and Harrelson bring authenticity and gravity to their roles. Their chemistry is quiet and real, developed largely through understated scenes—silent drives, awkward motel breakfasts, and occasional arguments broken up by mutual respect. Supporting roles, like Kathy Bates’s steely governor and John Carroll Lynch’s earnest corrections chief, flesh out the historical setting and institutional pressures.

The film doesn’t always dig as deep as it could into the complexities of Depression-era justice, but its restraint and focus on character make up for that. Rather than indulging in nostalgia or sensationalizing violence, it keeps its lens on the human cost—the consequences for the victims, the weariness of the men trying to restore order, and the strange cultural fascination with outlaws. If you’re looking for a grounded historical drama that trades fast action for thoughtful pacing, and puts working-class grit front and center, The Highwaymen is worth the ride.

Review: My Name

Posted on by Arleigh

“I’m not afraid of dying. I’m afraid of not knowing the truth.” — Yoon Ji-woo

My Name is one of those K-dramas that grabs your attention from the start and maintains a relentless pace throughout. It is a gritty, action-packed series set in a dark, unforgiving underworld marked by crime, betrayal, and a driving quest for revenge. The story follows Yoon Ji-woo, a young woman whose life is shattered when her father, a figure tied to the mob, is brutally murdered. What unfolds is her transformation from a grieving daughter into a formidable and determined fighter intent on uncovering the truth behind her father’s death and exacting vengeance.

The series does not shy away from depicting violence in an unflinching manner. For those who appreciate intense and well-choreographed fight scenes, My Name provides a visually and emotionally striking experience. The physicality Han So-hee brings to her role is notable, lending authenticity to every punch, fall, and desperate struggle. However, the violence serves a narrative purpose beyond mere spectacle; it illuminates the bleak world Ji-woo inhabits and the extreme sacrifices demanded of her.

A particularly compelling aspect of My Name lies in its combination of emotional depth and action. Ji-woo is not portrayed as a simple avenger consumed by rage, but rather as a complex individual wrestling with grief, guilt, and profound loneliness. Han So-hee’s nuanced performance effectively balances raw toughness with moments of vulnerability, inviting viewers to engage with Ji-woo on a deeply human level despite her morally ambiguous actions.

The narrative unfolds briskly across eight episodes, avoiding the typical padding seen in many K-dramas. This lean structure maintains a consistently high level of tension as Ji-woo infiltrates the police force undercover on behalf of the criminal organization responsible for her father’s death. The tension arising from this double life—living between two opposing worlds—heightens the drama, creating an ever-present question of trust and betrayal.

This theme of undercover infiltration shares notable similarities with renowned thrillers such as Infernal Affairs and its American remake The Departed. Like those films, My Name explores the psychological strain of agents embedded within enemy organizations, examining shifting loyalties and blurred moral boundaries. Yet, My Name distinguishes itself by focusing intimately on Ji-woo’s personal journey of vengeance and identity. While Infernal Affairs and The Departed emphasize the intricate duality and game of cat and mouse between multiple undercover agents, My Name offers a singular, emotionally charged narrative driven by Ji-woo’s transformation both physically and mentally through relentless trials.

Supporting characters enrich the story further. Detective Pil-do serves as a humanizing counterpoint to the harshness of Ji-woo’s world. His relationship with Ji-woo adds emotional complexity to the story, gently probing themes of trust and moral conflict. The enigmatic crime boss Mu-jin, who mentors Ji-woo, embodies a pragmatic and often manipulative figure, complicating the traditional distinctions between good and evil with a nuanced portrayal.

Visually, My Name excels in creating a brooding and atmospheric setting, with evocative use of shadow, rain, and urban neon lighting that reinforces the noir tone. The haunting soundtrack complements the tension and emotional undertones, underscoring both frenetic action and quieter character moments with equal effectiveness.

That said, the drama’s heavy focus on violence and its dark tone may not appeal to all viewers. The unrelenting grimness and lack of lighter moments could prove challenging to those who prefer more varied emotional rhythms. Furthermore, some secondary characters are not as fully developed as they might be, which occasionally makes subplots feel less integral. Still, the tight focus on Ji-woo’s narrative keeps the drama paced and impactful without unnecessary distractions.

A central thematic strength of My Name is its exploration of identity. Ji-woo’s undercover infiltration prompts profound questions about the self: how much of her original identity can she retain while adopting false personas dictated by survival and revenge? This internal struggle adds a psychological depth that elevates the series beyond a straightforward revenge thriller, inviting reflection on trauma, loyalty, and selfhood.

The pacing is expertly managed, neither rushed nor weighed down by extraneous elements, culminating in a satisfying and emotionally resonant conclusion. The series even incorporates moments of romance late in the narrative, adding subtle layers of hope and human connection to balance the dominant themes of loss and revenge.

In sum, My Name distinguishes itself through Han So-hee’s powerful performance, its raw and realistic action sequences, and its willingness to grapple with complex emotional and moral questions. It is a compelling option for viewers drawn to intense, character-driven thrillers that refuse easy answers while delivering visceral storytelling.

If you are seeking a drama that explores the cost of revenge with both physical intensity and psychological nuance, My Name offers a gripping experience from beginning to end. It acknowledges its influences—such as Infernal Affairs and The Departed—but forges a unique path grounded in Korean drama sensibilities and the deeply personal story of its lead character. Its unyielding tone and evocative storytelling make it a memorable entry in contemporary Korean thrillers.

Review: Glass Onion: A Knives Out Mystery (dir. by Rian Johnson)

Posted on by Arleigh

“Everyone loves a puzzle until it’s time to solve it.” — Benoit Blanc

Glass Onion: A Knives Out Mystery is a follow-up to the original Knives Out film, starring Daniel Craig as the ingenious detective Benoit Blanc. It builds on the premise of a murder mystery but wraps it inside a colorful, satirical commentary on wealth, influence, and the human condition. Set on the private island of a tech billionaire named Miles Bron, the story assembles a quirky cast of characters, all entangled in complicated relationships that unravel layer by layer. The casual tone of the movie masks a sharp, incisive look at the absurdities of the ultra-rich and the moral compromises they often make.

From the outset, Glass Onion shines with its clever blending of classic whodunit tropes and contemporary social critique. The gathering on the island is ostensibly for a murder mystery party, but the tension quickly escalates when the lines between game and reality blur. As detective Benoit Blanc begins to peel back the layers, it becomes clear that the story is much more than just a puzzle; it’s a reflection on fame, fortune, intellectual theft, and the lengths people will go to protect their reputations and secrets. The mystery itself is engrossing, delivering plenty of twists and turns that keep viewers guessing without feeling predictable.

The characters are vividly drawn, each embodying a certain archetype of privilege and excess, yet crafted with enough depth to avoid caricature. Miles Bron, in particular, captures the archetypal tech mogul—brash, arrogant, and unapologetically wealthy—but his flaws and vulnerabilities make him an intriguing focal point. His colorful group of friends each contribute their quirks and motives, creating a dynamic interplay that enriches the plot. Through their interactions, the film deftly explores themes of betrayal, sycophantic behavior, and the moral decay that can accompany unchecked power.

Edward Norton’s portrayal of Miles Bron has often been linked to Elon Musk, mostly because Bron’s flamboyant personality and billionaire tech mogul status seem reminiscent of Musk. However, director Rian Johnson and Norton himself have been clear that the character is not based specifically on Musk. Instead, Miles embodies the broader archetype of “tech bros”: exceedingly wealthy, extremely arrogant, and more than a bit sociopathic. Norton’s portrayal blends charm, obliviousness, and bravado, embodying this tech mogul stereotype more than mimicking any particular real-life figure. This approach allows the film to critique the broader billionaire culture, using Miles as a symbol of its excesses and absurdities, rather than targeting one individual.

A distinctive feature of Glass Onion is how it incorporates the reality of its production during the height of the COVID-19 lockdown. Set in May 2020, during global lockdowns, the film naturally weaves in social distancing and mask-wearing as part of its narrative fabric. This not only adds an element of authenticity but also becomes a device to reveal character traits—whether sincere compliance or performative adherence. The pandemic protocols also shaped production logistics, reducing extras and focusing tightly on the main cast, creating an intimate but tense atmosphere. By anchoring the isolation of its characters in a real-world health crisis, the film echoes classic mystery confinements while feeling relevant and immediate.

Emotional stakes in Glass Onion are amplified through Helen, who arrives on a personal mission to uncover the truth behind her sister’s death. Unlike many self-interested guests on the island, Helen represents a disruptive force challenging the privileged elite. Her story adds urgency and depth, highlighting themes of justice, accountability, and silence’s costs. This subplot weaves seamlessly into the larger narrative, enriching the mystery’s resolution with meaningful emotional weight.

Visually, the film dazzles with opulent settings and a vibrant color palette that amplify the sense of excess and detachment characterizing the guests’ lives. The private island itself almost becomes a character—a lush, insular playground where drama explodes amid luxury. Production design and cinematography balance whimsy with darker undertones, while costumes and set details root satire in an authentic world.

Craig returns as Benoit Blanc with a mix of charm, wit, and gravitas, anchoring the film amidst eccentric chaos. Blanc’s character delights as a master detective who enjoys intellectual puzzles but wrestles with moral questions. Meanwhile, the supporting cast gives nuanced performances that capture their characters’ complexities and motivations.

Narratively, Glass Onion triumphs by delivering an engaging mystery while embedding incisive social commentary on inequality and hypocrisy. The film compellingly probes how wealth and influence can obscure truth and the costs endured by those who confront power. The sharp, often humorous writing makes it both entertaining and thought-provoking.

Whether viewed casually or analyzed deeply, Glass Onion offers much to enjoy. Plot twists, sharp dialogues, visual style, and strong performances combine for an engrossing experience. At its core, the story emphasizes how the pursuit of personal gain can harm others, and reckoning with uncomfortable truths demands courage and sacrifice.

Ultimately, Glass Onion is a skillfully crafted, entertaining mystery that surpasses typical genre fare. It balances suspense, humor, and social critique naturally and compellingly. Cementing Rian Johnson’s success in the Knives Out franchise, it reclaims his reputation after the contentious backlash to The Last Jedi. While fan expectations proved insurmountable in that galaxy far, far away, Glass Onion confirms Johnson as a brilliant filmmaker capable of crafting sharp, layered stories. The film invites audiences to not only solve a crime but also reflect on integrity, power, and humanity’s search for justice and meaning. Its impact lingers long after the credits roll.

Wake Up Dead Man: A Knives Out Mystery Trailer

Posted on by Arleigh

Wake Up Dead Man: A Knives Out Mystery is the third movie in Rian Johnson’s fun and twisty murder mystery series. Daniel Craig is back as the sharp detective Benoit Blanc, who’s got his work cut out for him with a seemingly impossible case this time. The movie is set in a small-town church with some pretty creepy secrets, and Blanc teams up with a young priest to crack the case. The cast is packed with great talent like Josh O’Connor, Glenn Close, Josh Brolin, Mila Kunis, Jeremy Renner, and Kerry Washington, so there’s a lot of star power mixed with sharp writing and those clever twists Johnson’s known for.

The movie mixes mystery, drama, and a bit of dark humor while diving into themes like faith, secrets, and lies. Benoit Blanc has to navigate a tangled web of hidden motives and dark pasts—all wrapped in the spooky atmosphere of the church and its community.

It’s dropping in theaters on November 26, 2025, and then hitting Netflix worldwide on December 12, so it’s definitely one to keep an eye out for whether you’re already a fan or just love a good whodunnit.

Review: Extraction 2 (dir. by Sam Hargrave)

Posted on by Arleigh

“I will not stop.” — Tyler Rake

Extraction 2 drops you right into the thick of things, cranking the intensity way past the first film. To quickly recap, the original Extraction introduced Tyler Rake, a gritty mercenary with a troubled past played with undeniable grit by Chris Harmsworth. The story was simple but effective—a high-stakes rescue of a kidnapped boy in Dhaka, Bangladesh, filled with edge-of-your-seat action and those now-iconic, almost balletic long-take fight sequences. It was raw, realistic, and emotionally grounded. Harmsworth’s portrayal anchored the chaos in human vulnerability, helping the film stand out from the typical action fare.

Now, the sequel’s aim is clear—it wants to go bigger, bloodier, and more relentless, and it pulls that off in many ways. The standout here is definitely the action choreography. Sam Hargrave, the director, really flexes his muscle with several jaw-dropping sequences, especially a breathtaking 21-minute continuous take that makes you feel like you’re running alongside Rake, dodging bullets and throwing punches in real time. It’s an impressive technical feat but, more importantly, it’s incredibly immersive. The fights have that gritty realism where each blow counts, and the camera work lets you see every tense moment clearly instead of hiding behind shaky cuts.

Chris Hemsworth, once again, owns the role. This time around, you can see a bit more of the toll the mercenary life has taken on Rake. Hemsworth brings a subtle layer of weariness mixed with fierce determination. His physicality is on full display—he’s convincing in those brutal hand-to-hand combats without ever feeling like a stuntman stand-in. He does it all, and it’s clear he’s not just punching air; this is a man fighting for something beyond just survival. The emotional beats land a bit more naturally this time around, helped by Hemsworth’s grounded performance, which balances the nonstop action with moments of quiet reflection.

Visually, the film is a significant step up. The settings shift from humid, congested streets to icy, oppressive Georgia, and the cinematography makes the most of this change. The chilly, bleak palette fits perfectly with the film’s mood—harsh, unforgiving, and tense. The camera work is bold yet measured; it takes its time to show us the fights fully, letting the choreography breathe without rushing or confusing the viewer. This clarity turns the action scenes into mini-masterpieces, where every movement, every shot, and every punch feels deliberate and impactful.

That said, not everything clicks perfectly. The plot plays it safe with familiar revenge and rescue-mission beats, and the supporting characters don’t get much development beyond their utility to the story. Golshifteh Farahani steals a few scenes as Nik, adding fresh energy and complexity as a tough and capable ally, but others around her mainly exist to get the body count up. There’s a formulaic feel to the storyline—with plenty of high-stakes tension but little in the way of surprise. If you go in looking for deep storytelling or rich character arcs, you might be left wanting.

The film truly embraces the “bigger is better” mantra, and in many ways, it pays off spectacularly with larger, more intricate action sequences and expanded scale. This escalation brings a fuller, more thrilling spectacle that keeps you hooked from start to finish. However, this increase in scope leads to a trade-off: the narrative feels more convoluted and sometimes weighed down by its own ambition. The plot introduces multiple new characters and intersecting agendas, which lengthens the storyline unnecessarily and complicates what could have been a more straightforward mission. This convolution makes the story not only more formulaic but also harder to follow, detracting from the lean storytelling charm that made the first movie so effective.

Tone-wise, the movie trades some of the first film’s grounded grit for a flashier, more stylized look and feel. Some sequences stretch believability—Rake’s near-indestructibility and certain stunt setups can pull you out of the moment. Still, if you’re willing to accept that and enjoy the ride, the movie delivers on adrenaline and spectacle in full force.

One of the most refreshing things about Extraction 2 is how well it balances raw, physical combat with moments of emotional depth. Between the intense fight scenes, there are small windows into who Tyler Rake is and what drives him. These touches give the film a heartbeat beneath all the explosions and punches. Rake is no cookie-cutter action hero; he’s a broken man clawing his way toward redemption, and that gives the film a surprising amount of emotional weight for a movie mainly about violence and chaos.

Ultimately, Extraction 2 isn’t reinventing the wheel, but it doesn’t need to. It knows its audience and delivers exactly what it promises: high-octane, impeccably executed action sequences tied together by a thread of humanity. Hemsworth’s portrayal elevates it beyond just a flashy romp, lending it a gritty soul. The villains feel suitably menacing, and the stakes are convincingly high, which keeps the tension ticking throughout.

If you loved the first Extraction for its mix of brutal realism and emotional punch, the sequel will feel familiar but amplified—more intense, more expansive, and a bit louder. If you’re new to the series, Extraction 2 still stands solid on its own as a showcase of what well-choreographed action cinema looks like today—raw, precise, and emotionally resonant with just enough story to keep you invested without dragging you down.

In short, Extraction 2 is a wild, thrilling ride with a surprisingly human heart beating beneath all the chaos. It’s a film that knows how to entertain, showcasing Chris Harmsworth at his physical and emotional best and proving that action movies can still push creative boundaries while keeping viewers hooked. The movie brings bigger and bolder set pieces that truly live up to the “bigger is better” slogan, but this comes at the cost of making the plot more convoluted and overly complicated than it needed to be. While the intricate story layers may strain some viewers, the explosive action and solid performances make it a must-watch for any fan of visceral, edge-of-your-seat thrillers. If you want a no-nonsense blockbuster with a pulse, Extraction 2 delivers in spades.

Review: Extraction (dir. by Sam Hargrave)

Posted on by Arleigh

“Move fast. Stay low.” — Tyler Rake

Extraction (2020) is an action film directed by Sam Hargrave and written by Joe Russo, centering on a high-stakes rescue mission led by Chris Hemsworth’s character, Tyler Rake. The story comes from the graphic novel Ciudad, following Rake, a hardened mercenary tasked with rescuing Ovi Mahajan—the kidnapped teenage son of a Mumbai drug lord—from a rival gang in Dhaka, Bangladesh.

The biggest highlight of the film is undoubtedly the action. Sam Hargrave’s background as a stuntman and stunt coordinator heavily shapes the film’s visceral, grounded fight scenes and chase sequences. Before directing Extraction, Hargrave worked extensively in Hollywood, doubling for Chris Evans as Captain America in several Marvel movies like Winter Soldier and Endgame, and choreographing stunts for The Avengers, Pirates of the Caribbean, and The Hunger Games. This experience shows in the film’s impressive physicality and well-structured action set pieces.

One of the film’s standout moments is a roughly 15-minute continuous shot that follows Rake through escalating fights, car chases, and shoots without cuts, putting the audience right in the middle of the chaos. Cinematographer Newton Thomas Sigel maintains great clarity during this complex sequence, making it easy to follow the action without losing tension or momentum.

Chris Hemsworth’s Tyler Rake is a mix of toughness and quiet emotion. While Rake is the typical stoic, skilled mercenary with a haunting past, Hemsworth brings enough charisma and subtlety to keep him interesting. Rudhraksh Jaiswal’s Ovi balances vulnerability and resilience, and their relationship adds some emotional depth to an otherwise action-heavy film.

The setting of Dhaka plays a significant role in creating tension. The crowded streets and claustrophobic urban spaces add a feeling of danger and urgency. The production design and score contribute to this gritty atmosphere, making the world feel lived-in and tense.

Violence in Extraction is brutal and unflinching, not shying away from the grim realities of its story. The R rating is earned through graphic fights, gun battles, and some harsh moments involving bystanders, including children. This unrelenting approach to violence adds a raw edge to the film but can also feel overwhelming at times.

However, the movie’s major drawback comes from its story and character development, which are fairly thin and formulaic. The plot is straightforward: a mercenary protecting a kidnapped kid while fighting off enemies. Most of the supporting characters are underdeveloped, with the villain Amir portrayed as a one-dimensional bad guy without much backstory or nuance. Although Randeep Hooda’s character Saju adds some tension and complexity, other roles feel functional rather than memorable.

The film attempts to add emotional weight through Rake and Ovi’s bond, but the effort sometimes falls flat. Key moments meant to build character feels like typical exposition, and some plot points are rushed or underexplored. A subplot involving David Harbour’s character feels tacked on and doesn’t quite fit into the narrative flow.

Pacing also hinders the film, especially in the middle act, where the story slows down and struggles to balance action with character moments. This section can feel tedious compared to the rest of the film’s adrenaline-fueled sequences.

The ending, while action-packed and satisfying in terms of spectacle, also features a somewhat questionable twist and a final shot that feels like a cheat, leaving some ambiguity that may frustrate viewers seeking clear resolution.

In summary, Extraction delivers on what fans of intense, well-executed action expect. It’s a showcase for Hargrave’s stunt expertise and Hemsworth’s physical performance but falls short when it comes to storytelling and character depth. The film is a gripping, high-energy ride with brutal, creative fight and chase scenes—but if you’re looking for a nuanced plot or fully fleshed-out characters, it’s lacking. Fans of pure action films like John Wick or The Raid will find much to enjoy here, but others may find the story too simplistic and the constant violence numbing over time.