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.

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?

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.

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.

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) 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.