Reviews

France has delivered some decent crime thrillers in the past, but this isn’t one of them. The most significant action scene is a mediocre car flip, and the rest is either uninspired or poorly choreographed. The film lacks tension and character development, resulting in a forgettable entry in the genre.

The film struggles with pacing, particularly in its suspenseful sequences. It rushes through emotional or philosophical beats that could have added depth, burying them under gratuitous action. This creates a jarring experience where tension overshadows meaning, making it difficult for viewers to fully engage with the characters’ inner lives.

I’m tired of documentaries obsessing over the killer’s childhood or family—as if that explains anything. For the victims’ families, murder is not just another true crime plot twist; it’s a devastating, ongoing reality. This film finally shifts the focus to where it belongs: on the women who were lost and the people still fighting for them.

I absolutely adore this version. Everything—from the visuals and music to the performances and delivery—is simply exquisite. The balcony scene between Leonard Whiting and Olivia Hussey unfolds like a painting, capturing the fragile intensity of first love. Shakespeare’s classical language might seem more suited to the stage, yet here it feels wholly at home. The final sequence, as the two lovers choose death in the name of love, is utterly devastating. And just as the music swells, I found myself thinking back to their first meeting, when everything still shimmered with promise.

When Paul Newman’s Luke declares, “What we’ve got here is failure to communicate,” it’s more than just a line—it’s a manifesto for a generation pushing back against authority in the 1960s. The film confronts the impossibility of communication: between the individual and society, the self and the soul, man and God. Everything seems to collapse under the weight of miscommunication. But if the Tower of Babel has already fallen, can connection still save us? And how does one resist being reduced to a mere object within the system? Emerging at the dawn of New Hollywood, Luke doesn’t provide answers—only questions, lost in the chaos.

Keke Palmer is unforgettable as Drex. She captures the exhaustion of a woman under constant pressure, yet infuses the role with wit and resilience. Whether thinking on her feet or navigating chaos, Palmer brings Drex to life with nuanced expressions and authenticity. Meanwhile, SZA makes a surprisingly strong acting debut, embodying Alyssa’s impulsive charm and carefree spirit with ease.

Made in U.S.A is quintessential Godard—plotless, erratic, and completely in thrall to his own artistic impulses. Audiences are secondary to the filmmaker’s desire for expressive freedom. Beneath the loose framework of a woman’s revenge lies a maze of political allusions and cultural references, all tangled up in Godard’s signature poetic chaos.

One of the film’s strongest aspects is its music, which features Bob Dylan’s classics alongside era-specific tracks that vividly evoke the 1960s counterculture. The cinematography and production design are equally noteworthy, with vibrant colors and fluid camerawork enhancing its aesthetic appeal, yet the narrative falls short of capturing Dylan’s mythic allure.

This series thrives on its excellent visuals. The demon transformations and bloody combat are impressively done, amplified by exaggerated camera angles and Dutch tilts that crank up the tension. Visually, it’s like watching a big-budget action film dressed in horror aesthetics. The ominous small-town setting—with its eerie lighting and shadowy corners—enhances the creepy vibe.

The film’s biggest flaw is Bagman himself—a figure so implausible he derails the tension before it even builds. If the audience can't buy into the central menace, there's no suspense to be had. Some of the logic is flimsy too. In one scene, the creature politely knocks before entering a house... but we’ve already seen it appear out of nowhere, so why bother with formalities? It's details like this that make the horror feel unconvincing.

The film leans into a mystery structure, opening with Nancy’s misplaced earring—a small misunderstanding that sets her down a path of suspicion and paranoia. Her dreams, her husband’s odd behavior, and the growing tension weave a gripping atmosphere. Unfortunately, the film spends over an hour building Nancy’s doubt before finally dropping its twist, which arrives too abruptly. The reveal lacks the weight it deserves, and the rushed final act feels like a missed opportunity.

The film aims to juggle themes of growth, family, love, and ambition, but only brushes the surface of each. Alex’s journey through her to-do list feels perfunctory, draining the story of emotional depth. The plot is predictable, and the ending unfolds exactly as expected, leaving little room for surprise or impact.

The plot moves fast, though the protagonist’s congenital analgesia feels exaggerated. Not feeling pain is one thing, but continuing to move as if uninjured after nerve trauma stretches credibility. Still, there’s a guilty thrill in seeing such graphic violence on the big screen. It’s a simple story with familiar beats, but it’s engaging enough to hold attention.

Despite being trimmed from a five-hour cut to just two, which leaves parts of the narrative murky, and despite the inclusion of arguably excessive romantic elements for broader appeal, this is both a creative peak and a turning point for Hayao Miyazaki. With an unprecedented 135,000 hand-drawn frames, visceral imagery, and the rare use of CGI and graphic violence for Studio Ghibli, the film is a visual and emotional shock to the audience. Here, Miyazaki lets go of idealism, framing humanity and nature as fundamentally opposed forces, and posits survival—not harmony—as our most urgent concern.

At its core, this is a generic save-the-world story wrapped in Minecraft skin. Without the game’s branding, it’d be just another forgettable adventure film. That said, it’s packed with winks and nods that only players will catch—familiar mobs, tools, and gameplay logic woven into the narrative. Unfortunately, the script doesn’t fully capitalize on the game’s immense creative potential, and the writers seem boxed in by a simplified vision.

The film leans heavily on clichés, like the strained father-daughter dynamics, and the cartoonish ultra-rich elites. The unicorn’s VFX are serviceable but never standout. Trimming down the story could’ve helped, especially since many of the death scenes are so telegraphed they lose any sort of tension.

The film’s lighting, cinematography, and editing in its dialogue-heavy indoor scenes really stand out—essential for a story that relies on conversation. Therapy sessions, movie screenings, lie detectors, dinner parties, cheating, manipulation—all elements that could just as easily describe a marriage as a spy mission. While “Black Bag” refers to the classified operations agents can’t share, it metaphorically points to the secrets and lies between spouses. In the end, it’s about trust—the kind that demands everything.

Jason Statham delivers his trademark stoic badass, with crisp fight scenes and undeniable screen presence. However, the character is almost indistinguishable from many of his past roles. The real surprise is David Harbour as Gunny—a blind man who can still shoot arrows and crack jokes. His charisma adds a much-needed spark to the film.

It’s hard to justify spending so much on telling such an outdated, overly familiar fairy tale. Despite a few surface-level updates aimed at modern audiences—like making Snow White more independent—the core story remains unchanged. Rachel Zegler, unfortunately, lacks the warmth or charm needed for the role. Her interactions with animals and dwarves feel hollow, far from the character audiences imagine.

Bertolucci pours his political frustration into the script, experimenting wildly with camera movements and editing, clearly channeling the influence of Godard and the French New Wave. Jump cuts no longer compress time but emphasize emotional disconnection. Adriana Asti is luminous—her subtle gestures at the dinner table (00:19), her repeated glasses swap (00:23)—are beautifully framed and memorable.