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Watched on Sunday May 25, 2025.

Watched on Sunday May 4, 2025.

Watched on Sunday May 4, 2025.

Watched on Sunday May 4, 2025.

Watched on Sunday May 4, 2025.

Watched on Saturday May 3, 2025.

Watched on Saturday May 3, 2025.

Watched on Sunday April 27, 2025.

Watched on Saturday April 26, 2025.

This review may contain spoilers.

Not an easy watch, nor does it try to be. This is a bleak, suffocating, and deeply unsettling film, the kind that lingers in your mind like a bad dream. Shot in stark black-and-white, it plunges the viewer into the miserable post-World War I streets of Copenhagen, where desperation and survival go hand in hand. At its center is a twisted tale of motherhood, abandonment, and moral decay, loosely based on the real-life crimes of Danish serial killer Dagmar Overbye.

What makes this one so effective and so unnerving is its refusal to offer comfort. Trine Dyrholm’s portrayal of Dagmar is chilling, not in an exaggerated, theatrical way, but in how terrifyingly ordinary she is. There’s no grand villainous performance, no overt malice, just an almost matter-of-fact approach to murder that makes her all the more horrifying. Vic Carmen Sonne, as Karoline, delivers a deeply tragic performance, a woman trapped in circumstances that leave her with no good choices. Her gradual descent into complicity, ether-induced numbness, and eventual horror is painfully believable.

The first half is slow, perhaps too slow, but once the narrative reveals its true horror, it becomes gripping in a way that feels almost suffocating. The moment Karoline realizes what Dagmar has been doing is gut-wrenching, and the film doesn’t flinch from its most disturbing implications. The cinematography is appropriately grim, with the black-and-white palette emphasizing the film’s hopelessness, and the score, while not particularly memorable, adds to the film’s eerie atmosphere. That said, The Girl with the Needle isn’t perfect. The pacing could have been tighter, especially in the early sections, and while the film is undeniably powerful, it sometimes indulges in its own misery to the point of exhaustion. It’s a film that demands patience and tolerance for bleak subject matter. It’s not the kind of horror that relies on cheap shocks, it’s the horror of systemic cruelty, of a world that allows monsters like Dagmar to thrive.

This is not a film with mass appeal, and it has almost no chance of winning Best International Feature. It’s too slow, too dark, and too emotionally punishing for that. But as a psychological horror piece, as a disturbing historical portrait, and as an exercise in sheer atmospheric dread, it succeeds.

The Wild Robot is such a whimsical and beautifully animated film, marking another strong step for DreamWorks as it finds its stride. Visually, it's stunning, reminiscent of a Western take on Studio Ghibli, with excellent texture and a watercolor aesthetic that makes every frame feel like a painting. The pacing is well-balanced, the voice acting is superb, and Kris Bowers' score is no surprise as an award contender.

However, the third act is where the film stumbles. The resolution feels predictable, and I wish it had taken more risks, embracing a bolder ending. It evokes The Iron Giant, but without the same emotional impact in its conclusion. Still, considering the target audience, the safer approach works well enough.

Overall, it s a strong animated feature. Charming, heartfelt, and visually gorgeous. While I slightly prefer Flow, and Memoir of a Snail remains my top animated film this year, The Wild Robot is the likely winner for Best Animated Feature. And I can’t say it would be undeserving.

The Seed of the Sacred Fig carries a crucial and urgent message, but as a film, it struggles under the weight of its own ambitions. It plunges into the suffocating atmosphere of an Iranian household torn apart by political turmoil, reflecting the larger national struggle for women's rights. The premise is gripping: an investigating judge, complicit in the regime’s brutality, gradually unravels as his daughters align with the protests. Yet, the execution is where the film truly stumbles, especially in the third act.

At nearly three hours, the pacing is excessive. While the tension builds effectively in the first half, the latter portions meander, stretching a relatively straightforward narrative into something needlessly long. The father’s descent into paranoia and control is chilling, especially as more secrets are exposed, but the film’s suspense is undercut by a bloated script that could have benefited from sharper editing and greater emotional depth. The final act, while intense, feels drawn out, culminating in a confrontation that is thematically powerful but structurally clunky.

The use of real-life protest footage throughout the feature reinforces its real-world stakes, yet it also highlights its limitations as a dramatic work. It’s impossible to ignore the importance of its themes, but as a piece of storytelling, it is only intermittently engaging. A tighter, more focused approach could have elevated it beyond a well-intentioned, albeit flawed, political statement. Highly commendable for its courage, but lacking the narrative finesse to fully captivate.

Such a gripping and stylish documentary that weaves history and music into a very compelling political narrative. Focusing on the 1961 assassination of Patrice Lumumba and the colonial forces at play in the Congo, masterfully using jazz as both a storytelling device and a symbol of resistance. Through archival footage, speeches, and the voices of artists like Louis Armstrong, Nina Simone, also featuring Malcolm X, it paints a vivid picture of Cold War power struggles, U.S. interventionism, and the betrayal of African self-determination.

The documentary’s strength lies in its bold artistic choices, blending political intrigue with cultural commentary. The jazz-infused approach makes history feel alive, very bold stylistic choice, giving voice to those who fought for freedom through music. However, its 150-minute runtime slightly overextends the message, leading to some repetitive moments that could have been more tightly edited.

Still, this one is essential viewing, frustrating, enlightening, and deeply relevant. It exposes the hypocrisy of global powers, the failures of institutions like the UN, and the devastating impact of colonialism, all while pulsing to a powerful jazz beat. Despite its length, it was without a doubt, an urgent and thought-provoking watch.

This documentary left me disgusted, furious, and heartbroken all at once. It exposes the sheer horror of Canada’s residential schools, where Indigenous children were stolen from their families, stripped of their culture, abused, raped, and murdered, all under the watch of the Catholic Church. And what’s even worse is that the church has never been held able. They think a weak apology is enough to erase generations of suffering, as if sorry can somehow bring back the lives they destroyed. It’s absurd. It’s enraging.

Julian Brave NoiseCat and Emily Kassie crafted this documentary with unflinching honesty, letting survivors share their stories of unimaginable trauma. His father, nearly incinerated as a baby because a priest raped his mother, is just one example of the countless atrocities committed. It is very sad to see the toll it took on their relationship. All these atrocities were systematic, calculated, and evil. And yet, the people responsible faced no real consequences. They covered everything up, let the abs walk free, and continued to thrive while survivors were left to pick up the pieces of their shattered lives.

Technically, it is incredibly well made, some powerful interviews, haunting cinematography, and a score that enhances every painful moment, even if it feels very restrained sometimes. But more than anything, Sugarcane is a brutal, necessary confrontation with history. It forces us to acknowledge the sins of the Catholic Church, sins that can’t just be forgiven and forgotten.

A beautifully performed, musically rich biopic that ultimately feels as elusive as its subject. Timothée Chalamet, Monica Barbaro, and Edward Norton do an incredible job here, not just embodying their roles but performing Dylan’s songs live, a feat that adds authenticity and energy to the film. Sonically, everything is impeccable, capturing the raw essence of Dylan’s music with period-accurate recordings and instruments. Yet, for all its musical prowess, the film stumbles where it matters most: character depth. Dylan remains an enigma throughout, and while that may be intentional, it leaves the narrative feeling hollow. We watch events unfold, but so much of the personal evolution happens offscreen. The script never quite cracks Dylan’s psyche, leaving us no closer to understanding him by the end.

Mangold directs with competence, but there’s little here that feels inventive or daring. The cinematography, production design, and staging are solid but serviceable, never quite reaching the visual or emotional heights of the best musical biopics. It’s an introspective film about an introverted artist, which makes it hard to connect with, but easy to ire, thanks to everyone's committed performances. It is a must-watch for any Dylan fans and those who love live-recorded musical performances, but as a character study, A Complete Unknown lives up to its title a little too well.

Another harrowing documentary, this time about the war in Ukraine, following three artists, Slava Leontyev, Anya Stasenko, and Andrey Stefanov, who despite the war, continue their craft while facing the horrors of the Russian invasion. The film combines real war footage, CGI animation, and art to explore resilience and national identity. While the execution is strong, with striking imagery and an effective blend of artistry and reality, the pacing drags, making it emotionally distant. Unlike No Other Land, which deeply resonated with me, this one left me feeling empty. Despite its intent, I struggled to connect, making it a tiresome watch.

The Six Triple Eight had all the ingredients for something great, a powerful real-life story, a strong cast, and an opportunity to bring a forgotten chapter of history to the forefront. But instead of crafting a nuanced, compelling war drama, the film settles for surface-level storytelling, hammering its message home without the depth or subtlety it deserves.

Kerry Washington does her best to command the screen, and the ensemble cast tries to bring life to their characters, but even their efforts can’t salvage a script that lacks sophistication. The film leans too heavily on exposition, never allowing the story to breathe or the characters to develop organically. It’s all too blunt, too Netflix-like, predictable, safe, and lacking the directorial vision that could have elevated it to something truly special. With a better writer, a more capable director, and a stronger grasp on nuance, this could have been Best Picture material. Instead, it’s just another middling historical drama that wastes its potential.

As for its Oscar-nominated song, The Journey by Diane Warren and H.E.R., it’s fine, better than some in the category, not as strong as others. But in a weak year for Best Original Song, it could very well take the win. Ultimately, it will have to settle for that one nomination, because the film itself won’t be ed as anything more than a missed opportunity.

As much as I love Elton John, his music, his legacy, his larger-than-life presence, Never Too Late felt like a missed opportunity. The documentary, directed by R.J. Cutler and David Furnish, aims to capture his Farewell Yellow Brick Road tour while weaving in archival footage and personal reflections. But instead of a compelling, structured narrative, it feels scattered and unfocused, jumping back and forth in time without ever delving deep into the pivotal moments of his life.

Compared to Rocketman, which brought energy and depth to his story, this documentary plays it far too safe. It barely scratches the surface of his struggles with addiction and personal demons, presenting them as footnotes rather than meaningful explorations. And while hearing his iconic songs, Your Song, Rocket Man, Goodbye Yellow Brick Road is always a treat, it almost feels like a crutch, as if the film is coasting on the brilliance of his discography rather than telling a compelling story.

Even the Oscar-nominated song, Never Too Late, pales in comparison to the timeless classics showcased throughout. It’s fine, but hardly a standout. Ultimately, the documentary feels like a glossy, but hollow, celebration, could be suitable for casual fans but underwhelming for those who wanted something with more substance. Elton John deserves better.

A difficult, harrowing watch that tackles the aftermath of a school shooting through the eyes of survivor Sam Fuentes. It’s a well-made documentary, but not an easy or even particularly rewarding experience. The weight of the subject matter is undeniable, but compared to other Oscar nominees like Incident and I’m Ready Warden, it felt less potent. The film leans into the trial and the shooter’s background, but it never fully explores his psychology the way I’m Ready Warden did with its subject, nor the other survivors, mainly focused on Fuentes. While competent, it didn’t leave the impact I expected. I respect its importance, but I can’t say I liked it.

What a brutal and deeply affecting short film that sheds light on the horrors of rhino poaching and the dangerous, often fatal work of rangers trying to stop it. It starts off deceptively calm, showing the rangers’ daily lives and a young girl’s fascination with these magnificent animals. But then, everything takes a dark turn. The shift is swift and gut-wrenching, leading to an ending that is raw, intense, and deeply serious. Well-crafted, with a strong sense of urgency and weight behind every moment. The score is powerful, enhancing the tension and emotion without overdoing it. The brutality isn’t gratuitous, it feels necessary, a stark reminder of the real-life stakes. It’s heartbreaking to witness the senseless destruction caused by poachers, not just to the rhinos but to the people risking their lives to protect them. An important one, shining a light on a crisis that continues to unfold. It’s painful to watch, but that pain is the point. A sobering, well-made piece of filmmaking, not my favorite out of the nominees though.

Some horror films leave a lasting impression, burrowing into your mind with their atmosphere, scares, or sheer originality. Others, unfortunately, fade into the background, offering little beyond predictable beats and tired tropes. Romulus falls into the latter category, failing to carve out an identity for itself within the genre. While it has moments of promise, they’re buried under a generic execution that does little to engage or unsettle.

One of the biggest issues is the lack of effective scares. There are long stretches where nothing truly unnerving happens, making the horror feel sparse and underwhelming. When the film does attempt to frighten, it relies on cheap jump scares rather than building genuine tension. The pacing doesn’t help either, as it meanders through predictable story beats without ever generating the kind of suspense that keeps viewers on edge. The characters don’t fare much better either. They exist more as archetypes than fully realized people, making it difficult to invest in their struggles. Without strong characterization, the horror lacks emotional weight and if you don’t care about who’s in danger, the tension dissipates. The dialogue, too, is uninspired, often feeling like it was lifted from a dozen other similar films.

Visually, the film struggles with its CGI, and one of the most distracting elements is the digital recreation of Ian Holm. Rather than blending seamlessly into the film, the effect is jarring, pulling you out of the experience every time he appears. It’s an unfortunate reminder of how difficult it is to convincingly bring late actors back through CGI (don't think they even should), especially when the execution isn’t polished enough.

Ultimately, this film doesn’t do much to differentiate itself from the countless other entries in the genre. It’s competently made but utterly forgettable, lacking the originality, tension, and emotional depth that make great horror films stand out. With stronger writing, better pacing, and a more focused approach to scares, it could have been something memorable. As it stands, it’s just another film in the pile.

Visually stunning, In the Shadow of the Cypress boasts the best animation of all the nominees, with rich textures and fluid motion that truly stand out. The PTSD theme is compelling, but the story feels thin and lacks the depth of Magic Candies or the charm of Yuck!. While the animation is mesmerizing, the narrative didn’t resonate with me as much. Artistically brilliant though, hope we get a full animated feature in this style.

A touching and beautifully animated short, Magic Candies blends whimsy with deep emotional themes. The story explores communication, love, and connection through a unique magical premise. The animation by Toei is excellent, the score fits perfectly, and the film’s message is heartfelt. Stronger than Yuck! in my view, with a great mix of humor and emotion.

A charming and well-executed animated short, Yuck! captures the awkwardness and discovery of first love with a unique visual touch. The animation is expressive, the score complements the emotions beautifully, and the concept is both clever and heartfelt. Among this year's nominees, it's the strongest I've seen so far. Enjoyable, well-crafted, and engaging.

A documentary that carries immense weight, telling the harrowing yet inspiring story of Shiori Itō, a Japanese journalist who spent eight years fighting for justice after being raped by Noriyuki Yamaguchi, a man with close ties to Japan's political elite. The documentary is deeply personal, an unfiltered of her struggle against a legal system so outdated that it still upholds laws from over a century ago.

From the outset, I was struck by the importance of the story being told. It’s a necessary documentary, shedding light on Japan’s deeply ingrained patriarchal system, the victim-blaming culture, and the institutional barriers that protect powerful men from ability. But as much as I ire the subject matter and Itō’s sheer resilience, I found myself struggling with the film’s execution. One of the most glaring issues is the pacing. It feels egregiously slow, to the point where the lack of momentum almost works against the urgency of the subject matter. The absence of a score, while perhaps an intentional choice to maintain a sense of rawness, makes the experience feel even more sluggish. A well-placed musical composition could have reinforced the emotional gravity of the events unfolding on screen, much like what No Other Land managed to achieve.

Despite this, Itō’s bravery shines through. The documentary doesn’t shy away from showing the mental toll the case took on her: the breakdowns, the isolation, the unwavering determination that pushed her forward when even her own family did not her decision to publicly fight. There’s a clear parallel to other survivor stories worldwide, including here in Brazil, where the same victim-blaming rhetoric is weaponized against women who dare to speak out.

In the final act, the pacing takes a sudden shift, moving too fast after the previous stretches of drawn-out storytelling. The last 20 to 30 minutes feel rushed, as if the filmmakers struggled with how to edit and balance the storytelling. It’s jarring, considering how the rest of the film lingers on moments that could have been condensed. But beyond its flaws, Black Box Diaries stands as a crucial work. It is a testament to the power of speaking the truth, no matter the cost. It’s an enduring lesson in resilience, in fighting against oppressive systems, in ensuring that no survivor feels alone in their battle. The impact of Itō’s story, her book, her documentary, it all matters. And despite the film’s imperfections, its importance cannot be understated.

Kingdom of the Planet of the Apes, a pointless continuation of a story that already reached a perfect conclusion. It pays homage to Caesar at the beginning, but after that, it lacks the nuance, stakes, and depth that made Dawn and War so compelling. Instead, it just treads water, repeating familiar beats with nothing new to say.

The story follows Noa, a young chimp from a falconry-practicing clan, whose village is attacked by raiders led by a self-proclaimed king. Along the way, he crosses paths with Mae, a human who can speak, something rare in this world. Together, they are captured and taken to the king’s kingdom, which functions like an ape dictatorship. He’s obsessed with accessing human technology locked in a vault, but beyond that, there’s little substance to the plot. The film mostly moves from one location to another without real weight or tension.

Visually, the movie shines, the VFX and motion capture are top-tier, likely why it got an Oscar nomination. But great visuals can’t save a weak script. The performances are fine, but nothing stands out, and Mae, played by Freya Allan (from The Witcher), didn’t work for me. The whole thing just feels like a corporate-driven sequel rather than a necessary next chapter.

This should have ended with War for the Planet of the Apes. There’s no reason to keep dragging it out except to milk the franchise for more money. I don’t see another trilogy coming out of this, and honestly, I hope it doesn’t. Let the franchise rest until a truly fresh idea comes along. Matt Reeves' steady direction is sorely missed.

The Brutalist is a film that wants to be grand, monumental even, but somewhere along the way, it loses its humanity. It’s a visually stunning, impressively crafted piece of work, but for all its ambition, it left me feeling cold, like I was staring at a beautiful but lifeless structure. Maybe that’s the point after all, brutalist architecture itself is divisive, ired for its boldness but often criticized for its lack of warmth. But when that aesthetic bleeds into the film’s emotional core, it becomes a problem.

The film follows Adrien Brody as a Hungarian immigrant architect chasing the American dream, and Brody gives everything he’s got. There’s an undeniable weight to his performance, a soulfulness that makes you root for him even when the film itself seems more interested in its own scale than its characters. Felicity Jones, too, does what she can, but there’s a distance, a detachment in the storytelling that makes their struggles feel more like ideas than lived experiences.

And then there’s the AI controversy. This is where my biggest problem with the film lies. They used AI to tweak Brody’s and Jones’s Hungarian speech, supposedly refining it so that even native speakers wouldn’t notice. But to me, that feels like a betrayal of the craft. If an actor is playing a Hungarian immigrant, shouldn’t they put in the work to get it right? Shouldn’t we hear their effort, their imperfections? That’s what makes performances feel real. Instead, the filmmakers smoothed over the rough edges with technology, and in doing so, they lost something vital. It doesn’t stop there, there were also claims that AI was used to generate architectural blueprints for the film’s climactic sequence. The director pushed back on this, insisting that everything was drawn by hand, but the fact that AI even came up as a question speaks to the film’s central flaw. It’s a movie obsessed with the idea of artistry but willing to cut corners in ways that feel antithetical to true creative expression. It wants to be an epic about human perseverance, but at times, it feels like it was made by an algorithm.

That’s not to say it isn’t an achievement. The cinematography is breathtaking, the production design meticulous, and the score adds a richness that keeps you engaged even when the narrative falters. The critics have been largely on board, 94% on Rotten Tomatoes, a Metacritic score of 90, glowing reviews from The Guardian and Vogue. But I can’t help but feel that the film’s polish and technical excellence are masking a lack of something deeper.

For all its ambition, it feels hollow. It’s the kind of movie that wants to be studied, ired, placed in a museum, beautiful to look at but hard to love. And maybe that’s the intention, but for a story about human struggle, about the immigrant experience, I wanted to feel something more than just awe at its craftsmanship. I wanted to feel the weight of it, the rawness, the messiness of real life. Instead, I felt like I was watching a masterpiece built by a machine, and that, more than anything, is what kept me at a distance.

Better Man is a biographical musical film that stands out as one of the most unique and daring cinematic experiences in recent years. Directed by Michael Gracey, it offers a deeply raw and unfiltered portrayal of Robbie Williams, one of the most iconic British musicians of his generation. What makes Better Man truly special is its artistic decision to depict Williams as an anthropomorphic chimpanzee, an ambitious, symbolic choice that highlights his self-perception and struggles with fame, addiction, and personal demons.

From the outset, the film embraces a deeply emotional and honest approach to Williams' life. It traces his journey from his childhood in Stoke-on-Trent, through his rise to fame with Take That, to his turbulent solo career, addictions, and eventual personal redemption. The musical numbers are a highlight, seamlessly woven into the narrative, featuring stunning performances and emotionally charged renditions of Williams' greatest hits. The vocal performances, especially from Williams himself, are outstanding, demonstrating his enduring talent and ability to convey deep emotions through his music.

Visually, the CGI used to animate Williams' chimpanzee avatar is nothing short of spectacular, reminiscent of the high standards set by the Planet of the Apes trilogy. The visual effects enhance the film's surreal and metaphorical elements while remaining grounded in a deeply human story. Despite the unconventional choice, the audience quickly connects with this version of Williams, as his struggles and triumphs feel raw and tangible.

Like Rocketman before it, Better Man does not shy away from portraying its subject’s darkest moments. Unlike Bohemian Rhapsody, which felt somewhat sanitized in its depiction of Freddie Mercury, Better Man fully embraces the messy reality of Williams' life. His battles with addiction, relationships, and self-doubt are laid bare, making for an emotionally gripping experience. His interactions with his family, especially his grandmother, mother, and father add layers of depth, showing how his personal history shaped his career and struggles.

Despite its many strengths, the film does falter slightly in pacing. The latter half lingers longer than necessary, particularly in the buildup to the third act, which could have benefited from tighter editing. A two-hour runtime might have sufficed to maintain narrative momentum without sacrificing emotional impact. However, this minor flaw does little to diminish the overall power of the film.

One of the most poignant moments comes in the climax, when Williams performs alongside his father at the Royal Albert Hall. The emotional weight of this scene encapsulates the film’s central themes of redemption, acceptance, and self-discovery. It’s a breathtaking moment that cements Better Man as more than just a musical biopic, it’s a deeply personal and cathartic journey.

Despite critical acclaim and multiple award nominations, especially for its visual effects, the film tragically underperformed at the box office, failing to resonate with American audiences and struggling internationally. This is a frustrating outcome, considering the immense heart and craftsmanship poured into the project. It’s perplexing that an artist of Williams’ stature, who had significant global influence in the late '90s and early 2000s, did not find a stronger audience in markets like the U.S. This financial failure could unfortunately discourage future filmmakers from taking bold creative risks in musical biopics.

In an era where many biographical films sanitize or glorify their subjects, Better Man stands as a shining example of what these films should strive for, honest, artistically rich, and deeply moving storytelling. The film’s ability to connect the audience with the artist, to show his flaws and triumphs, is a testament to its brilliance. It deserved far more recognition than it received, and it is a shame that its financial performance may overshadow its artistic achievements. Nevertheless, for those who appreciate musical biopics with depth and authenticity, this is an unforgettable experience.

Aaron Schimberg's A Different Man presents a fascinating premise: an actor with neurofibromatosis undergoes an experimental procedure to change his face, only to find his sense of self crumbling in the process. While the first half unfolds as an intimate character study, the second half rushes toward its conclusion, leaving its themes half-explored.

Sebastian Stan delivers a committed performance here, particularly in the film’s quieter, more unsettling moments. His descent into self-destruction is predictable but engaging, bolstered by strong ing work from Adam Pearson and Renate Reinsve. The film flirts with satire but never fully embraces it, oscillating between dark comedy and psychological drama without a clear stance. It’s neither sharp enough to be biting nor strange enough to be truly absurd.

The film's core message, learning to accept what cannot be changed is poignant, but the screenplay doesn't always do it justice. Edward's downward spiral feels inevitable from the start, and the film's open-ended conclusion offers more ambiguity than substance. The strongest elements lie in its performances and makeup work, with Stan's prosthetics convincingly bridging the film's transformation motif. But for a story about identity and reinvention, A Different Man doesn't leave much to linger on once the credits roll.

A solid sequel that expands on the original but doesn’t quite reach its emotional heights. The new emotions add to the mix, but their presence feels more surface-level, simplifying things for broader audience appeal. The screenplay follows suit, straightforward and lacking the deeper complexities that made the first film so impactful. While the core message remains strong, every emotion, good or bad, plays a role, the execution feels like it's treading familiar ground. That said, the voice cast is great, and the animation has noticeably improved over the years. The score, however, feels uninspired, largely rehashing the original’s beats. A decent follow-up that works well enough, just not as powerfully as it could have. Given its box office dominance and Pixar’s history, there’s a slight chance it takes home the Oscar, but the lack of true emotional depth will hold it back.

Some films challenge us to evaluate their cinematic qualities, others render such evaluations secondary to their raw, unfiltered power. No Other Land belongs to the latter category. This is not just a documentary, it is a cry for justice, a searing indictment of the systematic erasure of Palestinian villages under the guise of Israeli military operations. Shot over years by Palestinian and Israeli activists, this film doesn’t merely depict suffering, it immerses us in it, exposing the relentless brutality of a regime that has long trampled on the most fundamental human rights of an entire people.

The documentary follows Basel Adra, a Palestinian activist who has spent his life resisting the forced displacement of his community in Masafer Yatta. Alongside him is Yuval Abraham, an Israeli journalist, whose presence underscores the vast chasm between their realities, one enduring violence and oppression, the other afforded the security and freedom that an apartheid system upholds. Their unlikely friendship highlights the moral reckoning at the heart of the film: silence is complicity, and bearing witness is an act of defiance. What No Other Land lays bare is nothing less than a modern-day act of colonial violence. The demolitions, the evictions, the casual cruelty of soldiers destroying homes and lives under the pretense of military necessity, these are not isolated incidents but a methodical effort to erase a people, a culture, a history. The film documents these horrors with unflinching clarity, refusing to sanitize the suffering. The courage required to capture these images, to stand in the line of fire armed only with cameras, is staggering.

But No Other Land does not merely seek to inform, it demands action. As the film concludes, the message is clear: solidarity must go beyond fleeting outrage. It calls for international pressure, for mobilization, for an unwavering stance against the forces that perpetuate this suffering. The world’s governments, obsessed with political maneuvering and economic interests, have repeatedly failed the Palestinian people. The so-called leaders who back policies of extermination and ethnic cleansing, from Netanyahu’s relentless expansionism to Trump’s grotesque proposal for Gaza, are not mere bystanders in history’s atrocities. They are its architects. More disturbing still is the resurgence of far-right ideologies worldwide, fascism, ultranationalism, and the blind allegiance of those who enable them. That even today, after the horrors of the past century, such ideologies find fervent ers is a sobering testament to humanity’s moral decay. It is staggering that individuals who would themselves have been targets of past genocides now align with the very forces that promote similar atrocities today.

To recognize Palestine as a free nation, to end Israel’s oppressive dominion over lands it has no right to claim, to grant Palestinians the same protections afforded to privileged nations, these should not be radical ideas. Yet, as the film poignantly acknowledges, such justice remains a distant dream in a world increasingly indifferent to the suffering of the oppressed.

No Other Land is essential viewing, not just for those seeking to understand the Israeli-Palestinian conflict but for anyone who still believes that truth can be a weapon against tyranny. It is a harrowing reminder of what is at stake and an urgent call to refuse silence in the face of injustice.

Watched on Saturday February 8, 2025.

This review may contain spoilers.

A poignant and realistic depiction of poverty, resilience, and the difficult choices many young girls face. Adam J. Graves crafts an intimate yet expansive look at New Delhi’s streets, capturing both their chaos and the fragile dreams that emerge within them. The film follows Anuja, a gifted young girl torn between a rare opportunity to study and the responsibility of helping her sister survive. Its open-ended conclusion adds depth, forcing the audience to question whether Anuja chose education or loyalty to her sister, an emotional dilemma that resonates far beyond the screen. While it could be seen as a hopeful story, it is also a stark reminder of systemic struggles, making it a strong contender at the Oscars. A moving, socially relevant short that lingers after the credits roll.

Nicolas Keppens crafts an artsy, visually polished short with a strong score, but Beautiful Men never quite finds its depth. The premise, three brothers traveling to Istanbul for hair transplants hints at themes of insecurity and masculinity, yet it remains very surface-level, never fully diving into its emotional core. There's potential for something richer, but the short settles for aesthetic appeal over substance.

David and Sam Cutler-Kreutz deliver a raw, gripping short here, that plays like a thriller but cuts like a tragedy. A Lien exposes the inhumane reality of ICE raids, where legal immigrants, fathers, sons, human beings are torn from their lives with chilling disregard for justice. The direction is sharp, unrelenting, and painfully relevant. Trump’s draconian immigration policies turned legality into a technicality, stripping away rights under the guise of patriotism. But what does patriotism mean if it denies the very foundation of a country built by immigrants? This short demands to be seen.

This review may contain spoilers.

Such a harrowing dramatization of the 1993 Štrpci massacre, capturing the brutality of the Serbian paramilitary forces and the moral weight of inaction. The contrast between courage and silence is stark, while one man speaks up and pays with his life, the protagonist stands by, paralyzed. The film’s chilling final twist underscores this uneasy reality. A powerful and unsettling short, it lingers in the mind, though its starkness may leave some emotionally distant.

An eerie and surreal stop-motion short that dives into themes of grief and survival. Set in an ‘80s children’s TV show, its characters: Mary, Billybud, and Fumbleton are left stranded after their creator’s death, forcing them to carry on without guidance. Visually, the craftsmanship is impressive, and knowing it took eight years to complete makes the dedication clear. However, the film’s bizarre tone and unsettling atmosphere overshadow its message, making it more unnerving than impactful. While I can appreciate the effort and artistry, it didn’t resonate with me.

Molly O’Brien’s The Only Girl in the Orchestra offers a thoughtful glimpse into the life and career of Orin O’Brien, the first female musician in the New York Philharmonic. The documentary, directed by her niece, is an intimate portrayal of a reserved and dedicated artist who, despite breaking barriers, never sought the spotlight.

At 87 and recently retired, Orin reflects on her career, her sacrifices, and her deep connection to music. The film touches on her upbringing, her parents were actors in Hollywood’s golden age, but remains primarily focused on her professional journey. While this perspective highlights her quiet, steadfast presence in the orchestra and her mentorship of younger musicians, it also leaves some aspects of her personal life unexplored. Given her reserved nature, this approach feels fitting, but it also makes the film feel somewhat detached compared to its more emotionally charged Oscar competitors, such as Incident and I Am Ready, Warden.

From a filmmaking standpoint, The Only Girl in the Orchestra is competently crafted, offering valuable insights into Orin’s philosophy and contributions to classical music. However, its restrained tone and limited emotional depth prevent it from being particularly moving. It’s a respectful tribute rather than a deeply compelling documentary.

Overall, while the film succeeds in capturing Orin’s quiet brilliance and influence, it doesn’t fully immerse the viewer in her world. A decent watch, but not an exceptional one.

This review may contain spoilers.

Not even three minutes in, and they already undid the poignant, beautifully tragic ending of Gladiator (2000). Goddammit.

Ridley Scott’s Gladiator II is less a necessary sequel and more a lavishly produced déjà vu. It retreads familiar ground with minor variations, never quite answering the question: “Did we need this?” The story beats, the themes, even the final moments, everything echoes the original, only without the same gravitas. Paul Mescal steps into the arena as Lucius (Maximus' son for some reason, the original hinted at something between Lucilla and Maximus, ever so slightly, not enough to justify this, but I digress), a man forced into gladiatorial combat after being exiled. But unlike Russell Crowe’s Maximus, Mescal lacks that commanding screen presence. He’s fine, decent even, but never quite embodies the weight of the narrative.

The film excels in some of its technical aspects. The cinematography is rich, the production design is as grand as Rome itself, and the costumes deservedly got an Oscar nomination. The action sequences deliver spectacle, and Denzel Washington as the gladiator master is a highlight, effortlessly charismatic in a way that makes you wish the movie were about him instead. Pedro Pascal, as always, brings nuance to his role, but even he can’t elevate a script that’s more imitation than innovation. Connie Nielsen and Derek Jacobi return, which is a nice touch, though their characters sadly meet the predictable fate of nostalgia bait.

And then there’s the CGI. The digital monkeys and rhino, looking off, plasticky, over-polished, every animal really, symptomatic of modern Hollywood’s obsession with artificial spectacle over tangible realism. The original had grit, weight, a lived-in texture. Gladiator II feels like a video game cutscene in places. It’s a shame because it does attempt to depict the brutality of the Roman Empire, but the artificiality undercuts its impact.

The real problem, though, isn’t just the CGI or even the recycled plot, it’s the lack of purpose. Hollywood has a habit of mining past successes for easy money (Jurassic World, The Force Awakens, and countless others). Instead of expanding on the story in a meaningful way, Gladiator II mostly repackages the original film, hoping the echoes will be enough. It’s exhilarating in moments, but never truly epic. And that ending, after all the sound and fury, we land back where we started. What was the point? The Academy mostly overlooked this one, and I can see why. It could have gotten more nominations: production design, sound, maybe even Denzel for ing actor. But it wasn’t enough to convince them.

In the end, Gladiator II is watchable, semi-engaging even, but it never justifies its existence. If you loved the original, this is just more of the same, but not as good. It’s newer, yes, but that’s about it.

This review may contain spoilers.

Few films define a genre, Gladiator redefined it. A thunderous, operatic spectacle wrapped in tragedy, Ridley Scott’s magnum opus is nothing short of cinematic perfection. A film that earned its place in history, much like its protagonist sought to reclaim his own. This wasn’t just an Oscar-winning film, it was the film, a triumph of storytelling, visual grandeur, and sheer emotional weight.

From the opening battle sequence, drenched in mud, fire, and blood, Scott immerses us in the brutality of Rome’s military conquests. Maximus Decimus Meridius (Russell Crowe), a warrior of unwavering loyalty, commands his men with both strength and honor. He is not just a soldier, he is Rome’s most trusted, its backbone. And yet, loyalty in the Roman Empire is a fleeting illusion. The moment his protector, Emperor Marcus Aurelius (Richard Harris), dies at the hands of his own treacherous son, Commodus (Joaquin Phoenix), Maximus’ world collapses. What follows is a journey into the very depths of despair. Betrayed, enslaved, and stripped of everything he holds dear, Maximus’ transformation into a gladiator is a descent into hell itself. Rome, the empire he once fought for, becomes his prison. The arena his battleground, his torment, his only path to revenge.

Scott’s direction is nothing short of visionary. The Colosseum isn’t just a set, it’s a breathing entity, pulsating with the roars of a bloodthirsty audience. The fight choreography is raw, unflinching, real. The violence isn’t indulgent, it’s essential, reinforcing the stakes of Maximus’ struggle. Every duel, every drop of sweat and blood, serves a greater narrative purpose. The production design is a marvel. Ancient Rome is resurrected in staggering detail, from the grandeur of the Senate to the dirt-stained corridors of the gladiatorial barracks. The cinematography by John Mathieson captures both the splendor and squalor of the empire, balancing vast, sweeping shots of Rome with intimate, emotional close-ups.

And then there’s that score. Hans Zimmer and Lisa Gerrard craft one of the most haunting, evocative soundtracks in cinematic history. The melancholic beauty of Now We Are Free is a hymn to loss, a farewell to both a warrior and an era. Zimmer’s pulsating battle themes elevate every clash of swords, while Gerrard’s ethereal vocals weave a sense of destiny throughout Maximus’ tragic arc.

Russell Crowe’s Maximus is one of the most commanding protagonists ever put to screen. His portrayal is both physically imposing and profoundly human. He doesn’t just deliver dialogue, he embodies it. His every glance, every grimace, tells a story of grief, vengeance, and the quiet dignity of a man who has lost everything. His Oscar win is undeniably deserved. Joaquin Phoenix’s Commodus is a villain of rare complexity, cowardly yet dangerous, desperate for validation yet utterly devoid of moral restraint. His incestuous longing for Lucilla (Connie Nielsen), his insatiable need for adoration, and his willingness to destroy everything to feel powerful make him a terrifying, yet pitiable, antagonist. The ing cast, Oliver Reed’s gruff yet noble Proximo, Djimon Hounsou’s loyal Juba, Richard Harris’ weary, idealistic Marcus Aurelius, all elevate the film. Every role is rich, every performance vital.

The Academy doesn’t always get it right. This time, they did. Gladiator deserved every accolade it received. Best Picture without question. Crowe’s Best Actor win, inarguable. If anything, it should have won more. This is a film that stands the test of time, one that remains as exhilarating today as it was in 2000. Even at a substantial runtime, it never drags. Every moment, every line, every battle serves its purpose. By the time Maximus breathes his final words, "Lucius is safe" and steps into the golden afterlife, there is nothing left to say. His journey is complete.

Some films entertain. Others move. Gladiator does both and more, it transcends. It is cinema at its most operatic, its most emotional, its most powerful. This is the very definition of an epic, a film that continues to stand tall, unchallenged, like the Colosseum itself. Strength and honor, indeed.

Larraín’s Maria is a film of exquisite craftsmanship and haunting beauty, yet sadly never quite transcends the sum of its parts. Anchored by Angelina Jolie’s transformative performance as the legendary Maria Callas, the biopic is a technical marvel, gorgeously shot, meticulously designed, and steeped in the operatic grandeur of its subject. But for all its artistry, it falters in forging a deep emotional connection, leaving the viewer more in awe of its surface than moved by its soul.

Jolie is undeniably magnetic, capturing Callas’s fragility, defiance, and lingering heartbreak with a quiet intensity. Her portrayal is at its most powerful in the film’s final act, where she takes on Callas’s voice herself, delivering a raw, unvarnished performance that feels like a triumph of both acting and sheer will, truly impressive. The ing cast, particularly Piersco Favino and Alba Rohrwacher as Callas’s loyal butler and housemaid, provide grounded counterpoints to Jolie’s ethereal presence.

Larraín, no stranger to exploring the inner lives of iconic women, with the previous Jackie and Spencer, brings his signature visual poetry to Maria. The cinematography is lush and evocative, blending surreal dreamscapes with the stark reality of Callas’s final days. Yet, for all its beauty, the film often feels emotionally distant, more concerned with style than substance. The fragmented narrative, jumping between Callas’s memories of Aristotle Onassis, her wartime struggles, and her drug-induced hallucinations, lacks the cohesion needed to fully immerse the viewer in her world. Also, the film’s pacing is uneven, and while the decision to focus on Callas’s final week is intriguing, it leaves little room to explore the full breadth of her life and career. The result is a portrait that feels incomplete, a series of vignettes rather than a fully realized story.

Still, Maria is a film worth seeing, if only for Jolie’s performance and the sheer audacity of its vision. It’s a flawed but fascinating tribute to a woman who lived and loved as fiercely as she sang.

Tim Fehlbaum’s September 5 is a gripping, razor-sharp thriller that turns the chaos of live television into a high-stakes drama. Set during the 1972 Munich massacre, the film focuses on the ABC Sports crew covering the Olympics as they pivot to document the unfolding terrorist attack. It’s a masterclass in tension, edited like a thriller, with every frame crackling with urgency.

John Magaro is magnetic as Geoffrey Mason, the control room head whose ambition and pragmatism drive the narrative. The ensemble cast, including Peter Sarsgaard and Ben Chaplin, delivers very understated yet powerful performances, grounding the film in a sense of authenticity. The script is sharp, balancing the ethical dilemmas of journalism with the relentless pressure of breaking news. Yes, the film is controversial, its portrayal of Israelis, Germans, and Palestinians is bound to spark debate, especially in today’s explosive climate. But it doesn’t take sides, presenting the messy, human reality of a tragedy broadcast to 900 million people. The archival footage woven into the narrative adds a layer of historical weight, while the meticulous production design immerses you in the era.

I believe what makes it so compelling is its focus on the journalists, not the terrorists or the hostages, but the people tasked with telling the story. It’s a film about the cost of bearing witness, the moral compromises of live TV, and the weight of history unfolding in real time. Shame it didn’t get more Oscar love, regardless, it is a riveting, thought-provoking piece that deserves attention.

Smriti Mundhra’s I Am Ready, Warden is a raw, emotionally charged documentary that dives into the moral quagmire of capital punishment. Following John Henry Ramirez, a Texas death row inmate, in his final days, the film balances perspectives, Ramirez’s remorse, the victim’s family’s grief, and the DA’s conflicted role. It’s a controversial subject, and the film doesn’t shy away from the discomfort, refusing to take sides or offer easy answers. I can see why some might dislike its neutrality, but I appreciate how it avoids painting the issue in black and white. The religious undertones, used by both Ramirez and the victim’s loved ones, add layers of complexity, while the unflinching cinematography captures the grim reality of execution. The final moments are haunting, leaving you with an empty, uneasy feeling. It was a deeply personal, thought-provoking piece that forces you to confront the weight of justice and morality. It’s not an easy watch, but it’s an essential one.

Bill Morrison’s Incident is a harrowing, infuriating documentary that lays bare the brutality and absurdity of police violence. Through raw bodycam and surveillance footage, the film reconstructs the 2018 killing of Harith "Snoop" Augustus by Chicago police, exposing the callousness and lack of ability that define these tragedies. The footage is chilling, officers casually remarking on the shooting, almost proud of their actions, while a man’s life is snuffed out for nothing. It’s revolting, vile, and a stark reminder of how often police operate with a “shoot first, question later” mentality. The film doesn’t need to editorialize; the images speak for themselves, highlighting the systemic failures and moral rot that allow such incidents to keep happening. It was a difficult but necessary watch, a punch to the gut that demands attention and action. It’s not just a documentary, it’s an indictment.

Victoria Warmerdam’s I'm Not a Robot is a clever, darkly funny short that turns the universal frustration of failing a CAPTCHA test (seriously, screw the motorcycle one) into a sharp satire on tech and identity. Ellen Parren is great as Lara, whose existential crisis after being declared 87% robot is both hilarious and weirdly relatable. The humor is biting, the premise is inventive, and the ending, set to Radiohead’s Creep, is a nice touch. It’s a bit uneven at times, but overall, it’s a decent, entertaining short that delivers laughs and a few clever moments.

Ema Ryan Yamazaki’s Instruments of a Beating Heart is a tough watch. It follows Japanese first-graders preparing for a performance of Ode to Joy, but the focus on perfection and discipline feels more crushing than inspiring. The teacher’s harsh methods, shaming kids, demanding flawless harmony, stripped away any joy or creativity, making it feel like as many commented, Whiplash for children. While there are moments of comion, the overall tone is rigid and cold, mirroring the sterile, mechanical approach of the film itself. Ayame’s eventual triumph feels hollow, born more from fear than ion. I understand the cultural context, but the documentary offers little reflection or nuance, leaving me frustrated and saddened. Technically solid but emotionally detached, this one left me disliking Ode to Joy and feeling sorry for the poor kids.

RaMell Ross’s Nickel Boys is undeniably ambitious, but its experimental approach left me cold. The first-person perspective, while initially intriguing, quickly feels like a gimmick rather than a meaningful storytelling device. Elwood, the protagonist, is almost never seen, only glimpsed in mirrors, which creates a strange disconnect. I wanted to care about him, to feel his pain and resilience, but the camera’s insistence on staying in his POV made it hard to connect emotionally. It’s like watching Moonlight in first person but without the same depth or intimacy.

The film’s pacing is glacial, especially in the first half, and the constant shifts between perspectives (Elwood, Turner, and even flashforwards) don’t help. The montages of Apollo moon missions and family life feel overly artsy and distract from the central narrative. While I appreciate the attempt to juxtapose America’s progress in space with its moral failures on Earth, it often comes off as heavy-handed. That said, the film’s core themes: racism, systemic abuse, and the resilience of the human spirit are undeniably powerful. The stark contrast between the treatment of Black and white boys at Nickel Academy is gut-wrenching, and the final twist is genuinely shocking. But the film’s stylistic choices often overshadow its emotional weight. Performances are strong, particularly from Ethan Herisse and Brandon Wilson, though the first-person approach limits their screen time, making their work feel more experiential than impactful. The score and cinematography are standout elements, adding a haunting beauty to an otherwise grim story.

Nickel Boys is a bold, experimental film that will likely divide audiences. While its themes are vital and its craftsmanship impressive, I couldn’t fully immerse myself in its world. It’s a film I respect more than I love, and while I understand the acclaim, I found it more overrated than groundbreaking.

The Raid is a masterclass in action filmmaking, a relentless, adrenaline-pumping ride that redefines the genre. Directed by Gareth Evans, this 2011 Indonesian action thriller is a near-perfect blend of brutal fight choreography, tight pacing, and visceral storytelling. From the moment the film begins, it grabs you by the throat and doesn’t let go until the credits roll.

The premise is simple yet effective: an elite police squad is sent to raid a high-rise apartment block controlled by a ruthless drug lord, only to find themselves trapped and outnumbered. What follows is a series of impeccably choreographed fight sequences that showcase the traditional Indonesian martial art of pencak silat. The action is brutal, inventive, and executed with precision, all thanks to the incredible physicality of lead actor Iko Uwais and the ing cast, including Joe Taslim and Yayan Ruhian. Uwais, in particular, shines as Rama, a rookie cop who becomes the anchor of the film amidst the chaos. Gareth Evans’ direction is bold and confident, with a keen eye for spatial awareness and kinetic energy. The camera work is dynamic, often handheld, which adds to the film’s gritty, immersive feel. The editing is razor-sharp, ensuring that every punch, kick, and gunshot lands with maximum impact. The film’s runtime is lean, clocking in at just over 100 minutes, and it wastes no time in delivering non-stop action.

While the plot is straightforward, it serves its purpose well, providing just enough context to keep the audience invested. The characters are thinly sketched, but this is not a film that relies on deep emotional arcs or any complex storytelling. Instead, it thrives on its ability to deliver jaw-dropping set pieces and relentless tension all the time. The film’s score, composed by Mike Shinoda and Joseph Trapanese, complements the action perfectly, adding to the film’s high-octane atmosphere.

This is not just an action film, it’s a statement. It proves that with the right combination of talent, vision, and execution, a modest budget can produce a film that rivals and often sures the spectacle of Hollywood blockbusters. It’s a film that demands to be seen on the biggest screen possible, with the volume turned up to eleven.

What a deeply emotional and beautifully crafted film. The performances are exceptional, Colman Domingo’s portrayal is inspired and layered, while Clarence "Divine Eye" Maclin and the ensemble bring authenticity and heart to every scene.

The film's exploration of redemption, hope, and the transformative power of art resonated deeply, evoking the spirit of The Shawshank Redemption while carving out its own unique voice. The depiction of the RTA (Rehabilitation Through the Arts) program is moving and serves as a reminder of the importance of creative expression in reclaiming humanity. Bryce Dessner’s score complements the story perfectly, while the screenplay and cinematography capture the pain, despair, and glimpses of hope within these men’s lives. The final scenes, blending real-life footage, drive home the film’s emotional weight and real-world significance.

It’s the kind of film that stays with you, and it absolutely should have been a contender for Best Picture. A deeply affecting and vital piece of storytelling.

Robert Eggers' Nosferatu is a feast for the senses, with its stunning cinematography, especially the black-and-white shots, being one of its greatest strengths. The production design, costume design, and makeup work together to craft an atmospheric and visually arresting Gothic horror. Willem Dafoe, as expected, delivers a standout performance, while Bill Skarsgård's portrayal of Count Orlok is sinister yet oddly comical at times, a result of his overexposure.

Lily-Rose Depp and Nicholas Hoult are solid, with Depp bringing an angelic presence to Ellen. The film, however, lacks genuine scares, leaning more into the realm of slow-burn dread rather than visceral horror. The story, while serviceable, doesn’t match the technical brilliance of the film. The script feels uninspired at times, and the tension never quite reaches the heights it aspires to.

Despite its flaws, Nosferatu succeeds as a beautifully crafted Gothic tale, even if it doesn’t fully embrace its horror roots. For me, this is easily one of the year’s most visually captivating films, though it falls short of being truly terrifying.