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A good courtroom drama let down by lacklustre direction and a screenplay with weak links here and there that also thinks characters of that time most likely always spoke in a rousing and sympathetic manner.

Could have used the Groundhog Day concept much better like Palm Springs but fails in almost every way and Rajkumar Rao, for the love of god, please vary your acting in your movies!

A brooding, visionary sci-fi noir, Dark City is a dazzling meditation on memory, identity, and control—one that beat The Matrix to many of its ideas and arguably did them with more visual poetry. Alex Proyas constructs a surreal urban maze where day never breaks and architecture bends to unseen will, creating a nightmarish dreamscape soaked in German Expressionism and philosophical dread.

Rufus Sewell is solid as the disoriented everyman, but it’s Jennifer Connelly who emerges as the film’s aching soul. Radiant yet melancholic, she channels old-Hollywood glamour with real emotional gravity, grounding the film’s abstractions in something deeply human. Kiefer Sutherland’s eerie, fragmented scientist adds to the unease, and the Strangers remain some of the most disturbing villains of their era. With immaculate production design and a heady blend of pulp and metaphysics, Dark City stands tall as one of the most underappreciated sci-fi masterpieces of the 1990s.

Robert Eggers’ descent into isolation and madness is as hypnotic as it is grotesque. Shot in boxy 4:3 black-and-white and lit like a long-lost nightmare, The Lighthouse feels like a relic from another era—unearthed, cursed, and somehow alive. It’s a story of two men, a storm, a light, and the slow, maddening collapse of all boundaries between them.

Willem Dafoe is utterly deranged brilliance—sputtering sea curses and farting with Shakespearean gusto—while Robert Pattinson matches him note for note, all seething repression and desperate unraveling. It’s weird, mythic, Freudian, even Lovecraftian. And it’s never less than riveting. Not for everyone, but for those willing to surrender to its rhythms, it’s a briny, thunderous fever dream you won’t soon forget.

A lean, mean alligator thriller that knows exactly what it is and doesn’t waste time pretending otherwise. Crawl traps you in a flooded Florida basement with toothy death circling from all sides—and somehow makes that simple premise work far better than it should.

Kaya Scodelario carries the film on her soaked shoulders, delivering a gritty, physical performance that makes you root for her survival at every turn. She’s believable, resilient, and gives the movie just enough emotional grounding to matter. It’s no game-changer, but as a tight, sweaty creature feature, it bites down hard and doesn’t let go.

Joe Wright’s Anna Karenina is a sumptuous, theatrical adaptation that turns Tolstoy’s epic into an elegant stage-bound ballet of doomed ion and societal judgment. The visual conceit—setting much of the action in a theatre—may alienate some, but it works beautifully to reflect the performative roles each character plays in their constrained, class-bound world. The production design, music, and choreography are breathtaking, giving the film a dreamlike rhythm that makes Anna’s emotional unraveling feel inevitable and haunting.

Keira Knightley is excellent as the tragic heroine, embodying Anna’s ion and inner conflict with both restraint and fire. Jude Law brings a quiet, mournful dignity to Karenin, while Matthew Macfadyen steals scenes with his rakish charm. Kelly Macdonald, Alicia Vikander, and Domhnall Gleeson provide emotional grounding in the parallel love story, which quietly offsets Anna’s descent. Olivia Williams makes a strong impression in a small but crucial role. While Aaron Taylor-Johnson is less compelling than his co-stars, the ensemble as a whole shines, and Wright’s vision results in one of the more daring and artistically ambitious period dramas in recent memory.

Visually lush and spiritually ambitious, Life of Pi tells a mythic survival story with sincerity and wonder. Suraj Sharma carries the film with raw vulnerability, while Irrfan Khan brings quiet depth and gravitas to its reflective framing. The allegory doesn’t always land perfectly, but the emotion, visuals, and that tiger linger long after.

Ridley Scott returns to the Alien universe with ambition turned all the way up—Prometheus is nothing if not bold. It wrestles with themes of creation, godhood, and human fragility, wrapped inside some of the sleekest sci-fi production design of the 21st century. The visuals are jaw-dropping, from vast alien landscapes to haunting interiors that echo Giger’s nightmarish aesthetic.

While the screenplay stumbles with character logic and overstuffed ideas, the cast elevates the material—Noomi Rapace is quietly powerful, and Michael Fassbender gives one of his best performances as the eerily refined android David. Marc Streitenfeld’s score and Dariusz Wolski’s cinematography enhance the eerie grandeur.

Flawed, yes—but unforgettable, and still one of the most visually and thematically provocative blockbusters of its time.

Still fantastic!

A heartfelt coming-of-age story that quietly devastates, The Perks of Being a Wallflower captures the fragile, formative years of high school with rare emotional honesty. Stephen Chbosky, adapting his own novel, shows surprising directorial poise, layering the film with a diaristic tenderness that feels both raw and universal.

Logan Lerman gives a beautifully internal performance as Charlie, letting pain flicker just beneath the surface, while Ezra Miller is electric as Patrick—witty, aching, and magnetic. And then there’s Emma Watson, shedding Hermione entirely to give us Sam: luminous, damaged, loving, and searching. It’s easily her best work, and the kind of role that resonates because she embodies the love everyone wishes they had growing up. To find a Sam in real life—a person who sees you, really sees you—would be a small miracle.

With its emotionally rich screenplay, evocative soundtrack, and unforced tenderness, The Perks of Being a Wallflower doesn’t just speak to adolescence—it re it. And in moments like the tunnel scene, it transcends it.

Robert Wise’s The Haunting is a textbook case of how suggestion can be far scarier than spectacle. It’s a masterclass in atmospheric dread, with shadows, sounds, and silences doing most of the heavy lifting—proving that horror doesn’t need gore to get under your skin.

Julie Harris delivers a fragile, haunting performance as Eleanor, whose psychological unraveling is deeply tied to the house itself. Claire Bloom is excellent too, bringing charm and ambiguity to Theo. The house becomes a character, its presence felt in every tilted frame and sound design cue.

Wise’s direction and Davis Boulton’s deep-focus black-and-white cinematography use space brilliantly—mirrors, corridors, ceilings all closing in slowly, like the house is tightening its grip. This isn’t just a ghost story; it’s about loneliness and the fine line between the supernatural and the psychological. A true classic that still holds up.

If The Beginning was setup, The Conclusion is the payoff—and S.S. Rajamouli delivers it with more confidence, scale, and operatic intensity. The visual world feels even more refined, with striking production design and mythic imagery that leans fully into the epic mode.

Prabhas commands the screen, and Sathyaraj (as Kattappa) and Rana Daggubati (as Bhallaladeva) elevate the film with gravitas and physical presence. The famous reveal—“Why did Kattappa kill Baahubali?”—lands with emotional weight, not just shock value.

Some of the writing and visual effects still carry a TV-serial feel, but the ambition and sincerity are undeniable. Despite its flaws, this is an Indian blockbuster with real soul, and a finale that justifies its place as a pop-culture milestone.

S.S. Rajamouli’s Baahubali is grand myth-making with the visual ambition of a national epic and the emotional beats of a soap opera. From soaring waterfalls to palatial kingdoms, the world-building is immersive and genuinely impressive, especially for Indian mainstream cinema.

Prabhas carries the dual role with charm and physicality, and while the writing is often broad and melodramatic, it fits the larger-than-life tone. The CGI is uneven but ambitious, and the scale of the set-pieces—particularly the war sequences—is undeniably thrilling.

The film falters when it slows down for long stretches of romance, but Rajamouli’s eye for spectacle keeps it engaging. It’s not subtle, but it doesn’t need to be—Baahubali thrives on its operatic style and sheer visual power.

Jack Clayton’s The Innocents is one of the most elegantly terrifying films ever made—a masterclass in psychological horror that whispers rather than screams. Deborah Kerr delivers a career-defining performance as the governess slowly unraveling under the weight of repression, ghostly presences, and the eerie ambiguity of innocence itself.

Freddie Francis’s luminous black-and-white cinematography, drenched in deep focus and shadow, heightens the claustrophobic beauty of Bly Manor, while Georges Auric’s sparse, haunting score chills to the bone. The use of sound, silence, and subtle camera movement is as precise and unnerving as anything in Bergman or Bresson.

Ambiguous to the end, The Innocents is pure Gothic perfection, and one of the greatest horror films of all time.

A goofy, grungy remake that leans more into chaotic late-90s aesthetic than actual scares, House on Haunted Hill is a mess—but not without its guilty pleasures. Geoffrey Rush, doing his best Vincent Price-meets-Cruella de Vil impersonation, is having way more fun than the film deserves, chewing through the scenery with theatrical glee. Famke Janssen vamps it up deliciously, giving her underwritten role some bite, and Ali Larter emerges as the one grounded presence in a film otherwise drenched in absurdity.

It’s too erratic to work as serious horror, and too self-serious to be camp classic. But thanks to those three performances, it’s at least intermittently watchable amidst the fake blood, digital ghosts, and nu-metal vibes.

Harmony Korine’s Spring Breakers is a hypnotic, trash-glam fever dream—half critique, half indulgence. Its candy-colored nihilism and looping editing create a trance-like rhythm that seduces and repulses in equal measure. James Franco delivers a career-best performance as Alien, absurd and magnetic, while the cast of former Disney stars dive headfirst into chaos. It’s an audacious, provocative descent into American excess—both poetic and grotesque.

A fun, self-aware romp that lets Nicolas Cage parody himself with wild abandon. The meta gags hit more than they miss, and Pedro Pascal steals nearly every scene he’s in. It’s lightweight but likable, a breezy tribute to Cage’s chaotic career that works best when it leans into its absurdity.

Ajith, I’ll always love you even when your director and writer fails you this bad!

Dead Ringers is Cronenberg at his most hauntingly clinical and emotionally devastating—a descent into identity collapse and codependency told through mirrored precision and surgical coldness. It’s a slow-burn psychological horror that becomes unbearably intimate, and one of the most disturbing portrayals of inner fragmentation ever put on screen.

Jeremy Irons’ dual performance as the Mantle twins is simply one of the greatest feats of acting in film history. He plays two distinct characters—both brilliant, both broken—with such subtle nuance that you forget you’re watching one actor. The way he shifts power, vulnerability, and ego between them is hypnotic.

Cronenberg’s direction is eerily restrained here, forgoing body horror in favor of existential dread. The production design mirrors the characters—clinical, sterile, and slowly rotting. It’s a masterwork of mise-en-scène, sound, and psychological collapse, and a key piece in Cronenberg’s thematic evolution. A chilling, elegiac masterpiece.

Lincoln is a stately, dialogue-driven chamber drama powered by Daniel Day-Lewis’ astonishing transformation—an intimate portrait of political compromise and conviction wrapped in the weight of history. Spielberg avoids hagiography by focusing on the gritty, procedural fight to the 13th Amendment, making the legislative process feel urgent and vital.

Day-Lewis gives one of the most lived-in performances of the century, capturing not just Lincoln’s gravitas but his wit and weariness. He’s matched by a sharp ing cast—Tommy Lee Jones, Sally Field, and David Strathairn, all adding texture. Janusz Kamiński’s muted cinematography and John Williams’ restrained score a film that respects the intelligence of its audience and the complexity of democracy. Quietly powerful.

All About My Mother is one of Pedro Almodóvar’s most moving and emotionally layered films—a beautifully empathetic tribute to women, mothers, performers, and the found families we build through grief and survival. It blends melodrama with grounded humanity, never slipping into sentimentality even as it embraces operatic emotion.

Cecilia Roth delivers a towering performance as Manuela, navigating love, loss, and resilience with grace and power. The ensemble—featuring Marisa Paredes, Penélope Cruz, and Antonia San Juan—brings warmth and complexity to every role. The film’s visual richness, vibrant color palette, and thematic depth reflect Almodóvar at the height of his powers. Bold, comionate, and resonant, it’s a heartfelt ode to identity and womanhood.

Definitely a good entry in the franchise even if predictable.

The kills were satisfying though and had some of the best deaths in the franchise.

Eh, not too good.

Battle Royale stands as a gritty, brutal exploration of survival and societal breakdown that still packs a punch decades later. Kinji Fukasaku’s direction masterfully balances chaos and character, delivering tense, visceral action without losing sight of the psychological toll on the teens caught in its deadly game.

The film’s raw energy is complemented by a solid ensemble cast, who bring a believable mix of fear, desperation, and defiance. While some plot threads are a bit over-the-top or uneven, the story’s unflinching look at youth, violence, and authority remains compelling and thought-provoking. Its grim atmosphere and relentless pace keep you hooked, making it a cult classic that’s earned its place in the genre canon.

Ek Thi Daayan is an atmospheric thriller that tries hard to blend folklore with psychological horror but ends up a bit uneven. The visuals and eerie sound design create some genuinely creepy moments, and the film’s mood is effective in patches. However, the screenplay struggles to balance its twists and scares, which can feel predictable or overstuffed at times.

Emraan Hashmi carries the lead with steady intensity, while the three actresses — Konkona Sen Sharma, Huma Qureshi, and Kalki Koechlin — each bring distinct layers to the story. Konkona’s ethereal presence adds depth, Huma injects mystery, and Kalki’s performance is striking, yet the film doesn’t fully utilize their talents. It’s a decent effort in Indian horror but doesn’t quite live up to its chilling premise.

Le Voyage dans la Lune (1902) is cinema’s first real magic trick—a whimsical burst of imagination that still dazzles over a century later. Georges Méliès didn’t just direct a film; he opened a portal to what movies could become. The handmade sets, theatrical flair, and iconic moon-face imagery are timeless, and the film’s charm lies in its joyful inventiveness more than narrative sophistication.

It’s playful, surreal, and essential—a dream captured on celluloid. Watching it today still feels like witnessing the birth of cinema’s imagination.

Memories of Murder is one of the greatest crime films of the 21st century—and one of the bleakest. Bong Joon-ho masterfully blends tones: procedural, satire, tragedy, and even moments of humor—all without losing control. It’s chilling, yet human. You feel the weight of every failure, every misstep, every life lost.

Song Kang-ho gives a brilliant performance, his character arc devastating in its subtlety, while Kim Sang-kyung offers the perfect counterbalance. The cinematography is stunning—foggy fields, rainy nights, cramped offices—each frame drenched in quiet dread. The final shot is legendary for a reason: haunting, ambiguous, unforgettable.

A gripping work of art that lingers like a bruise.

Zack Snyder’s Dawn of the Dead remake doesn’t try to outsmart George A. Romero’s original—it just wants to outgun it. And to that end, it mostly succeeds. The opening is an all-timer: visceral, chaotic, and brilliantly staged. Snyder’s kinetic direction, bolstered by a solid ensemble (Sarah Polley, Ving Rhames), keeps the adrenaline pumping, even when the story flattens out in the middle.

It trades Romero’s slow-burn social commentary for fast zombies, slick set pieces, and early-2000s grit, which won’t be for everyone. But as far as modern zombie action-horrors go, it’s a competent, entertaining ride with just enough character to keep you invested.

Nicolas Cage “Holy Trinity” - 3/3

Face/Off is a gloriously over-the-top action opera, the kind of high-concept spectacle that only the ‘90s—and John Woo—could deliver with such conviction. It’s absurd on paper (a face-swapping FBI agent and terrorist?), but in execution, it’s kinetic, operatic, and weirdly moving. Nicolas Cage and John Travolta dive headfirst into their dual roles with a ferocity and freedom that’s thrilling to watch—each mimicking the other’s mannerisms so precisely it becomes a strange masterclass in exaggerated, mirrored performance.

Woo’s signature stylistic flourishes—doves, slow-motion gunfights, balletic chaos—are all on full display, but what elevates Face/Off beyond its genre trappings is how committed it is to its own emotional stakes. Beneath the mayhem lies a surprisingly resonant story of identity, family, and duality. It’s big, loud, excessive—and a legitimate action masterpiece.

Nic Cage’s “Holy Trinity” might truly be the most fun action trilogy ever made, hands down.

Nicolas Cage “Holy Trinity” - 2/3

The Rock is Michael Bay’s most controlled—and arguably best—film, delivering slick action, macho banter, and some surprisingly sharp dialogue without tipping too far into excess.. Sean Connery has never looked cooler post–Bond, and Nicolas Cage dials in a gloriously twitchy performance that somehow fits perfectly into Bay’s explosive symphony.

The Alcatraz setting is iconic, the pacing relentless, and Hans Zimmer’s score adds muscle to every beat. It’s not deep, but it knows exactly what it is: high-concept action done right. For ’90s blockbuster cinema, this is as solid—and fun—as it gets.

ABSOLUTE CINEMA!
Anyone who’s worried about the exposition clad first hour, don’t be. Go watch it with the amazing second half in mind.

Mission Impossible has been one of the formative film franchises of my childhood and I think I had been more excited to watch the final outing of one of the greatest actors of the past 40 years, Tom Cruise, than anyone else.
A man who has incredible acting prowess as evidenced by his work in Magnolia, Eyes Wide Shut, Rain Man, Jerry Maguire, etc., and also has the dedication to be the best action star on the planet for the past 30 years, most importantly in his groundbreaking Mission Impossible series.

The Final Reckoning, his final outing as Ethan Hunt isn’t perfect; the first half is slow and exposition heavy, the action isn’t up to the previous 3 films and there is a dearth of the trademark franchise humour.

But then, the second hour starts and Oh Boy! The movie picks up immediate pace and hooks you in completely. McQuarrie had already shown an affinity for Dutch angles and compositions like The Manchurian Candidate in the previous film and they are still on full display here with the added bonus of improved blocking. The second half is much stronger with his focus on the trademark franchise spectacle and it’s on full display in two of the biggest set-pieces of the series: The Submarine Sequence and The Bi-Plane Sequence. These two brilliant sequences are some of the biggest and best action extravaganzas in films this century.

The film is further strengthened by the parallel editing employed by McQuarrie in the action sequences of the second half (barring the Submarine) between three simultaneous scenes and increasing the thrill factor immensely. And coming to the Submarine and Plane sequences, there is just brilliance all around. Cruise’s dedication to practical stunts and doing it himself pays off amazingly well here. It’s also showcased with some brilliant choreography and cinematography. There’s nothing more to say about these highlights except that you go and experience these thrills yourself. This is a great film and could have been brilliant if the first hour was better.

Finally, I would have given this 4 stars just for the weaker first hour but the two highlight moments, the cast and the fact that it’s the last MI film of Cruise’s glorious career, push it to 4.5 stars for me.

Deep Impact aims for emotional resonance over bombast in the end-of-the-world genre, but the result is a little too restrained for its own good. There are strong performances—especially from Téa Leoni and Morgan Freeman—but the film struggles with pacing, juggling too many characters and subplots without giving most of them enough weight.

The grounded, somber tone is irable compared to its louder 1998 twin Armageddon, and some moments (like Freeman’s stirring speeches) do land. But overall, it’s more impactful in concept than execution, with too many lulls between its truly affecting scenes. A noble effort, just not a thrilling one.

Tie Me Up! Tie Me Down! is Almodóvar at his most provocative and playful—a twisted romantic comedy that walks a razor-thin line between obsession and affection. The film boldly toys with genre expectations, mixing melodrama, dark humor, and horror elements with a surprisingly sweet emotional core. Antonio Banderas is magnetic as the unpredictable Ricky, bringing equal parts menace and charm, while Victoria Abril matches him beat for beat in a fearless, layered performance.

Visually, it’s pure Almodóvar: bold colors, dynamic framing, and a sense of controlled chaos that reflects the characters’ psychological states. While the premise is controversial, the film treats it with an offbeat tenderness that’s disarming and strangely affecting. It’s a fearless, kinky fable about emotional captivity and strange salvation—one that still feels ahead of its time.

My Week with Marilyn is a gentle, charming slice of cinematic nostalgia that leans more on tone and performance than plot. Michelle Williams delivers a quietly heartbreaking portrayal of Monroe—not just as a glamorous icon but as a fragile, complicated woman caught between her image and her inner turmoil. It’s a nuanced performance that elevates the entire film, capturing both the magnetism and the loneliness that surrounded her.

The ing cast is solid across the board—Kenneth Branagh has fun as the ever-theatrical Olivier, and Eddie Redmayne plays the wide-eyed assistant with enough innocence to make the story’s romantic undertones believable. It’s not a groundbreaking film, but it’s tasteful, well-acted, and lovingly rendered. More a wistful memory than a deep character study, but one worth spending time with.

Good but predictable and cliche.

Pedro Almodóvar’s Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown is a dizzying, electric cocktail of melodrama, heartbreak, farce, and vibrant style—his first true masterpiece. It barrels forward with the manic momentum of a screwball comedy, but underneath all the chaos is a surprisingly poignant portrait of emotional instability and resilience. Carmen Maura is sensational at its center, embodying both comic timing and deep vulnerability with such control that she anchors the wild tonal shifts effortlessly.

Every frame pops with Almodóvar’s signature flair: bold colors, lavish interiors, and razor-sharp compositions. The ensemble cast is uniformly excellent, delivering rapid-fire dialogue and physical comedy with precision. The film is absurd, hysterical, moving, and aesthetically singular—proof of how Almodóvar could elevate even the most heightened scenario into something deeply human. It’s a love letter to messy women, messy lives, and the beauty that can emerge from emotional wreckage.

Gene Hackman and Dianne Wiest are comedy gold in The Birdcage, playing the uptight conservative couple with perfect deadpan timing. Hackman, in particular, is hilarious as the stiff, oblivious senator slowly unraveling in a world far outside his comfort zone, while Wiest brings just the right mix of warmth and confusion to their dynamic. They serve as perfect foils to the chaos around them, and their straight-faced reactions elevate the film’s satirical bite.

Their performances, alongside the flamboyant brilliance of Williams and Lane, create a sharp clash of worlds that gives the film its energy. Nichols orchestrates it all with theatrical flair and emotional sincerity. It’s loud, it’s messy, it’s theatrical—but it’s also sneakily tender, with a message of love and acceptance wrapped in sequins and sarcasm.

David Cronenberg’s The Fly is body horror at its most tragic—grotesque, yes, but surprisingly tender beneath the flesh-tearing. What begins as a mad scientist fable morphs into a heartbreaking portrait of human decay and isolation. Jeff Goldblum gives a career-best performance, gradually transforming from quirky genius to doomed insect-hybrid with disturbing believability and raw emotional depth. Geena Davis brings needed grounding and heart, making the tragedy feel intimate rather than absurd.

Cronenberg’s direction is lean and focused, marrying pulpy genre thrills with serious existential dread. The practical effects are gloriously revolting—each stage of Seth Brundle’s transformation both visually inventive and deeply symbolic. It’s a film that uses horror not just for shock, but to explore fear of illness, aging, and losing control of one’s own body. Gross, yes. But deeply human, too.

Kaagaz Ke Phool may have been a commercial failure in its time, but today it rightfully stands as Guru Dutt’s second great masterpiece—Pyaasa being his undisputed opus. This is his most personal film, a haunting reflection on the transient nature of fame, the isolation of artistic pursuit, and the way the world discards its creators when they’ve given all they have. It’s a self-elegy told in real time, and few films have ever captured the quiet devastation of being forgotten quite like this.

V.K. Murthy’s cinematography is transcendent—its stark shadows and heavenly light streaming through studio rafters are the stuff of legend, with compositions that rival Orson Welles or Dreyer in their spiritual weight. Dutt plays the fading director with an eerie stillness, hollowed out by memory and disillusionment, while Waheeda Rehman radiates tragic dignity as the muse he loses to the system. The songs by S.D. Burman, especially “Waqt Ne Kiya,” aren’t just beautiful—they feel like they’re mourning the death of cinema itself. A film ahead of its time, and now immortal because of it.

How far has Japanese cinema fallen? From action masterpieces like Seven Samurai to average Hollywood inspired action films. Hope it gets better there and in every industry in the world as well.

Watched it only for Elisha Cuthbert and was still disappointed.

Martin Scorsese’s Hugo is a heartfelt, visually dazzling ode to cinema’s early magic—one that’s as much a tribute to Georges Méliès as it is a children’s fantasy. The production design is lavish, and the cinematography by Robert Richardson captures a whimsical Paris that feels like a storybook in motion.

While the pacing can lag and the emotional beats don’t always land as powerfully as intended, the film’s love for movies and movie-making is infectious. Asa Butterfield is solid, but it’s Ben Kingsley who brings gravitas to the story. Hugo isn’t top-tier Scorsese, but it’s a lovingly crafted film that stands out for its ambition, craftsmanship, and reverence for film history.

Pedro Almodóvar’s The Skin I Live In is a twisted, haunting, and masterfully constructed psychological thriller that burrows under your skin and lingers long after the credits. It’s an elegant yet deeply disturbing tale of obsession, control, and identity, brought to life with unnerving precision and a beautifully warped sense of style.

Antonio Banderas gives a career-best performance, icy and restrained, while Elena Anaya delivers a quietly devastating turn. Almodóvar’s direction is immaculate—cool, composed, and hypnotic—pairing sterile production design and glowing cinematography with a slow-burning narrative that gradually peels back layers of horror. It’s not an easy film, but it’s a bold, deeply cinematic experience from a filmmaker in total control.

The Descendants is a gently affecting family drama that leans on Alexander Payne’s knack for bittersweet storytelling and strong ensemble work. George Clooney delivers one of his more grounded performances as a man trying to hold his fractured family together amidst grief and betrayal, and Shailene Woodley is a standout in her breakout role.

The Hawaiian setting brings a quiet melancholy and visual warmth that contrasts the emotional turmoil beneath. While some moments feel a bit too neatly packaged, the film handles its themes with sincerity and a welcome lack of sentimentality. A solid, heartfelt effort with more depth than its laid-back surface suggests.

Ajay Devgn is the only Bollywood actor currently who rarely misses. Keep going and make even better films.

s Ha is a breezy, bittersweet portrait of arrested development, elevated by Greta Gerwig’s luminous, effortlessly charming performance and Noah Baumbach’s crisp direction. Shot in gorgeous black-and-white, the film pays homage to the French New Wave while capturing the messy rhythms of modern adulthood with grace and humor.

It’s slight in scope but rich in emotional texture, blending whimsy and melancholy in a way that feels deeply personal. Beneath its quirky exterior lies a sharp, empathetic exploration of friendship, identity, and the ache of growing up just a little too late.

The Turin Horse is a hypnotic, punishing, and profoundly moving cinematic experience—an anti-narrative meditation on exhaustion, decay, and the quiet end of all things. Béla Tarr’s final film strips life down to its barest components: wind, routine, and silence. Day after day, we watch a father and daughter trudge through the motions of survival as the world slowly, almost imperceptibly, dies around them. There is no score, no dialogue-heavy exposition—only repetition, entropy, and the sound of an unstoppable windstorm howling outside.

Fred Kelemen’s stark black-and-white cinematography is transcendent, turning each long take and slow pan into visual poetry. The commitment to formal rigor borders on spiritual—every moment is both minimal and monumental. What Tarr achieves here is not storytelling in the traditional sense, but something closer to metaphysical cinema. It’s one of the great cinematic statements about existence itself: stripped of comfort, stripped of hope, and yet, somehow, still profoundly human. A devastating masterpiece.

The Burning Train is pure Bollywood spectacle—part disaster epic, part ensemble melodrama, and all heart. With a cast stacked with icons like Dharmendra, Vinod Khanna, Jeetendra, Hema Malini, and Parveen Babi, the film moves with an energy that’s hard to resist, even when it derails into melodrama. The premise is tight and thrilling: a superfast train catches fire on its maiden journey, and chaos, heroism, and emotional reunions ensue.

What elevates the film is its surprisingly effective pacing, grand scale, and R.D. Burman’s pulsating score. The model work may look dated today, but it adds a certain charm. It’s not subtle, but it doesn’t need to be—The Burning Train delivers high-stakes entertainment with sincerity and flair. It remains one of the most ambitious multi-starrers of its time and still holds up as a fun, fiery ride.

Talaash is a moody, meditative blend of noir and the supernatural, anchored by a strong performance from Aamir Khan. Reema Kagti’s direction leans into atmosphere over action, building a city drenched in grief, secrets, and neon-lit sorrow. The film’s handling of trauma and guilt is quietly affecting, even when its final twist leans into territory that may divide viewers.

The ing cast is solid—Rani Mukerji brings tenderness to a wife frozen by grief, and Kareena Kapoor adds mystique and allure in a crucial role. The pacing dips occasionally, and the supernatural thread isn’t always seamlessly integrated, but the emotional core stays strong. The film is less about solving a mystery than it is about confronting inner ghosts—and in that, Talaash mostly succeeds.

Bad and generic

1. Gone Girl
2. Blade Runner
3. Chinatown
4. Blue Velvet
5. 2001: A Space Odyssey
6. Citizen Kane
7. The Godfather
8. Inception
9. The Good, the Bad and the Ugly
10. Lawrence of Arabia

...plus 423 more. View the full list on Letterboxd.

Taken from the TSPDT extended list and doesn’t include Documentaries

1. Under the Skin
2. The Great Beauty
3. Blue Is the Warmest Color
4. Stranger by the Lake
5. Ida
6. Hard to Be a God
7. Inside Llewyn Davis
8. 12 Years a Slave
9. Gravity
10. The Wolf of Wall Street

...plus 90 more. View the full list on Letterboxd.

Movies that I like but are not my favorites

1. The Hunger Games: Mockingjay – Part 2
2. Leo
3. Chupke Chupke
4. Gol Maal
5. Drive
6. Tenet
7. Black Bag
8. Face/Off

   Nicolas Cage “Holy Action Trinity” 

9. The Perks of Being a Wallflower
10. Little Miss Sunshine

...plus 42 more. View the full list on Letterboxd.

• Being James Bond
• Adele One Night Only
• Gangs of Wasseypur - Making Uncut - The Roots of Revenge from Wasseypur
• Side by Side
• The Sound of 007
• Man with a Movie Camera
• The Romantics
• Miss Americana
• Katharine Hepburn: The Great Kate

• Gangs of Wasseypur – Part 2
• Kill Bill: Vol. 2
• The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers
• Back to the Future Part II
• Mission: Impossible – The Final Reckoning
• Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade
• X2
• Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince
• Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban
• Alien: Romulus

...plus 7 more. View the full list on Letterboxd.

An honest attempt to put together the greatest 250 films ever made considering their legacy and influence in every genre and country in an unbiased way. The list isn’t perfect by any means and will be updated frequently to reflect more studies and research put into the films listed here currently so, any suggestions and discussions are welcome.

1. 2001: A Space Odyssey
2. Citizen Kane
3. The Godfather
4. 8½
5. Vertigo
6. Stalker
7. Lawrence of Arabia
8. Blade Runner
9. The Searchers
10. Seven Samurai

...plus 240 more. View the full list on Letterboxd.

All the Resident Evil movies ever as it is quite possibly my favorite movie series of all time.

• Resident Evil
• Resident Evil: Welcome to Raccoon City
• Resident Evil: Apocalypse
• Resident Evil: Extinction
• Resident Evil: Retribution
• Resident Evil: Afterlife
• Resident Evil: The Final Chapter
• Resident Evil: Degeneration
• Resident Evil: Damnation
• Resident Evil: Vendetta

...plus 1 more. View the full list on Letterboxd.