Masters of the Universe Knows Silly Is Not Stupid

Choosing a birthday movie is serious business.  People think birthdays are about cake, candles, and pretending you are not quietly doing math about your age.  Wrong.  A birthday movie sets the tone for the entire new year of your life.  Choose badly and suddenly your next twelve months feel sponsored by regret.  This year, I was torn between Obsession and Masters of the Universe.  On paper, Obsession had the edge.  Nothing says “Happy Birthday” like psychological damage.  Then I thought, maybe horror on a celebratory day was a little too “new year, same emotional collapse.”  On the other side, Masters of the Universe offered swords, glowing eyes and muscles.  So I chose fun.

And honestly?  By the Power of Grayskull, I was right.

As you get older, birthdays become less about the big things and more about the strange memories that somehow become family mythology.  When I was young, birthdays were not about Instagrammable balloon arches designed by people named Madison.  They were about my brother rubbing balloons on his head to create enough static to spell my name on the living room wall.  They were about a pie-in-the-face match in the garage, with all of us wearing garbage bags to protect our clothes, as if our dignity had not already been fully destroyed.  That was pure fun, zero-analysis-needed fun.  Nobody asked what the pie symbolized.  It was pie.  That is exactly the spirit Masters of the Universe understands.

The movie starts smartly, with He-Man in the real world on a date, relaying his own royal destiny.  His date, understandably, thinks he is completely nuts.  Can you blame her?  Imagine ordering calamari and the man across from you starts explaining Eternia, his royal bloodline, and the fact that he is responsible for protecting the universe.  That is not a red flag.  That is a full medieval banner.  It is a clever framing device because it turns exposition into social disaster.  Nevertheless, the scene works because the movie knows the joke without becoming the joke.  Instead of drowning us in a self-important lore dump, it gives us He-Man’s backstory through the awkward comedy of a very abnormal man trying to behave normally.

Nicholas Galitzine is perfect as He-Man.  He has the heroic build, the golden-boy charm, and a slightly clueless sweetness that makes him weirdly irresistible.  He looks like he could save the universe but still need help finding the food court.

Then there is Jared Leto as Skeletor, who understands that subtlety has no business near a man named Skeletor.  He has glowing red eyes.  He looks like darkness got dental work.  He is not here to be misunderstood.  He is bad, he knows he is bad, and he is having a fabulous time being bad.   The movie is also refreshingly clear about good and evil.  He-Man is good.  Skeletor is evil.  The sword is important.  The universe is in danger.  Please keep up.

The movie is not perfect  The story is thin in places and a few scenes feel less like they unfold naturally and more like they are being politely escorted from one action sequence to the next.  However, I would rather watch a movie that knows it is ridiculous than one that mistakes confusion for depth.  That is probably because Travis Knight directs like someone who remembers the power of being a latchkey kid.  The act of coming home, turning on the TV, eating something nutritionally suspicious, and disappearing into a world where a man with a sword somehow made complete emotional sense.  Nobody was optimizing content.  Nobody was asking about engagement.  You watched the magical muscle man and you were grateful.

There is confidence in that.  The movie knows the difference between nostalgia and being held hostage by nostalgia.  It gives you the emotional logic of a Saturday morning cartoon, but it also understands that adults are watching now.  We do not need He-Man to be darker.  We need him to still believe in something.

Is Masters of the Universe deep?  No.  It is not trying to win a debate tournament, and for my birthday, that was exactly what I needed.  I did not need dread.  I did not need a movie that made me stare silently at a wall afterward questioning every choice I have ever made.  I needed a little childhood magic.  Masters of the Universe delivered.  It even sets up a sequel nicely, which should be exciting, except now the bad reviews are circling and I am worried I may never see He-Man again.  After choosing joy over psychological collapse on my birthday, that feels personal.  I did not survive aging, cake math, and emotional decision-making just to lose my blond sword man after one movie.

Growing older is inevitable, kids.  Keeping your sense of wonder, and your sarcasm, is the real power.

Disclosure Day: E.T. Phone Home and Ask for a Refund

The marketing for Steven Spielberg’s Disclosure Day deserves its own review, because it had more plot than the movie.  First came the commercials calling it “Spielberg’s best movie in 20 years,” followed by the “Certified Fresh” rollout and a parade of familiar faces at a screening (Tom Cruise, Dakota Fanning, Colin Farrell) presented as evidence that something important had happened.  It’s a clever PR trick because this movie is awful.  I hate saying that, because Spielberg is Spielberg.  He gave us Jaws, Jurassic Park, E.T, Indiana Jones. He invented the summer blockbuster.  Yet this is not that Spielberg.  This is Spielberg doing an impression of Spielberg after someone described Spielberg to him in a hotel lobby.

Disclosure Day begins in medias res, which is Latin for “we forgot to make the beginning interesting.” We are thrown into the action, although “action” is generous.  Mostly, it is people running around looking like they just found out their iCloud storage is full.  Secret government men chase Prince Charles from The Crown (Josh O’Connor) and Bono’s daughter, Eve Hewson.  Meanwhile, Emily Blunt plays a weather girl who can make clicking sounds with her voice, because apparently that is now a character trait.  The accents do not help.  For a movie obsessed with American secrets, it is oddly packed with British and Irish actors doing American impressions.  At one point I stopped following the conspiracy and started listening for vowel sounds.

Colin Firth plays the villain, because nothing says sinister government cover-up like a man who looks like he should be politely offering you tea.  He has a metal rod that appears to have been stolen from Krypton and uses it to control others.  Meanwhile, O’Connor runs around with video proof that aliens have been abused by the U.S. government, while Hewson spends much of the movie trembling like a human panna cotta.  Then there is Colman Domingo, who spends a suspicious amount of time building a life-size house.  Wallpaper, furniture, the full HGTV alien trauma package.  For a while, I thought maybe this was going somewhere.  Maybe this connected to E.T.  Maybe Spielberg was about to reveal we are all living in Elliott’s abandoned guest room.  I wasn’t that lucky.

You can see what Spielberg is reaching for: Holocaust imagery, the abuse of the powerless, and the fear that the truth is hidden behind locked doors.  The movie gestures toward profundity without ever becoming profound.  Even John Williams’ score feels strangely forgettable.  Notes happen.  Instruments are involved.  Nothing sticks.  Maybe even Williams looked at the footage and thought,  “Steven, my friend, I cannot French horn my way out of this.”  By the end, the alien whispers something clearly aiming for Lost in Translation mystery.  It wants us to believe something enormous has just been said.  Then the movie ends.  Nothing learned.  Nothing solved.  Nothing disclosed.

Spielberg is rich, beloved, and owns Rosebud, for heaven’s sake.  So why make something this undercooked and then send Tom Cruise out to sell it like a revelation?  I appreciate seasoned directors who are still hungry.  Scorsese still has fire.  Ridley Scott, even when he misses, misses while swinging a sword from the back of a horse.  Disclosure Day does not feel hungry.  It feels like Spielberg had a dream about a movie, woke up, wrote down “alien,” “secret,” “house” and nobody around him asked follow-up questions.

While watching it, I kept thinking about something my astronomy professor once said: “If there are intelligent life forms out there, why do they always forget to turn off the lights on their spacecraft when they fly over us?”  Honestly, that would make a better alien movie.

At least it has a point.

The Mandalorian and Grogu - Come for the bounty. Stay for the sleepy pistachio.

I actually enjoyed The Mandalorian and Grogu, which apparently makes me either generous, emotionally attached to Grogu, or part of a very small support group that meets once a week and says things like, “But the little ears were moving.”

Here’s the thing: people need to stop hearing “Star Wars” and expecting Star Wars.  Nothing is going to touch the original trilogy.  That is the holy grail.  That is the thing you cannot recreate, no matter how many planets you blow up or how many emotionally unavailable men you put in capes.  People keep expecting that same magic, that same George Lucas feeling, and that is not happening for one very simple reason.  George Lucas is no longer whispering to the midi-chlorians.  The Force has changed management.

To be fair, I have always found The Mandalorian television series satisfying.  Let’s not sugarcoat it though.  Some episodes move slower than a Hutt after a buffet, and yes, the acting can occasionally feel like someone is reading a menu in space.  However, Pedro Pascal as the Mandalorian and the aggressively adorable Grogu make it work.  Even when the story drags, Grogu blinks twice and suddenly I’m back in.  Maybe that’s why I went into the movie with the right expectations.  I wasn’t looking for my childhood to be restored.   I wasn’t expecting to see the ghost of George Lucas nodding approvingly from the concession stand.  This was a supersized episode of The Mandalorian with a bigger budget, more action and enough Grogu cuteness to legally qualify as emotional manipulation.

The opening was exciting, with the Mandalorian doing full John Wick-in-a-helmet choreography.  We do not always need a council meeting.  Sometimes we just need a man in armour throwing people around while a tiny green baby watches like he’s at daycare.  I also enjoyed the Hutt storyline, especially Rotta the Hutt, who is somehow now a ripped Hutt.  A Hutt with muscle tone.  A Hutt who clearly has a trainer and a meal plan.  Surprisingly, his story had feeling.  Jeremy Allen White’s voice, even altered, brought emotion to the character and helped push the story somewhere a little more interesting.  There was something nice about being reminded that not everyone is exactly what they look like, even if what they look like is a giant slug who could now probably deadlift me.

The movie truly belongs to the relationship between the Mandalorian and Grogu.  Their bond works because it is simple: he protects Grogu, and Grogu protects him.  One is a hardened bounty hunter.  The other looks like a sleepy pistachio with powers.  Together, they make one of the sweetest father-son relationships in modern sci-fi.  There is a moment where Grogu takes care of the Mandalorian, and nothing dramatic happens.  No one stares into the middle distance while explaining the fate of the universe.  There is no speech about destiny.  Just care.  That is when the movie is at its best: quiet, sweet and emotionally effective.  Proof that a tiny green creature can make a fully armoured bounty hunter seem more emotionally available than most people on dating apps.

The Mandalorian and Grogu gives you the feelings, the action, and the cute Grogu scenes we all secretly want more of, even if we pretend we are above it.  Is it on the scale of the original Star Wars?  Absolutely not, but if you love the series, this feels like a fun, heartfelt adventure with two characters people genuinely care about.  In the end, The Mandalorian and Grogu is not trying to reinvent the Star Wars galaxy.  It is trying to give us a bounty hunter, his tiny green son, some action, some affection and a ripped Hutt.

Honestly, that is more than enough.

Michael Moonwalks Around the Mess

I did not walk into Michael as a neutral observer.

I walked in as someone with an “I ❤️ Michael Jackson” ring in her jewellery box.  When I was a kid, my pediatrician gave me that plastic ring, and to this day I treat it like the Crown Jewels of my jewellery box.  Some people inherit diamonds.  I have plastic proof of excellent taste.  During the bleak COVID days, when everyone was baking sourdough and pretending Zoom birthdays were fun, I decided to learn the Thriller dance.  Not the cute 13 Going on 30 version.  The real one.  The shoulder snaps.  The zombie shuffle.  It took me two intense weeks studying the video like the Zapruder film.  Every hand flick.  Every head turn.  Every undead little step had to be just right.  It was ridiculously hard but now I have it in my arsenal.  (If you’ve seen me do it on Halloween, count yourself blessed.)  So yes, I went into Michael with affection.  Not blind worship, but affection.  I know the songs.  I know the moves and that is exactly what this movie is banking on.

The film follows Michael Jackson from the Jackson 5 years through his rise to global superstardom.  The strongest part, by far, is Jaafar Jackson as Michael.  He is excellent.  His performance is so precise it borders on eerie.  At times it feels less like acting and more like a very expensive séance.  Colman Domingo is chilling as Joe Jackson, playing him with a cold menace that makes every rehearsal feel like a hostage situation.  Nia Long, unfortunately, has less to work with as Katherine Jackson.  Onscreen, her character has the energy of someone watching a house burn down and offering everyone inside ice cream.  Then there is Bubbles.  I was shocked to learn Bubbles is still alive and living in a sanctuary.  Who would have guessed the chimp would get the peaceful retirement?  History is weird that way.  But while Jaafar is giving a full performance, the movie around him is telling a partial truth.

Michael is not really interested in wrestling with Michael Jackson.  It is interested in restoring him.  The movie wants the genius and the trauma but it does not want to get its white socks dirty.  Director Antoine Fuqua plants little shadows: the pain medication, the isolation, the obsession with lost childhood.  However, the movie points toward darkness and then immediately changes the lighting.  That is the problem.  A great biopic should not just polish the statue.  It should chip at it.  Walk the Line did not pretend Johnny Cash was just a handsome man with a guitar.  It showed the drugs, the womanizing, the wreckage.  That is what made him human.  Here, Michael is treated as wounded and brilliant but rarely responsible.  It feels less like a biography and more like a closing argument set to a greatest-hits album.

Still, the movie does one thing very well: it reminds you of his scale.  Michael Jackson was not just famous.  He was gravitational.  He made movement look supernatural.   As I write this, I’m listening to his music, which is probably the movie’s greatest achievement: it sends you straight back to the songs.  No offence to Tate McRae, Sabrina Carpenter or whatever current pop star is being marketed as a generational earthquake because they can whisper over a synth, but nobody touches Michael at his peak.  That is why Michael is enjoyable, but enjoyable is not the same as honest.  It is a good night at the movies, but not a brave one.  This is the kind of movie that makes you forgive it while you’re watching and then side-eye it in the parking lot.  Leaving the theatre, an usher told me he had seen it eight times.  I understood.  The movie is designed for that.  It gives fans like me the magic and keeps the mess at a polite distance, like an embarrassing classmate at a high school reunion.  So yes, Michael works.  But it works the way a great tribute concert works, not the way a great biopic should.  It gives you the glove.  It gives you the genius.  It gives you the chills.  But when it comes time to really look at the man in the mirror, the movie lowers its eyes.

Mortal Kombat II: Press Start to Regret

Sunday afternoon.  The Blue Jays are beating the Tigers and somehow I’m not watching that.  Instead, I’m in a movie theatre as the credits roll on Mortal Kombat II, the iconic theme music blasting like it’s trying to personally revive the 90s.  The weirdest part?  I’m smiling.  Not because the movie was good.  I’m smiling the way you smile after surviving a minor electrical fire.  Confused, relieved and definitely a little dumber.

Flash back two days.  I’m asking a friend if he’s seen anything new and he says, “Mortal Kombat II was okay.” I say, “Really? The trailer looked rough.”  Then he hits me with the most dangerous sentence in modern cinema: “It’s actually better than the trailer.”  Sold.  I didn’t just buy a ticket.  I bought an IMAX ticket, because apparently “better than the trailer” is all it takes for me to upgrade a bad decision.  I remembered the original 1995 Mortal Kombat.  Pete Sampras’ wife, techno music and rubbery effects which still haunt the video-game-movie era like a cursed power-up.  What I did not realize was that this wasn’t a sequel to the 90s movie.  It was a sequel to the 2021 Mortal Kombat, a film I had completely forgotten existed, which, in hindsight, may have been my brain protecting me.

To be fair, the movie has one good thing, Johnny Cage.  His introduction is fun.  He’s at a Comic-Con-style booth promoting old action films, radiating pure 90s VHS-bin vibe.  Karl Urban plays him with a clenched Clint Eastwood growl and the energy of a man who has definitely signed headshots at a mall in 1998.  For about ten minutes I thought…this could work.  Then the movie kept going.

Mortal Kombat II doesn’t unfold so much as stagger forward.  Characters appear.  Realms are mentioned.  Portals open.  The dialogue sounds like it was assembled from rejected superhero speeches and fridge magnets.  At one point, Kitana gives an “I renounce…” speech and I nearly whispered,  “Wonder Woman already returned that in WW84.”  The action is cheap.  Not charming-cheap.  Not cult-classic cheap.  Just cheap-cheap.  The sets look like they were filmed in front of the medieval castle at Canada’s Wonderland.  I kept expecting a teenager in a Wonderland polo shirt to wander through and say, “Just so you know, Splash Works closes at six.”  I was happy to see Lewis Tan, Mehcad Brooks and Hiroyuki Sanada, but their scenes felt chopped up and weightless.  Especially Sanada, who appears to have been rendered through fog, lightning and obligation.

The most interesting part of the experience wasn’t on screen.  It was two guys in the audience.  These men were reacting like they were witnessing the Sistine Chapel of uppercuts.  Every bad line was Shakespearean.  Every flying kick landed.  I respect joy wherever people can find it but I couldn’t find the source.  This movie is dumb.  Dumb with reclining seats and a surcharge.  I walked out feeling like the movie had performed a fatality on my attention span.  My brain wasn’t damaged exactly but it did leave the theatre buffering

It’s May, when Hollywood is supposed to remind us why theaters still matter.  Instead, I keep watching cinematic landfill with assigned seating.  Maybe that’s why I was smiling during the credits.  By the time the theme music hit, I had accepted the absurdity.  Somewhere in the real world the Blue Jays were beating the Tigers.  In my world, I had paid extra to watch cinema lose a round to itself.  That’s not entertainment.  That’s a cry for help with popcorn.

Mortal Kombat II is bad dialogue, discount castle lighting and one brutal realization: sometimes the trailer isn’t the warning.  Sometimes it’s the mercy.

The Devil Wore Boredom

I love fashion.  I grew up reading Marie Claire back when fashion magazines felt like magic portals.  I still remember Stella Tennant with that boyish haircut, looking impossibly ethereal in a green Versace dress.  That image lives in my brain beside my SIN number and every humiliating thing I’ve ever said.  So yes, I understand the fantasy.

In 2013, I found myself at a party at Cosmopolitan’s headquarters near the editor-in-chief and Chrissy Teigen. Glamorous on paper.  In reality?  Terminally dull.  By the end of the night the coat-check guy left the strongest impression.  He took my picture and delivered more warmth, charm and humanity than half the room…and he was guarding parkas.  Maybe that’s the problem with The Devil Wears Prada universe.  Fashion dazzles on the page.  On screen, it becomes rich people in expensive clothes complaining in elevators.

To prepare for the sequel I rewatched the 2006 original.  It’s fine.  A serviceable rom-com from the same cultural cupboard as Failure to Launch.  Cute enough.  Disposable enough.  The kind of movie we enjoyed once and then gaslit ourselves into calling iconic.  Anne Hathaway is sweet.  Emily Blunt is sharp.  Meryl Streep whispers insults like she’s removing your organs with tweezers.  The emotional depth?  Somewhere between a perfume sample and a Holt Renfrew receipt.  Still, I was ready.  Two hours before the sequel I ordered from the secret Devil Wears Prada 2 Starbucks menu.  Andy’s Oatmilk Cappuccino tasted faintly like someone judging your résumé.  I walked into the theatre ready for glamour, reinvention and at least one purse worthy of committing fraud for.

Almost immediately I realized the sequel is not better than the first.  It is not worse.  It is the first movie reheated in a JennAir microwave.  Everyone is back and somehow no one has evolved, except possibly the lighting.  Anne Hathaway tries to play Andy as both a grown woman and the same confused intern from 2006.  Miranda still enters rooms and says something cruel, which in 2006 made her a “legend”  In 2026, it makes her an HR incident in couture.  Then there’s Stanley Tucci.  What happened?  He used to sparkle.  Now every line lands with the smug weight of a man who discovered olive oil and won’t shut up about it.  I wanted to throw my Tom Ford glasses at the screen and yell, “Snap out of it Tucci.”  While the fashion?  For a movie about clothes, too many outfits looked assembled during a blackout.  One look gave Superman II Ursa vibes after a Winners clearance-rack incident.  I wanted something that made me open a magazine and become a better person with worse credit.  Instead, I got fabric-based confusion.

The movie tries to make a point that magazines are dying, digital is winning, journalism is collapsing, blah blah cerulean.  However, pointing at a dying industry is not a plot.  The whole time, I kept asking why does this exist?  Meryl Streep said she made this movie because “it was worth doing.”  Okay.  Worth doing what?  Proving everyone can still wear sunglasses indoors?  Reminding us mean people with good coats are still just mean people?  Giving nostalgia a blowout and hoping we wouldn’t notice it had no personality?  That’s the flaw.  The sequel thinks bringing back the faces, heels, insults and the Runway is enough.  It isn’t.  Nostalgia without spark is just a mannequin wearing your memories.  So no, The Devil Wears Prada 2 is not a disaster.  It is worse.  It is okay, and okay in fashion is fatal.  The devil didn’t wear Prada this time.  The devil wore boredom and somehow, it still needed tailoring.

Good Mummy, Bad Title

Lee Cronin’s The Mummy confirms what I’ve suspected since COVID: something in me has developed a need for horror.  What was in that vaccine anyway?  Pfizer with a splash of Fangoria and one cursed VHS tape?  Whatever it was it rewired me into someone who willingly seeks out cinematic trauma.  (Although walking downtown these days provides the same feeling, with fewer concessions.)  Does it reinvent the sarcophagus?  Absolutely not.  This is The Exorcist with a little The Fury and a dusting of Burnt Offerings tossed out a window and wrapped in gauze.  Nothing here is new but it is assembled with enough confidence that you stop caring.  In horror, you don’t always need to reinvent the wheel.  Sometimes you just need an old one rolling slowly toward you down a dark hallway.

The cast is one of the movie’s best assets.  Everyone has that perfect “I know you from something but I’m not emotionally stable enough to Google it right now” quality.  They feel familiar enough to trust but not so famous that you stop believing in the curse and start thinking about their IMDb page.  The acting is natural and frankly better than a movie with this much toenail trauma has any right to be.  Make no mistake, this thing is gory.  The gore is not just splattered around; it has texture, deformities, brittle nails, chattering teeth.  I don’t know who weaponized dental anxiety, but credit where it’s due.

My personal test for a horror movie is simple.  Does it follow me out of the theater?  This one did.  The automatic Febreze sprayer in the restroom hissed and I nearly met my ancestors.  Two people ahead of me on the escalator seemed to be speaking in an ancient tongue, though it may have just been condo owners discussing high maintenance fees.  Either way, I was rattled.  A movie that makes an air freshener feel like a supernatural threat has earned my respect.  The ending works too.  Stylish, eerie and smart enough not to explain itself into a coma.

My biggest issue with this film is the title: Lee Cronin’s The Mummy.  Who is Lee Cronin to be putting his name in front of The Mummy like he dug it up personally?  Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein makes sense.  Bram Stoker’s Dracula makes sense.  Dr. Seuss’ How the Grinch Stole Christmas makes sense.  Lee Cronin?  You are not Alfred Hitchcock or John Carpenter.  You are not even at the “guy whose name I mispronounce at a horror convention” level yet.  Get a few more classics under your belt before embossing your name on the tomb.  Still, I had a good time.  This probably won’t be dug up in 20 years as a lost horror masterpiece but it is an entertaining cursed movie that will almost certainly ruin at least one REM cycle tonight.  It belongs exactly where it will someday end up: on AMC FearFest, wedged between The Omen and Halloween 4, terrifying someone folding laundry at 1:13 a.m.

Honestly?  That’s not a bad afterlife.

Hail Mary Is A Space Epic With No Atmosphere

Hail Mary is proof that just because a movie is “Certified Fresh” doesn’t mean it isn’t rotten at the core.  I’ve written a lot of brutal reviews lately because, frankly, the movies have earned them, but I really hoped this one might break the streak.  A 95% score promised something smart, thrilling, maybe even transporting.  Instead, Hail Mary is spectacularly stupid.

Ryan Gosling plays Ryland Grace, a genius middle-school teacher who somehow becomes humanity’s last hope when Earth is facing a catastrophic freeze.  Apparently, when the planet is dying, the world’s greatest minds look around and decide the answer is not a top astronaut or a hardened survival expert, but a schoolteacher in a flattering sweater.  The premise is ridiculous before the rocket even leaves the ground, and once it does, the movie somehow finds new ways to get dumber.

Gosling, who was terrific in Barbie, feels completely wrong here.  I miss the Gosling of Lars and the Real Girl or The Notebook: awkward, specific, human.  Here, he looks less like a man under unimaginable pressure and more like someone who got lost on the way to a luxury skincare campaign.  He’s drifting through deep space during a civilization-ending emergency, yet his hair stays lush, his skin is camera-ready, his body stays gym-toned and his collection of fitted T-shirts remains weirdly enviable.  Apparently, interstellar radiation now works like a Sephora loyalty program.

Then the movie drops in its alien, a rock-spider creature that oscillates between vaguely cute and mostly baffling.  The film asks us to believe that Grace can not only communicate with this thing, but team up with it to solve a galactic crisis.  On the page, perhaps, this plays as inventive.  On screen, it is ludicrous.  The plot trudges through endless science babble, sprinkled with emotional beats that land with the grace of a space shuttle missing its runway.  You would think the two directors could locate a single pulse beneath all this.  They do not.  Hail Mary is bloated, implausible, and lifeless.  Certified Fresh?  Please.  Certified Nonsense.

The Bride!: Gorgeous to Look At, Dead on Arrival

Watching The Bride! felt like crashing a costume party where no one explains the theme but everyone is deeply smug that it’s “obvious.”

The opening scene gives us the ghost of Mary Shelley bathed in dramatic lighting reciting… something.  Is it profound?  Is it gibberish?  Hard to say but it certainly sounded important. Then we smash-cut to a 1930’s nightclub where Jessie Buckley’s character Ida (who eventually becomes The Bride,) starts glitching between British aristocrat and Chicago dame like she downloaded two characters and neither installed properly.  It’s incredible to watch.  Not because it makes sense but because Buckley commits completely.  I genuinely thought there might be some medical explanation: brain tumor, split personality? Nope.

Then Ida dies and gets resurrected because Frankenstein’s monster (“Frankie” apparently,) is lonely and needs a girlfriend.  Not just any girlfriend of course.  Specifically a resurrected one.  When the Bride finally rises I have to admit she looks incredible.  The hair, the dye smeared across her face, the black dripping from her ears, the fingers that look like she’s been finger-painting with radioactive material.  It’s bizarre and gorgeous all at once.  The film’s visual imagination is never the problem.  The plot, on the other hand, seems to be off in another room having a nervous breakdown.

Explanations? None.  Why is Jake Gyllenhaal channeling Fred Astaire with the intensity of someone in a fugue state?  Why are the monsters spending half the movie drifting from movie theater to movie theater like film students?  What’s with the sudden Me Too/The Joker uprising, followed by an unexpected pivot into Bonnie and Clyde cosplay?  By this point my brain had packed a small suitcase and quietly left the theater.  The film looks outrageously expensive and Jessie Buckley deserves an award for Most Committed to Total Narrative Disorder.  The story, meanwhile, deserves to be studied as a hate crime against coherence.  The real monster in The Bride! isn’t the mad scientist or the creation.

It’s the script.

Is This Thing On? Unfortunately, Yes

Is This Thing On? is the cinematic equivalent of assembling IKEA furniture without the instructions while fully convinced you do not need an Allen wrench.  What possessed Bradley Cooper to think the world needed more of him behind the camera is beyond me.  The film’s biggest problem is that it has no idea what it wants to be.  It is a hodgepodge of The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel, Marriage Story and The Four Seasons, with an About a Boy-style ending tacked on.  One minute it wants to be tender and observant, the next it wants to be funny.  Spoiler: almost none of it works.  Will Arnett is the best thing in the film as Alex Novak, a soon-to-be-divorced guy who stumbles into stand-up after bluffing his way past a $15 cover charge.  He plays both sadness and comedy with real skill.  He is so good, in fact, that he almost tricks you into thinking this shapeless story is worth sticking with.  Laura Dern also does solid work as Tess Novak, although the script gives her little consistency to work with.  Tess flip-flops from grounded and thoughtful to a walking mood swing.  Meanwhile, Bradley Cooper is awful as “Balls,” which somehow is still not the most embarrassing part of his performance.  Amy Sedaris and Sean Hayes are also technically in this film, though you would be forgiven for missing them since they are given absolutely nothing to do.  The cast is talented but talent alone cannot rescue a movie with no clear story, no emotional payoff and no real sense of what it is trying to say.  What makes it all the more frustrating is that the film carries itself with the smug confidence of something profound, while the stand-up scenes are uniformly terrible.  In a movie that hinges on a character’s comic awakening, the comedy is not witty, not revealing, and not even awkward in an interesting way.  I watched Is This Thing On? after an acquaintance highly recommended it.  He also talks about the Fox Theatre like it’s the Palais Garnier, so needless to say, that friendship is now under review.

Dracula: A Love Tale Offers Piercing Potential But Ends In A Dull Nibble

Dracula: A Love Tale attempts to sink its fangs into the age-old vampire legend by providing a romantic twist.  Directed by Luc Besson, the film begins with promise with Caleb Landry Jones delivering a fierce performance as Vlad.  The backstory: Vlad’s devotion to his wife, the devastation of war and a man driven by a love so obsessive even Nosferatu might say "Dude, chill."  Then there’s Matilda De Angelis as Maria, a patient in the insane asylum who is equal parts unsettling and strangely endearing.  It is at this exact point that the film shifts from a auspicious exploration of all-consuming love into an uneven mess.  Cue a ridiculous perfume montage, a hot chocolate obsession, and Christoph Waltz who is all to keen on displaying the same stale acting prowess that made him a star.  By the time Vlad fully transitions into Dracula I felt as if I have been thrust back into Coppola’s Bram Stoker’s Dracula, with its flair for overacting and wobbly accents.  I must admit I feel the tragedy.  Luc Besson once delivered electrifying cinema with La Femme Nikita and Léon: The Professional, and now he’s resigned to directing movies with poorly CGI’d gargoyles fighting in Dracula’s castle.  One can’t help but wonder whether Besson can ever reach those creative peaks again.  Although Dracula: A Love Tale delivers anemotionally driven opening it quickly loses focus and quite plainly…sucks.

Cold Storage Drips With Extraterrestrial Slime And Retro Flair

I was initially drawn to Cold Storage because it shared the same title as a short story I’d written awhile back, a masterpiece if I may say so.  Sadly, Hollywood didn’t call to adapt it.  Their loss, but hey at least they still made a movie with the same name.  Picture Tremors from the 90’s, sprinkle in some alien goo, add a dash of government incompetence and voilà Cold Storage. The film stars Joe Keery as Teacake, a lovable ex-con trying to leave his past behind and Georgina Campbell a determined veterinary student with a knack for uncovering parasitic organisms.  Their chemistry is surprisingly delightful as they bicker, bond and dodge deadly space goo together.  Liam Neeson takes on the role as obligatory muscle with Leslie Manville as his action packed partner.  Moreover, I would be remiss to not mention Vanessa Redgrave’s cameo as the smart octogenarian with a gun.  In turn, reminding us all that age is just a number unless you’re counting parasite victims.  Cold Storage opens with a shocking desert scene evocative of Scream and shifts to a high-security underground facility where the alien parasite has been accurately chilling.  While the film excels in pacing and character chemistry, I found myself wishing for a deeper exploration of the parasite’s backstory.  Understanding its evolution, potential intelligence and sinister motives could have intensified the stakes and transformed a green blob into an existential nightmare.  All in all, Cold Storage is a humble homage to creature features but with better special effects and fewer mullets.

The Housemaid scrubs, sweeps and kills at the box office

Going into The Housemaid my excitement level was between "mild curiosity" and “what do I have to lose?"  Sydney Sweeney hasn’t exactly wowed me in her past roles but with the cinematic landscape quite sparse I was feeling slightly underwhelmed.  Two hours later I emerged from the theater buzzing.  The Housemaid is a 90’s style thriller that utilizes utter chaos perfectly.   Amanda Seyfried, as Nina Winchester, is absolute dynamite.  She plays a character so bubbly and unhinged it’s like watching a champagne bottle with the cork barely hanging on.  Sydney Sweeney’s performance, on the other hand, can be summed in three words:  Oh, sweet vindication!  Turns out all Sweeney needed was the right role.  Watching her character Millie try to rebuild her life was messy and compelling which kept the pacing of the film on point.  This film boasts a major A Simple Favor vibe with its gloss, mystery and dark humour.  Nevertheless, what stole the show for me was the Gone Girl twist that I did not see coming.  As the two female leads take turns narrating their alternating perspectives, the film really cranks up the tension.  The real kicker involves Sweeney, a knife and a moment that had the entire theatre leaning forward.  That final image was both empowering and a complete crowd pleaser especially in an audience that leaned heavily toward the female persuasion.  This Equalizer-style finale had me saying “sequel please” even before the credits began to roll.  I was so captivated that I practically sprinted to Indigo to buy the book.  The Housemaid isn’t just a movie; it’s a series of twists and turns that will stick with you for days to come.  Consider me thoroughly entertained.  I’m still not convinced Sydney Sweeney is a great actress but for once, I can see the argument.

Anaconda slithers in with laughs but leaves with a Boar

Next up on my holiday cinematic buffet: Anaconda. Wait, I’m not referring to to the the ‘90s version with its rubber snakes and accents that could make a GPS recalibrate.  No, this time we’ve got Paul Rudd (not aging as per usual,) playing a down on his luck actor rallying his equally despondent friends—Jack Black, Thandiwe Newton, and Steve Zahn—to reboot the “greatest” action movie ever.  This satire on Hollywood’s reboot obsession is sharp at first but somewhere along the jungle trail gets confusing and eventually becomes downright disappointing.  There are golden nuggets amidst the coils however.  The boar-on-the-head scene?  Perfection!  Jack Black portraying the human embodiment of an exclamation mark.  Brilliant!  Add in the surprise cameos from Ice Cube and J.Lo and for a moment I thought this might actually work but that feeling did not last.  In the end, Anaconda felt like a joke that started strong and ended with an embarrassing shrug.  The kind that makes you question why boars aren't used more often in cinema.  Although Anaconda had the setup just right to roast reboot culture, somewhere along the vine they lost their nerve.  Consequently, my holiday viewing wasn’t about chasing Oscar-worthy masterpieces. It was about questionable plot lines, surprise cameos and the simple joy of munching on cinema snacks…and that’s the true holiday spirit.

Hold your sea snails: The SpongeBob Movie is pure Bikini Bottom bonkers

The holidays: a time for questionable sweaters, overambitious baking projects and cinematic escapes.  Enter The SpongeBob Movie: The Search for SquarePants, a title as absurd as the plot.  My journey began not in a theater but at Burger King, where a SpongeBob-themed meal (complete with square neon yellow bread and a pineapple drink that may or may not have opened a wormhole) sealed my fate.  The film itself?  A delightful fever dream wrapped in seaweed and sprinkled with the chaotic whimsy that only Bikini Bottom can deliver.  SpongeBob, of course, was his usual optimistic porous self.  A sponge with a belief in the goodness of the universe which is both inspiring and mildly concerning. The jokes were cute and quite clever including a nod to Davy Jones’ locker that had me chuckling harder than I’d like to admit.  However, the real virtuoso of this film was Mark Hamill as The Flying Dutchman.  Hamill cackled with a gusto that could make Darth Vader reconsider his life choices.  His performance was so good I half-expected him to demand Luke Skywalker’s hand as payment.  Finally, let’s talk about that beachside roller coaster scene.  Sadly, it looked like it was storyboarded on the back of a napkin.  Charming for a 20-minute television episode but visually disappointing when projected on a big screen.  Nevertheless, this movie was like visiting an old friend who hasn’t changed a bit: fun, warmhearted and exactly what you need sometimes.

My Apple Watch Registered More Action Than This Film

In the remake of The Running Man, we’re treated to a darker more socially reflective dystopia.  However, director Edgar Wright seems to have misplaced a critical component: Fun.

Glen Powell, typically cool and likable, struggles in the lead role of Ben Richards.  His performance veers into over-the-top territory without the magnetism to anchor it as he oscillates between angry and confused throughout the 2hr 13m run time.  Then there’s his physique, which isn’t just ripped—it’s aggressively ripped.  I half-expected his abdominal muscles to have their own subplot.  Ironically, his hyper-chiseled physique, clearly a nod to Arnold Schwarzenegger’s Mr. Olympia days, feels more like a distracting caricature than a homage.  Schwarzenegger at the height of his action hero stardom had an alluring, if not wacky, screen presence that could make even the most absurd scenarios captivating.  It’s as if this film tried too hard to replicate Arnold’s iconic presence while missing what truly set Arnold apart.

As the film tries to get deep (real deep,) busily reflecting on society’s downfall it forgets the golden rule of dystopian action flicks: Ridiculous pleasure!  Where are the over-the-top action sequences?  The outrageous stunts?  The moments that make you say, "This is so dumb... but I love it"?  Instead our remade Ben Richards runs and hides.  Then he runs some more: kinda like Orwellian parkour with none of the cool flips.  Add in a Home Alone-esque scene and I could feel my disappointment awaken.  On the bright side Coleman Domingo shows up as reliable as ever probably wondering how he ended up in this bleak treadmill of a movie.  Nevertheless, his gravitas can’t match Richard Dawson’s portrayal as the game show host in the 1987 original which exuded the perfect mix of sinister appeal and unadulterated humour.

In the end, The Running Man feels like a well-constructed machine missing a vital cog.  It’s hard to pinpoint exactly what’s absent but it boils down to an intangible essence.  Perhaps it’s best described as a gleeful energy, a vitality that made the ’80s sci-fi genre so enjoyable to begin with.  Without it this remake feels like a melancholy jog.  Yes The Running Man runs, but without the fun what’s it running to?

Fasten You Funny Bone For The Naked Gun Reboot

Strap on your metaphorical seatbelts (or literal ones if you’re reading this in a moving vehicle) because Seth MacFarlane is steering this movie straight into Airplane territory—and Liam Neeson is in the driver’s seat not laughing. That’s right, Liam "I will find you" Neeson keeps a straight face while a barrage of gags explode around him. Pamela Anderson as the love interest? Check. Danny Huston as a wicked villain? Double check. The plot—wait, does it even matter? There’s enough P.L.O.T. to keep you entertained. However, here’s the tragedy: it’s only 1 hour and 25 minutes long! That’s barely enough time for me to finish my popcorn, nachos with cheese and Reese Peanut Butter cups (yes I have a healthy appetite.) Give me 15 more minutes! I need more nonsense and maybe one extra snowman love montage. Oh, and don’t you dare leave when the credits roll because they are delightfully bizarre. Plus, there’s a heartwarming tribute to Leslie Nielsen which made me smile and almost cry…but mostly smile. In conclusion: watch it, laugh until your face hurts and think twice about making a snowman this winter.

Nobody 2: More Punches, Less Patience

If Nobody left you craving more fists, fury, and fatherly charm, Nobody 2 delivers with the subtlety of a sledgehammer in a china shop. Bob Odenkirk once again dons his not-so-average dad persona, proving that John Wick might have the style, but Hutch Mansell has scrappy appeal. The sequel wastes no time literally starting mid-punch. The action is relentless, swift, and absurdly more satisfying than the original. Speaking of absurd, the vacation subplot? A delightful detour. Watching the family venture to Plummerville—reminded me of family road trips to Myrtle Beach and passing countless signs for South of the Border. (Yes, it still exists. Yes, it’s been renovated and yes, I digress.) Plummerville on the other hand looks more CNE than Canada’s Wonderland, but it fits. This isn’t a movie about glossy perfection. It’s about messy chaos wrapped in explosive action sequences. Performance-wise, Sharon Stone channels her inner Sam Rockwell while John Ortiz shows off his versatility once again. Sure, a smidge more substance would’ve been nice, but let's be real: you’re not here for existential musings. You’re here to watch Bob Odenkirk wreak havoc. Nobody 2 is a vacation from reality—cheap aesthetic and all—and I’d book a return trip any day.

I Know What You Did Last Summer Is A Nostalgic Splash with Modern Waves

Visually this film is a love letter to the 90’s: moody lighting, preppy polos and girls who look like actual people rather than walking coat hangers draped in athleisure 24/7. Madelyn Cline and Chase Sui Wonders lead the charge with over the top performances that shockingly anchor the film. The casting overall is a refreshing cocktail of talent that oozes coolness but never quite reaches the iconic chill factor of Ryan Phillippe and Sarah Michelle Gellar. The big surprise MVPs? Jennifer Love Hewitt and Freddie Prinze Jr., returning not just as Easter eggs but as pivotal players who bridge the past and present with a wink and a shiver. Of course, not everything is smooth sailing. Some plot holes are large enough to drive a fishing boat through—like the cryptic church subplot that seems to have been lifted from a different movie. Moreover, Gabbriette as the annoying podcaster is so terrible that I was actually cheering her swift exit. Despite its flaws, this latest iteration has energy while balancing reverence for its roots. It’s a fun ride—one you’ll enjoy, even if you can’t remember exactly what they did last summer.

Brad Pitt Revs Up Hollywood in this Must-See Summer Spectacle

F1: The Movie is the summer’s cinematic crown jewel, proving that you don’t need capes, clichés, or CGI to dazzle audiences. The real star of the show? Brad Pitt, whose magnetic presence is so captivating it could stick to a fridge. His performance is a hybrid of McQueen’s cool and Redford’s charm, yet unmistakably Pitt. With a killer wardrobe and a swagger that would make a peacock jealous, every scene commands your attention because of one man. The redemption-themed narrative is a fun ride, reminiscent of Top Gun and Days of Thunder, with just the right amount of heart. Nevertheless, what truly sets F1 The Movie apart is its ability to convert even the most clueless viewer into a die-hard enthusiast. The adrenaline-pumping racing sequences and hypnotic soundtrack had me suddenly fluent in Verstappen and Hamilton. Is it simply an F1 commercial? Maybe, but no more than Top Gun was an advertisement for the Navy. The magic is in its universal appeal. It’s Brad Pitt’s commanding performance that makes this movie a must-see, proving that real stars still shine bright and a well-told story with style is always a winner.