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“Captain America: Brave New World” – A Solid Step, But Not a Leap

There’s tension at the heart of the Marvel Cinematic Universe, Pete writes, obviously. It’s a machine built on spectacle, on interconnected narratives, on the promise of something bigger always on the horizon. But what happens when that machine starts to feel… well, a little too efficient? A little too predictable? “Captain America: Brave New World,” the latest installment, sits squarely within this tension.

Let’s get this out of the way: I enjoyed it. There’s an epic satisfaction in seeing the threads of the Hulk universe woven back into the larger tapestry of the MCU. And Anthony Mackie? He embodies Sam Wilson with a strength and a humanity that makes you root for him, even when the plot contortions are strained. I genuinely hope this Captain America gets the runway he deserves, that he’s given the space to become a substantial figure in the new Avengers lineup. He has the potential to bring a much-needed dose of heart and perspective to a team often defined by raw power.

“Brave New World” wasn’t quite the Captain America film I expected. Instead, it felt like a Harrison Ford movie that happened to have Captain America in it. Ford brings a gravitas, a world-weariness, to Thaddeus Ross that elevates the character beyond a simple antagonist. It’s a performance that hints at the complexities and compromises inherent in leadership, even – perhaps especially – at the highest levels. The film, as a result, is something of a political thriller, even if it falls far from the previous highs in the franchise.

That’s where the film stumbles. We’ve seen the heights this franchise can reach. The Winter Soldier redefined the superhero genre with its sharp, paranoid energy. Civil War wrestled with complex moral questions and delivered action sequences that were both thrilling and character-driven. Brave New World, while aspirational, doesn’t quite punch in the same class. The filmmaking feels… clumsier. Disjointed. Disorganized. The pieces are all there, but the glue just isn’t quite strong enough to hold it all together. The action, while competent, lacks the innovative spark that made previous Captain America films so memorable. This film is a fine entry into the MCU, but it simply doesn’t connect emotionally in the way its predecessors did.

One of the more compelling aspects of the film is the subtle, yet persistent, tension surrounding Sam Wilson’s choice not to take the super-soldier serum. It’s a question that hangs in the air as an undercurrent to the main narrative. Is he enough? Can a man without enhanced strength and speed stand shoulder-to-shoulder with gods and monsters? The film doesn’t offer easy answers, and that’s precisely what makes it interesting. It forces us to confront the idea that heroism isn’t just about physical prowess, but about the strength of one’s convictions, the unwavering commitment to doing what’s right, even when it’s difficult. Sam’s humanity, his vulnerability, becomes his superpower.

The film also boasts a strong villainous presence in Tim Blake Nelson’s return as The Leader. It was fantastic to see him back, finally given the chance to explore the character’s potential after all these years. However, I couldn’t help but feel he was ultimately underutilized. The same could be said, even more emphatically, for Giancarlo Esposito. Here’s an actor with immense screen presence, reduced to what amounts to a utility character. His presence felt symbolic of how much Brave New World is trying to cram into a single film, juggling too many plot threads and character arcs without giving any of them the space they need to truly breathe.

And speaking of characters… Shira Haas as Ruth Bat-Seraph. I find her a bit of a curiosity. The film asks us to believe that this woman, with her slight frame, can credibly embody the ruggedness and ruthlessness of a former Black Widow. I wasn’t entirely sold. It feels like a gamble, a bet that the MCU is making on Haas’s ability to grow into the role, to convince us that she’s more than a cipher. Whether that bet will pay off remains to be seen, but for now, her presence felt more like a question mark than a fully realized character.

So, yeah. Brave New World tries to do too much. It’s a sequel to The Incredible Hulk, a continuation of The Falcon and the Winter Soldier, a political thriller, and a setup for future Avengers films – all rolled into one 118-minute package. It’s a testament to the talent involved that the film doesn’t completely collapse under its own weight even as you can feel it creak and moan along the way.

The post-credits scene, meant to tantalize and tease what’s to come, was a disappointing retread. A vague warning about threats from other worlds? It’s a trope the MCU has leaned on far too heavily, and here, it felt like a perfunctory nod to the larger narrative, rather than a genuinely exciting glimpse into the future. It left me with more skepticism than anticipation, a feeling that the machine is churning out promises it will not be able to keep.

Ultimately, Captain America: Brave New World is a worthwhile addition to the MCU, but it’s not a game-changer. It’s a solid step forward for Sam Wilson, and a fascinating showcase for Harrison Ford. But it’s also a reminder that even the most successful formulas can start to feel formulaic. The challenge for Marvel, as it moves forward, is to prove that it can still surprise us, that it hasn’t become entirely beholden to its own formula, and that it can still deliver stories that are more than just elaborate advertisements for the next widget on the assembly line. I am ever the optimist.

When the Silver Screen Stares Back in “Anguish”

Sometimes, the most unsettling stories aren’t those that simply scare us, but those that make us interrogate the very nature of what we’re watching. Bigas Luna’s 1987 film, Anguish, does that, burrowing its way into your psyche with a meta-horror narrative that’s as bold as it is bonkers. It’s a commentary on how cinema itself can be a form of hypnosis, a shared delusion we participate in willingly. Dummies.

Anguish presents a film-within-a-film, The Mommy, where a mother (Zelda Rubinstein) uses hypnosis to control her myopic son, John (Michael Lerner), compelling him to commit gruesome murders and collect eyeballs. Up to this point I wondered if I could start watching the movie on 2x. But just as we settle into this thing, Luna jukes. We’re not watching The Mommy; we’re watching an audience watching The Mommy. And within that audience, a man begins to mirror the on-screen violence, turning the theater into a terrifying reflection of the film itself.

Now, I’ll admit, Zelda Rubinstein’s performance didn’t resonate with me, but I understood her casting. She certainly has a unique appeal that adds to the film’s unsettling atmosphere. However, Michael Lerner truly shines as John, capturing a disturbing mix of vulnerability and menace. It’s a testament to his skill that he can elicit both sympathy and revulsion, and still go on to do Barton Fink.

Once the film reveals its layers, I was completely invested. Luna is dissecting the act of watching a horror movie. And he’s doing it in a way I’ve never seen. The film taps into primal fears, not just of violence, but of losing control, of being manipulated, of becoming voyeurs in our own lives. The eyes, so central to the plot, become a symbol of our own gaze, implicating us in the spectacle.

Some of the pacing is uneven, and at times, it feels like Luna is juggling too many ideas at once. But its ambition and originality are undeniable. It’s a film that dares to ask: what happens when the line between reality and fiction blurs? What happens when the monsters on the screen step out of the frame and into our world?

Thunderball and Tipping Point 007

There is a moment in Thunderball—a flash, really—where you can see the franchise slipping just beyond its own grasp. It happens underwater, of course, because everything in Thunderball happens underwater. Sean Connery’s Bond, the embodiment of effortless cool, is flailing slightly, engaged in one of those extended, balletic combat sequences that seem to stretch beyond time itself. The choreography is mesmerizing, but it’s also sluggish, overlong. The pace, the tension, the momentum—all things Goldfinger had done more adeptly a year earlier—are somehow lost in the murky blue.

This is the paradox of Thunderball: a film that is both quintessential Bond and, in some ways, a mark of the franchise’s slow drift into self-parody.

By 1965, Bond was no longer just a film series; it was a phenomenon. Goldfinger had turned 007 into a cultural juggernaut, and Thunderball arrived with the weight of expectation. The budget was massive—larger than the first three films combined. The action was grander, the gadgets more elaborate, the stakes higher. Even the title seemed to promise something explosive, something immense.

And yet, watching it now, Thunderball feels strangely bloated. The plot—SPECTRE’s theft of two nuclear warheads and Bond’s race to recover them—has all the makings of a classic spy thriller. But the film is obsessed with its own spectacle, stretching sequences past their breaking point. The underwater battles, objectively cool—and revolutionary in their day—now feel like beautifully shot exercises in patience.

Connery, to his credit, is still magnetic. This is his fourth outing as Bond, and he wears the role as comfortably as a tailored tuxedo. But there are signs of fatigue. The charm is there, sharp as ever, but the enthusiasm is waning. The film’s indulgences—its languid pacing, its fixation on style over substance—seem to weigh on him.

And then there’s the treatment of women, which even by Bond standards, feels particularly egregious here. The “seduction” of a physiotherapist at a health clinic is not played for romance, or even for the usual winking charm—it’s coercion, full stop. The film is full of these moments, relics of an era that has not aged well.

This is where my personal relationship with Bond films complicates things. I don’t love them. I like them well enough, and I have fond memories of watching them in the theater with my dad, but they haven’t aged well in just about any regard. And in the struggle with this script, I have to admit: I think I prefer the off-brand Bond, Never Say Never Again, to Thunderball.

This is not to say Thunderball is without its joys. It is, after all, a Bond film. There are high points: the thrilling opening sequence, featuring the now-iconic jetpack; the introduction of Fiona Volpe (Luciana Paluzzi), a rare Bond villainess who doesn’t fall under 007’s spell; the sheer, lush spectacle of the Bahamas setting.

But it is also a film that is too in love with itself. The underwater battles, so innovative at the time, drag on for so long that they become an endurance test. The final sequence aboard Largo’s yacht, Disco Volante, is chaos, with sped-up film and awkward cuts that feel rushed, mismatched with the deliberate pacing of everything that came before.

If Goldfinger was the moment Bond became Bond, Thunderball was when the formula began calcifying. It is the first Bond film that feels overproduced, overlong, overindulgent. It is, in many ways, a victim of its own success.

And yet, something is fascinating about it. It is a film that sits at the precipice of two eras: the lean, sharp thrillers of early Bond, and the bloated extravaganzas that would define the Roger Moore years. It is Bond at his peak, and Bond just beginning to lose his way.

Would I recommend Thunderball? Of course. It is still a Bond film, still a piece of cinematic history, still a spectacle worth experiencing. But if I had to choose between this and its unofficial remake, Never Say Never Again, I might just opt for the latter. Sometimes, the off-brand version understands the assignment even better than the original.

Strait-Jacket: How Joan Crawford Made Horror Personal

In 1964, Joan Crawford picked up an axe.

Not metaphorically—though one could argue that every great Hollywood reinvention is its own kind of execution—but literally. There she was, an Academy Award-winning actress, a legend of Old Hollywood glamour, standing in front of William Castle’s B-movie lens, ready to swing.

The result was Strait-Jacket, a film that, at first glance, seems like just another lurid horror flick. A woman with a violent past is released from a psychiatric institution. Murders begin anew. Suspicion swirls. The whole thing has the structure of a classic pulp thriller, the kind of thing you might expect from Robert Bloch, the man who wrote Psycho. But beneath the surface, Strait-Jacket is doing something else—something more subversive, more unsettling. It’s a film about identity, about reinvention, and about whether we can ever truly escape the roles that society—and history—assign to us.

To understand Strait-Jacket, you have to understand Crawford. By 1964, she was no longer the ingenue of Grand Hotel or the wronged housewife of Mildred Pierce. She was something else entirely: an actress who had outlived her own era, a woman who had survived Hollywood’s cruel cycle of discarding its leading ladies. And in Strait-Jacket, she weaponized that history.

Her character, Lucy Harbin, is a woman trying to outrun her past. Twenty years earlier, she murdered her husband and his lover in a fit of rage. Now, she’s released from a psychiatric institution, attempting to reconnect with her daughter, Carol (Diane Baker). But the past doesn’t let go so easily. Carol encourages her mother to reclaim the glamorous image she had at the time of the murders—curling her hair into tight black ringlets, applying the same youthful makeup. It’s an eerie echo of Hollywood’s obsession with forcing women to remain frozen in time.

And then, of course, the killings begin again.

The brilliance of Strait-Jacket isn’t just in its jump scares or its Grand Guignol excess (though the flying prosthetic heads certainly add to the experience). It’s in the way it plays with perception. At first, it seems obvious: Lucy, fragile and unstable, must be the one responsible for the new wave of murders. But the film slowly reveals a darker truth—Carol, the devoted daughter, has been orchestrating everything.

This is where Strait-Jacket becomes a study in psychological manipulation. Carol makes her doubt her own sanity. She isolates her, plants evidence, subtly reinforces the idea that Lucy is losing her grip on reality. Today, we’d call this gaslighting. In 1964, it was simply an exercise in power.

Watching Strait-Jacket now, in an era where plot twists are expected, the film’s final revelation still holds up. Maybe it’s because the groundwork is laid so carefully—Carol’s control over her mother is there from the beginning, but we don’t want to see it. Maybe it’s because of Crawford’s performance, which walks the tightrope between melodrama and genuine vulnerability. Or maybe it’s because the film taps into the fear that the people we love might not be who they claim to be.

Strait-Jacket is not a perfect movie. It leans into its B-movie roots, reveling in its campy excesses. That’s part of its charm. It understands the spectacle of horror, the way fear is as much about performance as it is about violence. At its center is Crawford, an actress who knew better than anyone that reinvention is both a necessity and a curse.

The Pit and the Pendulum

There’s a frame in The Pit and the Pendulum when Vincent Price, all wide eyes and trembling hands, finally lets go of the last thread of his sanity. He straightens, lowers his voice, and suddenly starts speaking as if he were his father, Sebastian Medina, the ruthless torturer of the Spanish Inquisition. It’s a sharp turn, a classic Corman twist—except by the time it happens, I found myself less intrigued and more impatient.

Roger Corman’s Poe adaptations have a reputation for being atmospheric, moody, and visually striking despite their low budgets. The Pit and the Pendulum is true to that. While it has flashes of brilliance—particularly in its final act—it takes far too long to get there, and the journey is more tedious than terrifying.

Corman was a master of making movies on the cheap, and sometimes that worked to his advantage. Here, he and production designer Daniel Haller took old Universal set pieces—archways, staircases, gothic decor—and repurposed them into a sprawling 16th-century Spanish castle. The result is a setting that looks impressive at first glance but, after a while, starts to feel like exactly what it is: a collection of borrowed parts.

Visually, the film leans heavily into its gothic atmosphere, with deep shadows, eerie corridors, and the occasional surreal color-drenched flashback. But while cinematographer Floyd Crosby does his best to elevate the material, the film’s pacing undercuts its effectiveness. Scenes drag. Conversations repeat the same ominous warnings. The tension, instead of building, stagnates.

If there’s one reason to watch The Pit and the Pendulum, it’s Vincent Price. He knows exactly what kind of movie he’s in and commits fully, delivering a performance that oscillates between quiet anguish and full-blown hysteria.

The problem? He’s the only one delivering.

John Kerr, as the film’s ostensible protagonist, is as wooden as the castle doors, making every scene he’s in feel like an anchor dragging the film down. Barbara Steele, whose eerie presence should have been a major asset, is underused. And the grand reveal lands with a dull thud rather than a shocking blow.

There’s a lot of brooding—so much brooding—and a lot of whispering about family curses with Price staring off into the middle distance. But for a film that’s supposed to be about psychological torment, it never really gets under the skin.

The film’s last twenty minutes are its strongest. The moment Nicholas fully embraces his father’s persona, the movie shifts gears, and suddenly the stakes feel real. The pendulum sequence, in which Francis (Kerr) is strapped to a stone slab as a massive, razor-sharp blade swings ever closer to his chest, is the film’s highlight—and the most successful moment in the film of genuine tension. It’s not saying much. But it’s there. 

Here’s the issue: by the time we get there, it feels like too little, too late. The film spends so much time lingering on Nicholas’s guilt and Francis’s investigation that the real horror elements only kick in at the very end. It’s like sitting through an hour of buildup for a five-minute payoff.

At its best, The Pit and the Pendulum is a showcase for Vincent Price’s brand of grand, theatrical horror. At its worst, it’s a sluggish, overlong film that mistakes brooding for suspense. The atmosphere is there. The gothic visuals are there. The ingredients for a great horror film are all present. But the pacing is off, the supporting performances are weak, and the story—despite Matheson’s efforts to expand Poe’s short tale—feels stretched too thin.

The Split (1968)

The Split (1968) sits at an interesting crossroads of its era—part heist movie, part social commentary, part character study. Director Gordon Flemyng doesn’t try to break new ground so much as chip away at familiar territory. What makes The Split worth revisiting is the strength of its ensemble cast and the subtle, yet impactful, way it addresses the social dynamics of its time. As for the heist? Well, it’s fun. But you can certainly see why others in the genre had greater staying power.

Former NFL star Jim Brown takes the lead as McClain, a thief with a plan to rob the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum during a playoff game. Brown’s performance is understated but magnetic. He doesn’t overplay the “cool criminal” archetype that so many heist films lean into. Instead, he brings a grounded, almost reluctant energy to McClain, which makes him more relatable than the typical heist ringleader. This is a man who is competent, yes, but also deeply aware of the risks he’s taking and the company he’s keeping. And he’s one of the former athlete class who can absolutely hold attention on screen.

The supporting cast is ridiculous. It reads like a who’s who of 1960s character actors: Ernest Borgnine, Gene Hackman, Donald Sutherland, Warren Oates, and Diane Carroll, among others. They make for a team dynamic that feels both unstable and flawed while deeply engaging, certainly punching above its class in this movie.

Made in 1968, the film doesn’t shy away from addressing race. Jim Brown’s McClain is a Black man in a predominantly white criminal world, and the tension that arises from that dynamic is palpable. Warren Oates’ character, Marty, is openly racist, and the film doesn’t sugarcoat the friction this causes within the group. But it’s not a movie that preaches. Instead, it lets these dynamics play out naturally, as part of the story’s fabric. The result is a film that feels authentic to its time while still being accessible to modern audiences and not lingering on the “don’t you know how hard it is to coexist?” angle that can date an otherwise fantastic film of the era.

This movie dies in the era of Venmo. The plan revolves around the all-cash economy of the late 1960s. Thousands of fans at a playoff game, all paying in cash, create a jackpot that’s ripe for the taking. The execution of the heist is refreshingly low-tech—no elaborate gadgets or computer hacking here. It’s all about timing, deception, and nerve. But what makes The Split unique is how little time it spends on the heist itself. The real tension comes afterward, as the group grapples with betrayal, greed, and mistrust when the stolen money goes missing.

This is where the film transforms from a heist movie into something closer to a psychological thriller. The title, The Split, takes on a double meaning—not just the splitting of the money, but the splintering of relationships. The paranoia that sets in among the team feels earned, and the film does an able job of keeping the audience guessing about who’s responsible.

Visually, the film is a snapshot of late–1960s Los Angeles. The cityscape, the Coliseum, and the interiors all reflect a time when the world was on the cusp of technological change but still firmly rooted in analog. Quincy Jones’ jazz-infused score adds to the atmosphere, giving the film a rhythm that mirrors the tension and release of the story.

If there’s a critique to be made, it’s that The Split doesn’t always feel cohesive. Some of the character interactions feel rushed, particularly during the team’s recruitment phase—a highlight for me. And while the film’s ending carries emotional weight, it also feels abrupt, leaving some threads unresolved. But maybe that’s the point. This isn’t a film about neat resolutions. It’s about chaos, distrust, and the messy human emotions that follow greed.

The Split may not be the most famous heist film of its time, but it’s one worth seeking out. It’s a movie that thrives on its performances and the tension it builds, rather than relying on flashy set pieces or gimmicks. At its core, it’s a story about people—flawed, desperate, and trying to survive in a world that doesn’t promise fairness. And in that sense, it feels as relevant today as I like to think it was in 1968.

Shattered

All right… Shattered, Wolfgang Petersen’s 1991 foray into the world of amnesia, mistaken identity, and… shattered stuff. Imagine you’re at a meticulously planned dinner party. The host, Petersen, has clearly gone to great lengths. The table is set with gleaming silverware (László Kovács’ cinematography), the wine is a vintage you recognize (Alan Silvestri’s score), and the conversation starters are intriguing – a car crash, a disfigured face, a lost memory.

But then, as the evening progresses, something feels… off.

The main course arrives, and it’s Tom Berenger. Now, Berenger is a dish best served with a certain rugged charm, a hint of vulnerability beneath the surface. He’s committed, he’s earnest, he’s selling the hell out of this amnesiac architect, Dan Merrick, who’s trying to piece together his life after a horrific accident. If there’s a problem it’s that he’s too perfect. Even after supposedly undergoing extensive facial reconstruction, he’s still got that leading-man jawline, those piercing eyes. It’s like the surgeons were aiming for “traumatized survivor” but accidentally dialed up “cover model.” It’s a minor quibble, maybe, but in a film so reliant on believability, it’s a crack in the façade.

And speaking of the 80s (even though it came out in 91), the film is steeped in it. It is awash in that aesthetic. It’s the kind of movie where characters have intense conversations in dimly lit rooms, where the fog machines work overtime, and where every woman seems to own at least four power suits. It’s a nostalgia trip, for sure, a reminder of a time when thrillers didn’t shy away from melodrama, when a twist ending was mandatory.

We’re fascinated by things that don’t quite fit. Shatteredpresents us with a classic jank-fit scenario: a man who wakes up with no memory, a life seemingly assembled from mismatched puzzle pieces. His wife, Judith (Greta Scacchi), is beautiful, devoted, yet…there’s a flicker of something else in her eyes. His business partner, Jeb (Corbin Bernsen), is supportive, friendly, yet…there’s a tension in his handshake.

The film lays out these anomalies. We’re presented with clues, red herrings, and the ever-present question: what reallyhappened? We’re drawn into Dan’s quest for truth, his desperate need to understand his past, even as that past seems to shift and change with every new revelation.

The brilliance, and the potential downfall, of Shattered is in its commitment to the twist. It’s a film that wants to pull the rug out from under you, to make you question everything you’ve seen. And it succeeds, to a point. The revelation of Dan’s true identity is genuinely shocking, a moment that forces you to re-evaluate everything that came before.

Is it too clever? Does the twist, in its desire to surprise, sacrifice plausibility? Does it become a talking dog – impressive, but ultimately more about the trick than the substance? Depends on what the dog has to say.

The film hinges on a central conceit: that a person’s identity can be so thoroughly erased and replaced, not just in their own mind, but in the minds of everyone around them. It’s a fascinating idea, one that taps into our deepest fears about the fragility of self. But Shattered pushes this idea to its breaking point, and perhaps a little beyond.

The Boston Strangler’s Study of Vulnerability and Identity

In 1968, when The Boston Strangler was released, America was in the midst of a cultural reckoning. The country was grappling with the rise of the counterculture, the civil rights movement, and the growing presence of sensationalized crime in the media. People were learning to lock their doors. This was the world into which Richard Fleischer’s film was released—a world where safety was no longer a given, and trust was the once-ripe fruit rotting in the soil.

The Boston Strangler is a true-crime thriller about a series of chilling murders that terrorized Boston in the early 1960s. The film is also a study in contrasts. It’s about the tension between control and chaos, between public hysteria and private vulnerability, between the man—Albert DeSalvo—and the monster he was presumed to be.

The film opens on dread, amplified by Fleischer’s split screens. This technique ends up being the film’s heartbeat. It fragments the narrative, showing us multiple perspectives simultaneously. We see the police piecing together the case on one side while the killer prowls the streets on the other. It is a visual metaphor for the fractured society that allowed these crimes to occur—the cracks in the system, the disconnection between neighbors, and the blurred lines between criminal and victim.

Tony Curtis is cast against type as Albert DeSalvo. He was known for his charm, for roles that showcased his good looks and charisma. But here, there’s a weight to his performance. He carries himself heavily. Curtis’s DeSalvo isn’t a caricature; he’s a person whose actions are monstrous but whose inner life is disappointingly human. This is what makes the film so unsettling. We don’t see DeSalvo as a simple killer; we see him as someone who bifurcated understanding of his own reality makes him the safe predator who advantages himself of the permeability of our homes.

That’s where Henry Fonda’s character, John Bottomly, comes in. Bottomly is a lawyer-turned-investigator, the kind of rational, steady presence that contrasts sharply with DeSalvo’s fractured psyche. Fonda plays him with his trademark quiet authority, but what’s interesting is how the film doesn’t position him as a savior. He’s not a savior. He’s our representative of a system trying and failing to understand the unthinkable.

There’s a scene late in the film where DeSalvo, under hypnosis, begins to recall his crimes. It’s a powerful moment. Fleischer uses rapid cuts—flashes of memory, glimpses of violence—to put us inside DeSalvo’s head. It’s disorienting, almost unbearable, and I think that’s the point. We don’t get to sit comfortably on the outside looking in, rather we’re forced to confront the uncomfortable truth that human behavior is anything but black and white.

The Boston Strangler is about the society that enabled him. The film captures the fear that gripped Boston during the killings, the way communities turned inward, the way women were told to stay indoors, the way the media sensationalized every detail. It’s a story of a city on edge, and it raises questions that feel disappointingly relevant today. How do we balance public safety with individual privacy? How do we talk about mental illness in the context of crime? And how much of what we think we know is shaped by the stories we’re told?

I don’t blame the filmmakers for any perceived liberties they took with the story. It was made at a time when much of the case was still unresolved, and later investigations would reveal that DeSalvo might not have been the sole culprit. But The Boston Strangler isn’t a documentary, after all. But it’s one hell of a snapshot of a moment when America was beginning to realize that the monsters we fear might not be as far away as we’d like to think.

“Inglorious Basterds” Brings Out the Bat

Quentin Tarantino’s Inglourious Basterds is a film that operates on the edge of a razor. It’s not just about Nazis or revenge or even the power of cinema—it’s about tension. Cringe-inducing, seat-shifting, stomach-tightening tension. And it’s brilliant.

From the opening scene, where Christoph Waltz’s Hans Landa interrogates a French farmer, the movie establishes its central strength: conversations that feel like loaded guns sitting on the table, waiting to go off. Waltz’s performance is the standout, and it’s not hard to see why he won the Academy Award for Best Supporting Actor. He plays Landa with a chilling politeness, a man who disarms his victims by smiling while tightening the noose. It’s the kind of role you’d think only exists in fiction—until you remember that real-life villains often hide behind a veneer of civility.

The film is structured like a novel, with chapters that introduce characters and build the stakes. Brad Pitt’s Aldo Raine leads the titular Basterds, a ragtag group of Jewish-American soldiers tasked with killing Nazis. Pitt leans into the absurdity of his role, delivering lines like “I want my scalps” with a thick Southern drawl that’s almost cartoonish. But Tarantino knows exactly what he’s doing: Pitt’s over-the-top performative style contrasts beautifully with Waltz’s understated menace.

The tension peaks in scenes like the infamous underground tavern standoff. Michael Fassbender’s Archie Hicox, a British spy posing as a German officer, nearly pulls off his ruse—until a seemingly innocuous hand gesture gives him away. It’s a masterclass in escalating drama. By the time the bullets fly, the audience has been marinating in dread for what feels like an eternity.

Tarantino’s love for cinema is everywhere in the film, from the dialogue to the set design to the very premise. The final act takes place in a French cinema, where Mélanie Laurent’s Shosanna—a Jewish woman hiding in plain sight—sets a trap for the Nazi high command. It’s a revenge fantasy, but it’s also a love letter to movies. Tarantino even uses David Bowie’s modern track “Cat People” to underscore Shosanna’s preparation, a bold anachronistic choice that somehow feels right.

But what makes Inglourious Basterds so effective isn’t just its clever writing or stellar performances. It’s the way Tarantino weaponizes silence. When characters aren’t speaking, every pause feels loaded. Every glance, every sip of milk, every misplaced accent carries weight. It’s filmmaking that demands attention—not through explosions, but through anticipation.

The film is violent, and its depiction of revenge is intentionally messy. Tarantino doesn’t shy away from the blood and brutality of his characters’ actions. But he also reminds us that war is absurd, its players flawed, and its outcomes unpredictable. By rewriting history and allowing his characters to burn the Third Reich to the ground, he gives us a catharsis that reality never could.

Inglourious Basterds isn’t just a war movie. It’s a study in contrasts: good and evil, comedy and tragedy, subtlety and spectacle. It’s about the stories we tell ourselves and the ones we wish were true. And above all, it’s a reminder of the power of a well-told story to captivate, terrify, and even—if only for a moment—rewrite history.

A Guilty Pleasure in Wolf’s Clothing

Mike Nichols’ Wolf (1994) is the cinematic equivalent of a designer soap opera with fangs—a movie that struts into the room wearing a tailored jacket and khakis but winks at you while adjusting its fur collar. It’s a film that feels tailor-made for guilty pleasure status rather than true horror canon. Stylish, sexy, and unapologetically melodramatic, Wolf is more about the simmering glances, corporate betrayal, and button-pushing theatrics than delivering satisfying thrills or monstrous scares. And I’m here for it.

The premise itself invites indulgence. Jack Nicholson stars as Will Randall, an aging editor-in-chief at a prestigious New York publishing house who, after being bitten by a wolf, finds his life spiraling into chaos. Suddenly, his dull corporate existence, backstabbing colleagues, and failing marriage are no match for his newfound wolfish instincts and the pubic hair on his palms. His heightened senses, sharpened aggression, and animal confidence turn him into a creature capable of reclaiming his power—and exacting his revenge.

Point of order: Wolf isn’t here to scare. It’s here to seduce. This is a monster movie dressed up as a mid–90s corporate melodrama, with its horror elements used for on-its-sleeve metaphor more than menace. Don’t expect buckets of gore or the visceral chills of An American Werewolf in London. Instead, think of it as a werewolf movie that traded its claws for a martini. It’s far more interested in power plays, romantic tension, and the occasional cheeky one-liner than exploring the darker, bloodier side of lycanthropy.

Jack Nicholson, naturally, owns the film. As Will Randall, he begins as a weary relic of a man, outpaced by younger rivals and drained by the soulless grind of corporate America. But as the wolf’s bite takes hold, Nicholson leans into the role with gleeful abandon. Watching him evolve from a tired, pipe-smoking book editor into a swaggering, predatory presence is a delight. His wolfish transformation gives him the confidence to confront his enemies and fire off quips like, “I’m just marking my territory,” after urinating on the shoes of his conniving protégé, Stewart Swinton (James Spader). It’s campy, ridiculous, and endlessly fun—exactly the kind of over-the-top energy that makes Wolf a guilty pleasure. See, it’s terrible, and that’s why it’s so not terrible.

And then there’s James Spader, who is perfectly cast as the smarmy Stewart. Spader brings his trademark twerpy menace to the role, playing the kind of smirking villain you love to hate. Stewart is ambitious, polished, and ruthless, and Spader leans into every sneer and hiss with relish. When he begins his own werewolf transformation after being bitten by Will, the film fully embraces its soap opera roots, turning their rivalry into a literal animal showdown. It’s melodramatic to the point of absurdity, but Spader sells it with such conviction that you can’t help but be entertained. The last act of the film positively belongs to him.

Michelle Pfeiffer, meanwhile, plays Laura Alden, the rebellious daughter of corporate tycoon Raymond Alden (Christopher Plummer). As Will’s love interest, she serves as both a grounding force and a symbol of independence, though her character feels more like a gothic romance archetype than a fully fleshed-out person. Pfeiffer smolders her way through the film, delivering icy glares and sultry one-liners, but her chemistry with Nicholson is more cool detente than fiery passion. Still, Pfeiffer’s charisma is undeniable, and her presence adds a layer of glamour to the film’s already polished aesthetic.

Where Wolf stumbles is in its attempt to balance its melodrama with its horror. The film flirts with deeper themes—power dynamics, primal instincts, midlife reinvention—but never fully commits to them. The werewolf metaphor is more of a narrative device than a fully-explored idea, and the film’s horror elements are too restrained. Rick Baker’s makeup effects are solid but subdued, especially when compared to his groundbreaking work in London. The final dog-eat-dog showdown between Will and Stewart is more theatrical than thrilling, and the film’s resolution feels rushed and, dare I say it, neutered.

And yet, for all its flaws, Wolf is entertaining. It’s the kind of movie where you forgive its missteps because it’s so much fun to watch. The performances are magnetic, the dialogue crackles with wit, and the film’s glossy, high-fashion aesthetic makes it a feast for the eyes. Cinematographer Giuseppe Rotunno captures the shadowy elegance of New York’s publishing world, while Ennio Morricone’s score adds a touch of grandeur to even the most ridiculous material.

Wolf works best when it leans into its guilty pleasure status. It’s not a great horror movie, but it doesn’t need to be. Instead, it’s a melodrama with fleas, a film that knows exactly what it is and plays to its strengths. Watching Nicholson snarl his way through office politics, Spader hiss with villainous glee, and Pfeiffer smolder in jodhpurs is worth the price of a stream.

If you’re looking for a serious, satisfying monster movie, Wolf isn’t it. But if you’re in the mood for a stylish, over-the-top romp that embraces its soap opera tendencies with a wink and a howl, this is the film for you. I love everything about it, unironically. Also, three stars. 🤷‍♂️

A Conversation About Shame, Success, and Systems on SuccessFULL with ADHD with Brooke Schnittman

I recently had the pleasure of joining Nikki Kinzer on Brooke Schnittman’s podcast, Successful with ADHD. Brooke is fantastic and has a stellar handle on how we can learn to work with, rather than against, our unique ADHD brains.

Nikki and I were, of course, thrilled to share some bits and bobs from our new book, Unapologetically ADHD, and to reflect on the journey it took to create it.

One of the most powerful parts of this journey for me—and a part of our conversation that Brooke was patient enough to let me wax on about for a while—was the idea of failure. For so many with ADHD, failure feels personal—something tied to our worth. But learning to separate the emotion from the act itself is transformative. Failure isn’t a judgment; it’s just a moment in time. This shift in perspective has been life-changing for me, and I hope it resonates with others, too.

We also talked about the importance of understanding ADHD on a personal level. Nikki’s advice was simple but profound: learn how your ADHD impacts you and advocate for what you need. That might mean creating friction to avoid distractions, asking for accommodations, or using verbal processing to organize your thoughts. For me, even something as simple as documenting how I make tea revealed how much executive function I already struggle to muster—and how much I take for granted in my daily routines when things fall apart.

What I loved most about this conversation was how it captured the spirit of the book. Sure, it’s about strategies and tools. But it’s also about embracing who you are, flaws and all, and living unapologetically. Brooke brought out the best in us, and I hope this episode inspires anyone who listens to approach their ADHD—and their lives—with curiosity and compassion.

America’s Enrollment Cliff is Going to Be a Doozy

Jon Marcus at The Hechinger Report takes a deep dive into the “enrollment cliff” — the sharp decline in the number of 18-year-olds starting this year — and its far-reaching consequences for colleges and the economy:

“This comes after colleges and universities already collectively experienced a 15 percent decline in enrollment between 2010 and 2021, the most recent year for which the figures are available, according to the National Center for Education Statistics. That means they already have 2.7 million fewer students than they did at the start of the last decade.”

This isn’t just a higher ed problem. Fewer college graduates mean fewer skilled workers to fill critical jobs. By 2031, 43% of jobs will require a bachelor’s degree, but the pipeline is drying up. Add in the growing perception that college isn’t worth it, and we’re looking at a perfect storm.

The piece also highlights how this crisis will ripple across industries. One example: a $40 billion semiconductor plant in Arizona has delayed production because they can’t find enough skilled workers.

“Falling enrollment, meanwhile, has been made worse by a decline in perception of the value of a college or university degree. Fewer than one in four Americans now say having a bachelor’s degree is extremely or very important to get a good job, the Pew Research Center finds.”

As a former educator, this makes me heartsick. It isn’t just about colleges closing — it’s about the future of America’s intellect, critical thinking, workforce, economy, and global competitiveness.

The Hechinger Report →

Unapologetically ADHD: Reflections on My Conversation with Creator Factor

The brain of a creator is a maze of ideas, distractions, and connections—a vibrant, chaotic force that can feel both exhilarating and overwhelming. For those of us living with ADHD, this creative energy is amplified. It’s a paradox: a source of inspiration, while a challenge to manage.

Last week, I had the great privilege of joining Ozeal Debastos on his podcast, Creator Factor, to explore what it means to be a creator with ADHD. The conversation was a candid look at how we navigate the chaos, embrace our quirks, and still manage to produce work that we’re proud of.

Ozeal is an incredible host—thoughtful, curious, and deeply empathetic. From the moment we started, I felt like we were old friends diving into a topic that mattered to both of us. Over the course of the episode, we discussed everything from the emotional storms of ADHD to the practical tools and habits that help us thrive as creators. If you’re a creator with ADHD—or someone trying to understand the creative process better—I hope this conversation offers insights and inspiration.

For creators, emotional storms can derail the day. But, understanding this pattern is the first step to managing it. As Ozeal and I discussed, ADHD requires a level of self-awareness and mindfulness that allows us to pause, reflect, and reset. It’s not always easy, but it’s essential for navigating the highs and lows of creative work.

Toward the end of the episode, Ozeal asked what every creator should learn to master. My answer: failure. For creators with ADHD, failure can feel personal. We forget things, miss deadlines, or lose momentum, and it’s easy to spiral into self-loathing. But failure isn’t a verdict; it’s a data point. It’s feedback that helps us learn, grow, and move forward.

Reframing failure as part of the creative process is transformative. It allows us to let go of shame and focus on progress. As creators, our work will never be perfect, but it doesn’t have to be. What matters is that we keep showing up, experimenting, and shipping work we’re proud of.

If you’re a creator with ADHD, I want you to know this: your brain isn’t broken. It’s a unique, powerful tool that requires care, attention, and the right systems to thrive. Whether you’re managing emotional storms, simplifying your workflow, or learning to redefine failure, remember that your journey is your own. And with the right approach, you can create work that matters—not in spite of your ADHD, but because of it.

To hear the full conversation, check out my episode on Creator Factor. I’m grateful to Ozeal for creating a space where creators can talk openly about these challenges—and for reminding me why I love being part of this community. Together, we can embrace our ADHD, own our stories, and build something unapologetically ours.

Jennifer’s Body: Ambitious Ideas Undermined by an Uneven Execution

Jennifer’s Body (2009) is a film brimming with ambition, blending horror, satire, and coming-of-age drama into a sharp critique of power, sexuality, and friendship. Diablo Cody’s screenplay and Karyn Kusama’s direction work together to subvert some traditional horror tropes while attempting to craft a feminist narrative about transformation and survival. The result is a film that occasionally dazzles with its boldness but struggles to find its way. For all its provocative themes and clever moments, the film’s uneven tone and Cody’s dialogue create a disconnect that keeps it from fully realizing what it could have been.

Cody’s script is undeniably distinct. Her trademark wit and snappy dialogue, which defined her style in Juno, lend Jennifer’s Body an irreverent energy. Lines like Jennifer’s deadpan declaration, “I’m not even a backdoor virgin anymore,” are designed to shock while drawing laughs. The characters deliver their quippy remarks with Cody’s signature mix of pop culture references and sardonic humor, creating a heightened, almost stylized version of teenage speech.

But where this approach worked in Juno—a quirky, dialogue-driven comedy—Jennifer’s Body feels like an awkward fit. In the context of horror, Cody’s sharp, self-aware dialogue undermines the tension the genre thrives on. The characters often speak as though they’re detached from any stakes, and their hyper-verbal quips take precedence over emotional authenticity. Instead of feeling grounded in the film’s world, the characters come across as vehicles for Cody-cleverness. This creates a tonal dissonance that I find grating: the film wants to be both satirical and emotionally resonant, but the dialogue often prevents it from committing fully to either.

Take Jennifer, for example. Megan Fox delivers a fine performance, balancing the character’s predatory confidence with flashes of vulnerability. But the dialogue rarely gives her room to explore the emotional or psychological toll of her transformation. Jennifer’s descent into monstrosity is played for dark humor rather than genuine horror or pathos, which robs the story of its potential complexity. Similarly, Needy’s arc—from passive observer to empowered avenger—feels rushed, as her character spends more time reacting to Jennifer’s antics than grappling with her own inner conflict… right up to the moment she becomes a superhero.

The script’s insistence on being clever is especially apparent in its supporting characters. Chip, Needy’s boyfriend, is a placeholder for the “nice guy” archetype, with little personality beyond his sweetness and obliviousness. The male victims Jennifer lures are purposefully shallow, but their flatness makes them inconsequential rather than tragic. Even the villainous indie rock band Low Shoulder, while conceptually fun, comes across as more goofy than menacing. These characters exist to serve the plot, but they lack the texture needed to make the film’s horror elements land.

Cody’s dialogue works best in moments that lean fully into satire. Jennifer’s biting insults and her casual dismissal of societal norms—like when she describes the band as “agents of Satan with awesome haircuts”—highlight the film’s critique of how women are simultaneously idolized and objectified. Needy’s narration, I can’t stand it. It’s delivered with a mix of resigned humor and bitterness, and while I guess it captures the film’s tone of disillusionment, it reads like a capitulation to executives who don’t know how to watch movies, and have low opinions of their audiences.

The film’s cleverness often clashes with the story’s horror. The more self-aware the dialogue becomes, the harder it is to take the characters’ struggles seriously. In a scene where Jennifer vomits black goo in Needy’s kitchen, her quip, “I feel like boo-boo,” undercuts any of the visceral horror with a yearning to be as smart as a Whedon quip during peak Buffy. Similarly, the climactic confrontation between Jennifer and Needy loses some of its emotional weight because the dialogue prioritizes wit over raw intensity. By constantly reminding the audience of its own snark, the film keeps us at arm’s length from its characters.

The issue isn’t just one of tone; it’s also one of fit. Cody’s dialogue is inherently performative, drawing attention to itself in a way that feels out of step with the genre. Horror, even when blended with comedy, benefits from dialogue that feels natural and unforced. The best horror-comedies—like Shaun of the Dead or Scream—balance humor and tension because their characters’ speech feels grounded in their reality, even when the situations are absurd. Jennifer’s Body, by contrast, often feels like it’s winking at the audience, reminding us that we’re watching a script rather than inhabiting a world.

This disconnect makes it harder to invest in the film’s deeper themes. Jennifer’s transformation is a clear metaphor for the objectification and exploitation of women, while Needy’s journey represents a reclamation of agency. These ideas are powerful, but the film doesn’t truly explore them because the characters never feel real enough to carry that weight. The dialogue, while entertaining, keeps the story operating on a surface level.

Despite its flaws, Jennifer’s Body remains an ambitious and fascinating film. Cody and Kusama deserve a raft of credit for playing with horror tropes and crafting a story that centers on female relationships and empowerment. The film’s critique of exploitation—embodied by the band’s sacrifice of Jennifer and the marketing’s reduction of the film to Megan Fox’s sex appeal—feels especially relevant today. Moments of brilliance shine through, particularly in the exploration of Jennifer and Needy’s toxic, codependent friendship.

But those moments are buried under the weight of a script that feels misaligned with the genre. Cody’s dialogue doesn’t lend itself to horror’s emotional intensity, leaving the film feeling uneven and, at times, hollow. What might have been a groundbreaking feminist horror-comedy instead feels like an intriguing experiment that doesn’t quite stick the landing.

Possession (1981)—Dissection of a Marriage

Andrzej Żuławski’s 1981 psychological horror-drama is a visceral, unsettling exploration of what happens when love, trust, and identity disintegrate under the weight of human frailty and existential despair. It is the cinematic equivalent of staring into an abyss and realizing that—dear God—the abyss actually stares back.

Possession examines a universal human experience—the unraveling of a romantic partnership. Mark (Sam Neill) and Anna (Isabelle Adjani—this movie did nothing to tarnish the cinema crush I’ve had on her since childhood) are a married couple whose relationship has reached its breaking point. Mark, a spy—I guess?—returning from a mysterious mission, finds his wife emotionally and physically distant, her behavior growing increasingly erratic. What begins as a straightforward, though painful, narrative of infidelity escalates into a kaleidoscopic descent into surrealism, body horror, and psychological fragmentation. It begins with a divorce and ends with doppelgängers, tentacled monsters, and overtones of the apocalypse.

Żuławski’s somehow able to externalize the inner chaos of a failing marriage. The breakdown of communication between Mark and Anna is depicted through dialogue, silence, their erratic physicality, the oppressive spaces they inhabit, and the grotesque manifestations of their inner turmoil. Żuławski’s lens transforms their crumbling relationship into a battleground, where raw emotion erupts into violence, hysteria, and surrealism.

Let’s look at the infamous subway scene, where Anna suffers what can only be described as a seizure of the soul. Writhing, screaming, and smashing groceries against the walls of an empty tunnel, Adjani delivers a performance that defies categorization. Is this a mental breakdown? A spiritual exorcism? Or something even more primal? Żuławski offers no easy answers, and that’s precisely the point. The scene is not meant to be understood. Rather, I contend that it is most simply meant to be felt.

This is where Possession distinguishes itself from conventional narratives of marital disintegration. Żuławski uses the language of cinema itself—movement, color, framing, and sound—to communicate the incommunicable.

Possession is set against the backdrop of Cold War-era West Berlin, and boy howdy, the Berlin Wall looms large, both literally and metaphorically, serving as a constant reminder of division between East and West, between Mark and Anna, and within themselves. The city’s desolation mirrors the emotional desolation of our characters, while its history of surveillance and paranoia underscores the themes of mistrust and alienation.

This theme of division is further explored through the film’s use of doppelgängers. Anna’s lover is a tentacled monstrosity that she nurtures and eventually transforms into a replica of Mark. Meanwhile, Mark finds solace in Helen, a schoolteacher who is Anna’s physical double but possesses an angelic temperament—a stark contrast to Anna’s unraveling psyche. These doubles are projections of the characters’ desires and failures, their idealized selves and darkest fears.

The film itself makes no claim to any singular identity. Is it a psychological drama, a horror movie, or something entirely unclassifiable? This refusal to conform to genre conventions is its most alienating and its most compelling quality.

What elevates Possession from a fascinating experiment to a masterpiece is the alchemy of its technical elements. Bruno Nuytten’s cinematography captures the emotional claustrophobia of the characters, using crazy wide-angle lenses to distort space. The camera crawls, prowls, circles, and swoops, ably aping the characters’ emotional instability.

Andrzej Korzyński’s score oscillates between discordant tension and melancholic beauty, amplifying the film’s sense of unease. The creature effects by Carlo Rambaldi—Alien and E.T.—are grotesque and otherworldly, serving as a visceral reminder of the film’s descent into the subconscious. Of course, it should have been represented in our Lovecraft series last year. Would that I had seen the film back then.

Isabelle Adjani’s portrayal of Anna is nothing short of a tour de force. She captures the character’s madness with such ferocity and vulnerability that it becomes almost unbearable to watch. Sam Neill, in one of his earliest roles, provides a counterbalance as Mark, oscillating between stoic detachment and obsessive desperation. Thanks to their performances, Possession becomes something not so much about monsters or espionage or even infidelity. It is about the horror of intimacy—the way love can morph into possession, desire into destruction. Żuławski, who wrote the screenplay during his own divorce, infuses the film with an authenticity that makes its surreal elements deeply personal. The tentacled creature that Anna nurtures is a manifestation of her pain, her rage, her unmet desires. Similarly, Mark’s doppelgänger is the embodiment of his longing for control and his inability to reconcile the contradictions within himself and his relationship.

What makes Possession so enduringly compelling is its refusal to provide closure. The film ends with annihilation—an apocalyptic crescendo of violence, betrayal, and despair. Yet, within this darkness, there is a strange kind of beauty. Żuławski doesn’t shy away from the messiness of human emotion; he revels in it, showing us that even in our most monstrous moments, we are achingly, devastatingly human.