In the waning hours of December 31, 1999, the world held its collective breath, bracing for a digital apocalypse that never came thanks to the efforts of computer scientists years before. Kyle Mooney’s directorial debut, Y2K, imagines a world where that didn’t happen. It’s a world where the collective fears and media frenzy materialize with a vengeance. The film is a whimsical what-if scenario that brings the notorious Y2K bug to life—literally—as machines turn against their creators in a frenzy of late 90s nostalgia and anarchic chaos.

At its core, Y2K is a comedic exploration of an era teetering on the edge of technological revolution. Mooney plunges us into a well-crafted time capsule, replete with the era’s cultural artifacts: the hum of dial-up internet, the allure of burned CDs, FLYING TOASTERS(!), and a soundtrack that oscillates between the rebellious strains of nu-metal and the bubblegum pop of my late 20s. For those who lived through the turn of the millennium like me, the film is a sensory déjà vu—a reminder of a time when the future seemed both promising and perilous.

The story centers on Eli (Jaeden Martell) and Danny (Julian Dennison), two socially awkward teenagers yearning for relevance. They decide to crash a New Year’s Eve party hosted by the coolest kid in school, hoping to elevate their social standing and, in Eli’s case, win the affection of his crush, Laura (Rachel Zegler). Mooney captures the quintessential high school experience with an affectionate lens, highlighting the universal themes of unrequited love and the quest for identity. This bit of heart is short-lived.

As the clock strikes midnight, the film pivots sharply. The much-dreaded Y2K bug triggers a technological uprising—household appliances morph into malevolent entities, and everyday gadgets become instruments of destruction. The conceit is amusing; there’s a childish thrill in watching an iMac transform from an acrylic desk ornament into a digital harbinger of doom.

Yet, despite this promising setup, Y2K struggles to maintain momentum. The film grapples with an identity crisis of its own, torn between being a comedy and a horror flick. It doesn’t quite hit the mark for a comedy—the jokes often feel recycled, leaning too heavily on nostalgic references that lack freshness. As a horror movie, it lacks the necessary boldness; the scares are superficial, and the tension dissipates as quickly as it builds.

Mooney’s direction shows fun flashes of brilliance, particularly in his attention to period detail and the energetic pacing of the first act. You can tell he’s been obsessing about this event for the last twenty-five years. His background in sketch comedy is evident in the film’s situational humor and character archetypes. However, the narrative coherence unravels in the latter half. The introduction of a high-profile cameo—a nod to one of the period’s (I guess?) iconic figures—initially elicits a smirk but vastly overstays its welcome. What begins as a playful cameo evolves into an overextended subplot that detracts from the main narrative, sapping the film of any of its earlier momentum.

Julian Dennison’s Danny is a standout, his charisma injecting much-needed vitality into the story right up until it’s not. Even so, the character is derivative, as if they saw Deadpool 2 and just told him to “do more of that.” Jaeden Martell portrays Eli’s awkwardness with sincerity, albeit lacking the magnetism of a young Ethan Embry, Jonah Hill, or Michael Cera. Rachel Zegler’s Laura attempts depth in what is a largely one-dimensional role. I was begging to feel a little bit of that classic comedy chemistry that evokes the quintessential teenage experience—an earnest mix of hope, insecurity, and rebellion—between them. It’s not there.

Thematically, Y2K flirts with insightful commentary on our relationship with technology and the anxieties of a society on the cusp of a new era. There’s an undercurrent of irony in how the characters are both dependent on and betrayed by the very devices that define their generation. The film stops short of anything more profound, favoring spectacle over substance.

Y2K is a film that promises more than it delivers. It’s an amusing premise bolstered by nostalgic allure but undermined by uneven execution. For those who remember the days of floppy disks and fear of the unknown looming with the new millennium, Y2K may evoke a wry smile. But like the much-anticipated catastrophe that never was, the film ultimately feels like a missed opportunity—a glitch in the system that could have been so much more.

If the heist film has a defining characteristic, it is its promise of intricate precision. A plan so complex, so masterfully orchestrated, that it teases the boundaries of human ingenuity. Watching such films is like decoding a puzzle—each piece methodically falling into place until the final, often surprising, image emerges. And yet, there’s something uniquely whimsical about the 1967 Italian-Spanish-West German co-production Grand Slam. It isn’t only a heist film—it’s a meditation on chaos, ingenuity, aging, and what happens when human error becomes an integral part of the plan.

Directed by Giuliano Montaldo, Grand Slam is a film that thrives on contradictions. It’s both meticulous and frivolous, high-stakes yet self-aware. It begins with a premise that feels almost absurdly simple: a retired English professor (played by Edward G. Robinson) decides to use his savings to finance the perfect crime. He recruits a team of international experts—each a master in their field—to pull off a diamond heist in Rio de Janeiro during Carnival. But the film doesn’t dwell on the professor’s motivations, nor does it overexplain the stakes. Instead, it hurtles forward, reveling in the propulsive audacity of its premise.

It’s worth pausing here to appreciate the peculiar shine on Edward G. Robinson’s character, a man whose academic career has somehow equipped him to mastermind a multimillion-dollar heist. The film never fully explains how a lifetime of lecturing on Shakespeare translates into criminal expertise, and it doesn’t need to. The professor embodies a kind of intellectual hubris—the belief that any challenge, no matter how absurd, can be overcome with enough planning. And this hubris becomes the engine of the film. But Grand Slam is not simply a story about a professor’s intellectual vanity. It’s about the extended team he assembles and the interplay of their personalities. There’s Greg (George Rigaud), the safecracker who moonlights as a butler; Agostino (Riccardo Cucciolla), the fussy Italian electronics expert; Jean Paul (Robert Hoffmann), the suave playboy tasked with seducing a key player in the operation; and Eric (Klaus Kinski), the acerbic, no-nonsense German ex-military man who oozes sweaty menace. Together, they form a microcosm of human ambition and angst.

The heist itself is the centerpiece of the film, and the plan is as audacious as it is absurd: the team must infiltrate a vault protected by a high-tech sound detection system, a pneumatic ladder of their own design, and a series of increasingly ridiculous obstacles. At one point, a key is flushed down a toilet into the sewers, only to be retrieved by Eric, who is waiting with a strainer. It’s a sequence that teeters on the edge of slapstick, and yet it works—precisely because the film never loses its focus or its sense of fun. Watching the heist unfold is like watching a Rube Goldberg machine in motion. Every detail has been planned, every variable accounted for—or so it seems. The team’s plan is brilliant, yes, but it is also deeply flawed. Mistakes are made. Personalities clash. And in the end, it is not the vault or the sound detection system that poses the greatest threat—it is the fallibility of we wee humans.

Perhaps the most striking element of Grand Slam is its ending, which has divided audiences since the film’s release. Without venturing too far into spoiler territory, it’s worth noting that the final moments of the film shift the tone dramatically. What begins as a taut, meticulously crafted heist thriller ends with a twist-cum-punchline. For some, this tonal shift undermines the film’s credibility. For others, it’s a reminder that even the best-laid plans are subject to the whims of fate. It feels like a “sad trombone” moment—a tonal shift so jarring that it risks alienating the audience. But Grand Slam refuses to conform to the conventions of its genre. It doesn’t offer the tidy resolution we’ve come to expect from heist films. Instead, it leaves us with a lingering sense of unease—a reminder that even in a world of meticulous planning, chaos always finds a way.

Released in 1967, Grand Slam arrived during a golden age of heist films, following classics like Rififi and The Killing. But unlike its predecessors, Grand Slam doesn’t aspire to gritty realism. Its aesthetic is vibrant and almost cartoonish, from the garish design of the titular Grand Slam 70 safe to Ennio Morricone’s playful score, which feels more suited to a carnival than a crime drama. This is a film that doesn’t take itself too seriously—and that’s precisely what makes it so enjoyable.

At its heart, Grand Slam is a film about human ingenuity—and its limitations. It’s about the thrill of the plan, the chaos of its execution, and the inevitable gap between the two. It’s a reminder that even the most brilliant minds are fallible, and that the real drama lies not in the heist itself, but in the people who pull it off. Its ending is polarizing, its characters occasionally veer into caricature, and its pacing can feel uneven. But these flaws are part of its charm. This is a film that embraces its own frivolity, that leans into its absurdity, and that dares to have fun with a genre that often takes itself quite seriously.

What do we expect from a heist movie? Perhaps the thrill of a master plan coming together? A sly protagonist outwitting everyone in their path? Or maybe, just maybe, the satisfaction of seeing the precise mechanics of deception unfold like clockwork? Vittorio De Sica’s 1966 film After the Fox doesn’t care much for those expectations. Instead, it turns the genre on its head, delivering a comedy that—while uneven—dares to poke fun at the very ideas of success, celebrity, and the film industry itself.

At first glance, it’s an anomaly. De Sica is a master of Italian neorealism, whose Bicycle Thieves is enshrined in cinematic history as a heartbreaking portrait of postwar struggle. And yet, here we are. Somehow, he found himself directing a frivolous, madcap heist comedy starring Peter Sellers. How did this happen? Some say it was necessity—De Sica reportedly needed money to fund his gambling habit? Others point to Peter Sellers himself, who lured the legendary director into this peculiar partnership. Whatever the reason, After the Fox exists as a curious footnote in the careers of both men—one that begs us to reconsider what we expect from great artists when they step outside their comfort zones.

The story revolves around Aldo Vanucci, a.k.a. “The Fox” (Peter Sellers), a master thief who escapes from prison to pull off a daring heist: smuggling gold stolen during “the Cairo job” into Italy. But here’s the twist: Vanucci decides the best way to transport the gold is by disguising the heist as a movie production, complete with a faux director, a washed-up Hollywood star (Victor Mature as Tony Powell), and the help of his wide-eyed sister Gina (Britt Ekland). What follows is less a heist movie and more a satire of the film industry, celebrity culture, and the absurd lengths we go to for validation.

A Film That Plays by Its Own Rules

It’s important to note: After the Fox doesn’t try to be a traditional heist movie. In fact, it almost seems to forget it’s a heist movie altogether. By the time the third act arrives, we’re less concerned about the gold and more caught up in the chaos of Vanucci’s fake film production. This is a movie that meanders, that delights in tangents, and that often feels like it’s making itself up as it goes along.

This looseness is part of its charm. The film is stuffed with brilliant comedic moments: Sellers’ Vanucci, masquerading as the flamboyant, neorealist director “Federico Fabrizi,” barking nonsensical orders at the villagers of a small Italian town who are swept up in the excitement of movie-making. Or Mature’s Tony Powell, an aging actor desperate to reclaim his youth and dignity, battling his agent over whether he can still pass as a leading man. Every scene is laced with a sly wit and a knowing wink—an acknowledgment that this is all one big, ridiculous charade.

Perhaps the most fascinating dynamic in After the Fox is the way it skewers its own creators. De Sica, who once embodied the pinnacle of serious, socially conscious filmmaking, allows himself to be parodied here. In one particularly biting moment, a character dismisses “neorealism” as simply meaning “no money.” It’s a self-aware jab, one that lets us in on the joke: even the greats aren’t above a bit of silliness when the situation calls for it.

The Peter Sellers Paradox

At the center of it all is Peter Sellers, an actor whose genius for comedy is matched only by his knack for transformation. Sellers is at his best here, slipping seamlessly into disguises and personas, from the suave Fabrizi to the bumbling burglar. There’s a joy in watching him work, a sense that he’s having as much fun as the audience. But there’s also a hint of melancholy—a sense that Sellers, like Vanucci, is always performing, always hiding behind a mask.

This duality is part of what makes Sellers such a compelling actor. He’s a chameleon, capable of vanishing into any role, but you never quite reach him. Even in his most outlandish moments—slathered in bubbles while escaping from prison or directing a chaotic car chase—there’s a vulnerability that lingers beneath the surface.

A Satire of Celebrity and Success

What further elevates After the Fox is its sharp commentary on the absurdity of fame. The film lampoons everyone: the egotistical director, the washed-up actor, the starstruck fans who scream at every passing car regardless of who’s inside. In one hilarious sequence, a crowd gathers to watch Tony Powell arrive in town, only for someone to ask, “Who is it?” “I don’t know … but it’s someone famous!”

It’s a moment that feels timeless, a reminder that our obsession with celebrity hasn’t changed much in the decades since. De Sica and screenwriter Neil Simon (in his first screenplay) use humor to expose the hollowness of fame, but they do so with a light touch. The film never feels mean-spirited; instead, it invites us to laugh at ourselves and the ridiculous ways we chase validation.

The Flaws That Make It Human

After the Fox is messy, the pacing uneven, and the third-act courtroom scene feels like an afterthought. Critics at the time dismissed it as a “jumble,” and they weren’t entirely wrong. But there’s something endearing about its imperfections. This is a film that refuses to take itself seriously, that embraces its own chaos and invites the audience to do the same. Watching it is like stumbling upon a forgotten gem in a dusty corner of the cinema vault. It’s not polished or pristine, but it sparkles in its own peculiar way. It’s a film that makes you laugh, makes you think (albeit briefly), and leaves you humming its absurdly catchy theme song long after the credits roll.

The Legacy of a Delightful Oddity

In the end, After the Fox is less about the heist and more about the humanity behind it. It’s a film about people pretending to be something they’re not—criminals pretending to be filmmakers, an actor pretending to be young, a thief pretending to be a hero. And in that pretense, it finds its truth. De Sica may have made this film for a paycheck, but in doing so, he created something unexpectedly profound: a comedy that reminds us of the joy in failure, the beauty in absurdity, and the power of a good disguise. After the Fox may be flawed, but it’s a damned delightful romp that deserves a healthy cult status. Sometimes, it’s okay to just have fun.

Here’s the thing about The Sum of All Fears: I’d largely forgotten it. Poof. Gone. Like a rogue agent swallowed whole by the bureaucratic machinery of the CIA. Re-watching it, I was struck, not by the oh-so–2002 anxieties of nuclear terrorism, but by how strangely empty the whole thing felt. It’s a film striving for Clancy-esque gravitas, for the intricate ticking clock of geopolitical tension, but ending up like a jigsaw puzzle with some pieces missing.

This is a movie caught in a weird limbo. There’s just no other way to say it: Ben Affleck’s Jack Ryan is perpetually overshadowed by the ghost of Harrison Ford. He’s not bad, per se. He’s got that Affleck charm, that movie-star wattage. But he’s miscast, like a finely tailored suit on the wrong body. It subtly, insidiously, throws the whole thing off. Yes, this is a younger Ryan. But Afflec is not a younger Ford.

Our villains are a pre–9/11 fever dream of neo-Nazis swirling their brandy snifters and plotting… something. It’s so Bond-villain-lite that it’s almost funny. The irony is that in trying to avoid one geopolitical hot potato the filmmakers landed squarely in another: narrative incoherence.

Then there’s the administrivia. The sheer inability of characters to connect, the endless loop of “I can’t get ahold of him!” is baffling. Lazy narrative? Sure. It’s also a sign that the filmmakers themselves were lost in the bureaucratic maze they were trying to depict and landed on the one sure-fire way to throw in a roadblock to build tension: make the phones broke.

Amidst this mess, there are sparks. Liev Schreiber’s John Clark, for example, is a beacon of quiet competence in a film desperately needing some. He’s the character I remember, the one that hints at the taut thriller The Sum of All Fears could have been.

So, three stars. Not because it’s actively terrible, but because it’s a film of missed opportunities. Like a half-remembered dream, it leaves you with a nagging sense of “what if?” What if they’d stuck with the book’s plot? What if they’d cast Schreiber as Ryan? What if, what if, what if… .

In the labyrinth of cinematic history, there exists a peculiar subgenre that both revels in and critiques the very notion of confinement: the women-in-prison film. “Caged Heat,” Jonathan Demme’s 1974 directorial debut, stands as a curious artifact within this realm. It is a film that attempts to straddle the line between exploitation and social commentary, yet often finds itself ensnared in the very clichés it seeks to transcend.

Imagine a tapestry woven with threads of institutional oppression, unchecked authority, and the visceral quest for freedom. These are heavy themes, weighty enough to anchor any serious drama. Demme, with the audacity of a novice and the ambition of an auteur, endeavors to infuse these elements into a genre not typically known for its subtlety or depth.

At the heart of Caged Heat lies an exploration of power dynamics, particularly the unsettling ways in which authority can corrupt and dehumanize. The casting of Barbara Steele as the prison’s warden is quite a subversion. Steele, renowned for her roles in Gothic horror, brings an eerie gravitas to the role. Her character is not the archetypal male oppressor but a woman wielding power with a cold detachment, challenging the audience’s preconceived notions about gender and authority.

The film touches upon the disquieting realities of unethical medical practices and the psychological toll of incarceration. Scenes of forced shock therapy and invasive medical examinations are jarring, almost surreal in their intensity. These moments hint at a deeper critique of the prison-industrial complex and the ways in which institutions can strip individuals of their autonomy and humanity.

Yet, for all its aspirations, Caged Heat cannot escape its foundational trappings. The film often indulges in gratuitous nudity and hyper-sexualized portrayals of its female characters. Slow-motion sequences of inmates showering or engaging in borderline exploitative scenarios serve as stark reminders of the genre’s baser appeals. The juxtaposition of these elements with the film’s loftier themes creates a dissonance that is difficult to reconcile.

One might argue that this very dissonance is intentional—a commentary on how women’s bodies are commodified and controlled both within and outside the prison walls. However, the execution lacks the finesse required to fully realize such a complex critique. The film oscillates erratically between earnestness and exploitation, leaving the viewer uncertain about its true intentions.

The pacing is uneven, with moments of intense introspection abruptly giving way to action-packed sequences that feel almost farcical. Dreamlike vignettes are interspersed throughout, rich with symbolism yet oddly disconnected from the core narrative. These artistic flourishes suggest a director eager to experiment, to push the boundaries of conventional storytelling—even if the results are a mixed bag.

Caged Heat fails to fully commit to a singular vision. It is neither a straightforward exploitation film nor a cohesive social commentary. Instead, it occupies a liminal space, hinting at potential depths without ever truly diving in. This half-measured approach renders the film less impactful than it might have been had it embraced one direction wholeheartedly.

Moreover, the very existence of the women-in-prison genre raises questions about society’s voyeuristic tendencies. Why do audiences gravitate toward narratives that place women in positions of vulnerability and subjugation? Caged Heat doesn’t provide answers, but it does reflect a cultural moment—a time when such stories were not only accepted but proliferated.

It’s worth noting that Demme would go on to direct films of significant acclaim, honing his craft and exploring themes with greater nuance. “Caged Heat,” then, can be seen as a formative work—a canvas upon which Demme experimented with ideas and techniques that he would later refine.

In the final analysis, Caged Heat is a film that intrigues but does not satisfy. Its ambitions are evident, and there are glimpses of what could have been a profound exploration of systemic injustice. However, these glimpses are overshadowed by formulaic genre conventions and an overreliance on sensationalism.

For those interested in the evolution of Jonathan Demme as a filmmaker, or in the idiosyncrasies of 1970s cinema, Caged Heat offers a window into a particular time and place. But as a standalone work, it falls short—a mosaic of mismatched pieces that never quite coalesce into a cohesive whole.

I watched this as Andy and I covered it as our latest member bonus on The Next Reel’s Film Podcast. Learn more and subscribe to the show here. Thank you!

★★☆☆☆

I haven’t been to many arena shows, but of the total, three of them were Prince. They’re incredible. Twenty thousand screaming fans, pulsating lights, the deafening roar of amplified music. This, the very essence of a modern pop spectacle, is the setting for M. Night Shyamalan’s latest thriller, “Trap.” It’s a promising premise, a high-concept thriller with a built-in ticking clock. And yet, as does a punctured balloon, the film quickly loses its air, leaving behind a limp, floppy, unsatisfying experience.

“Trap” follows Cooper, played by a game but ultimately misused Josh Hartnett, a seemingly ordinary dad attending a Lady Raven concert with his daughter. But Cooper harbors a dark secret: he’s the Butcher, a notorious serial killer. The authorities, aware of his presence, have set a trap, turning the concert into a high-stakes game of cat and mouse. That’s the set-up. That was also the trailer.

The problem with “Trap” isn’t the concept itself. It’s the execution, which feels appropriately clumsy for Shyamalan, whose recent films have all carried a similar set of frustrations. The film suffers from a series of baffling creative choices, starting with the perplexing decision to reveal the central twist early on. This deflates any sense of suspense, leaving the film meandering through a series of increasingly improbable scenarios.

Shyamalan employs a distracting technique throughout the film, having his actors stare directly into the lens during key moments of dialogue. This awkward fourth-wall breaking (I don’t know what else to call it), rather than adding intrigue, pulls the viewer out of the story. It’s a stylistic flourish that feels both unnecessary and detrimental to the film’s overall tone. In a thriller, where immersion is crucial, this technique feels particularly jarring.

And then there are the performances, which, with the notable exception of Ariel Donoghue as the daughter, range from wooden to unconvincing. Hartnett, despite his efforts, struggles to embody the duality of his character. The script, lacking in nuance, offers little support, and the direction seems to exacerbate the stiffness. There’s a palpable disconnect between the words on the page and the emotions on screen, leaving the performances feeling hollow and inauthentic.

Even the film’s strengths are ultimately undermined by its weaknesses. The concert setting, initially promising, is poorly utilized. The cinematography, oddly fixated on the arena’s jumbotrons, creates a sense of distance, robbing the scenes of their potential energy. And the music, while effectively capturing the pop concert vibe, feels disconnected from the narrative.

The truth is that we never needed to meet Lady Raven at all. We didn’t need most of the third act. The film strayed from its shallow roots when it left the arena, a setting so perfectly unsettling I’m stymied how the filmmakers were able to misuse it so.

“Trap” is a film that feels trapped by its own limitations. See what I did there? Nailed it. It’s a missed opportunity, a thriller that lacks thrills, a suspense film devoid of suspense.