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TIFF25: Tyler's Time at the Festival September 20, 2025 By: Tyler Banark The most wonderful time of the year has come and gone with the 50th edition of the Toronto International Film Festival. What TIFF and the city of Toronto never fail to do is be welcoming. It’s the time of year when the city comes to life, welcoming film lovers like myself from around the world to see some of the biggest upcoming releases. I’ve always found it wonderful that TIFF offers a variety of movies, both good and bad. Regardless, the various trips to the theatres of King Street provided for some memorable adventures. Without further ado, here’s a look back at what I saw at TIFF50! Richard Linklater’s Blue Moon opened the first day, with Ethan Hawke delivering one of the year’s standout performances as lyricist Lorenz Hart navigating his fractured partnership with Richard Rodgers. Hawke’s flamboyant yet restrained turn anchors this brisk, 100-minute chamber piece, with Linklater keeping the pacing tight enough to avoid the lulls typical in similar films. The rest of the day was devoted to Cannes catch-ups: Sirāt , The Secret Agent , and Palme d’Or winner It Was Just an Accident . Sirāt emerged as the best foreign entry of the festival, cleverly twisting the road-trip formula with a shocking second half. It Was Just an Accident is impressively portrayed as a dark comedy with an unexpected bite. The weakest of the trio, The Secret Agent , still offered value by showcasing Wagner Moura’s growing stature as one of Latin America’s most compelling rising talents. Day two featured Oliver Assayas’ The Wizard of the Kremlin , a political thriller that traces Vladimir Putin’s 15-year rise through the eyes of an associate, played by Paul Dano. Despite its ambition, the film lacks the intrigue of stronger political dramas, and the unconvincing Russian accents from Dano and Jude Law don’t help. Park Chan-Wook followed with No Other Choice , a biting satire about an unemployed man plotting revenge on his job rivals. Dark, shocking, and hilarious, it sparked endless debate and was a strong contender (and eventual winner) for the inaugural TIFF International People’s Choice Award. Closing the day was Paul Greengrass’ The Lost Bus , starring Matthew McConaughey and America Ferrera. Based on the 2018 Paradise wildfires, it delivered an emotional, crowd-pleasing finale that earned thunderous applause. While weakened by clunky dialogue and uneven writing, its powerful climax and heartfelt performances kept it engaging. The weekend brought a mix of highs and lows at the festival. David Mackenzie’s Fuze , Mark Jenkin’s Rose of Nevada , and Romain Gavras’ Sacrifice ranked among the weakest. Fuze squandered a strong premise and cast on thin writing and a pointless ending. Rose of Nevada , a sluggish drama with a failed mystery thread, disappointed despite George MacKay’s billing—he didn’t even appear at my screening, though Callum Turner and Jenkin did. Sacrifice strained to be a biting satire but only came off as a hollow imitation of 2022’s The Menu . In the middle sat David Michôd’s Christy , buoyed solely by Sydney Sweeney’s committed turn. Gus Van Sant’s Dead Man’s Wire fared better, a gripping crime thriller powered by Bill Skarsgård’s continued momentum and Dacre Montgomery’s sharp presence. Fortunately, the festival’s best stood out among these: Maude Apatow’s assured directorial debut in the comedy Poetic License , and David Freyne’s fantastical romantic dramedy Eternity . Chloé Zhao’s Hamnet proved a gut-punch of a drama. For most of its runtime, it’s a meditative, steady work, but the final 15 minutes, paired with Max Richter’s haunting “On the Nature of Daylight,” elevate it into something unforgettable. Rarely have I heard so many sniffles at a 9 a.m. screening—it’s an experience I’ll carry into my next watch of it. Next came Peter Ho-Sun Chan’s She Has No Name . Like last year’s Harbin , I sought it out for its intriguing synopsis, but it ultimately left little impression despite its potential. I closed the day with Dwayne Johnson, first at his In Conversation With… panel, then with the North American premiere of The Smashing Machine . The film marks a bold pivot for Johnson, an attempt to move beyond his The Rock persona. While his performance shows promise, the script’s uneven writing keeps it from fully landing. My final day at TIFF was a Netflix marathon with Wake Up Dead Man: A Knives Out Mystery , Frankenstein , and Ballad of a Small Player . Rian Johnson’s third Benoit Blanc outing remains enjoyable, though it lacks the sharpness of Knives Out and Glass Onion . Guillermo del Toro’s Frankenstein stood out as a faithful, fascinating retelling of Mary Shelley’s novel. Oscar Isaac brings gravitas as the scientist, but Jacob Elordi steals the film with one of the year’s finest performances as the creature. While Del Toro’s artistry is undeniable, his films remain hit-or-miss for me personally. Unfortunately, the festival ended on a sour note with Edward Berger’s Ballad of a Small Player . Despite Colin Farrell and Tilda Swinton being attached, the film’s bombastic style and grating score made it feel like a chaotic blend of Uncut Gems and Casino —a frustrating finale to an otherwise memorable TIFF. At the end of the day, it won’t matter how I ended things because TIFF always makes for a wonderful time, regardless of the quality of certain movies. This year was a buffet as the 20 movies I saw in six days ranged from everything and came from everywhere. The people of TIFF know how to cater to everyone, although I wish I had found a Midnight Madness screening to attend, as those are usually a highlight. That being said, happy 50 years to Cameron Bailey and company! Here’s to 50 more!! FULL RANKING 1. Eternity (4.5/5) 2. Poetic License (4.5/5) 3. Hamnet (4.5/5) 4. Sirāt (4/5) 5. Blue Moon (4/5) 6. Frankenstein (4/5) 7. No Other Choice (4/5) 8. Dead Man's Wire (3.5/5) 9. The Smashing Machine (3.5/5) 10. It Was Just an Accident (3.5/5) 11. Wake Up Dead Man: A Knives Out Mystery (3.5/5) 12. The Lost Bus (3.5/5) 13. Christy (3/5) 14. The Wizard of the Kremlin (2.5/5) 15. The Secret Agent (2.5/5) 16. Fuze (2/5) 17. She Has No Name (2/5) 18. Sacrifice (2/5) 19. Rose of Nevada (1.5/5) 20. Ballad of a Small Player (1/5) More Reviews Blue Moon October 13, 2025 By: Hunter Friesen Good Fortune October 12, 2025 By: Hunter Friesen Tron: Ares October 8, 2025 By: Hunter Friesen After the Hunt October 7, 2025 By: Hunter Friesen Hunter Friesen

Ranking the Films of Stanley Kubrick July 26, 2025 By: Tyler Banark Today marks Stanley Kubrick’s 97th birthday, and I recently finished his filmography. Over his career, he made massive films that drastically influenced the perception of filmmaking. His idiosyncratic and perfectionist mentality lends itself to the creation of fan bases, with dedicated followers analyzing every frame. Whether you love a big period piece like Barry Lyndon , the sci-fi epic 2001: A Space Odyssey , or his venture into horror with The Shining , Kubrick’s filmography has a little bit of everything for everyone. That being said, here is my ranking of all 13 movies the maestro made in his nearly 50-year career. 13. Fear and Desire (1953) Kubrick’s debut feature, Fear and Desire , is often dismissed—even by the director himself—as a flawed and overly ambitious student film. Still, this surreal anti-war story about soldiers trapped behind enemy lines offers early glimpses of Kubrick’s thematic preoccupations: the futility of war, psychological unraveling, and the thin line between order and chaos. Technically crude and narratively uneven, it's more a curiosity than a coherent film. But for completists, it marks the birth of a singular cinematic voice. The performances are stilted, the dialogue overly literary, and the pacing disjointed, which says a lot about the film given its less than 70-minute runtime. There’s a raw intensity in its experimental camera work and bleak atmosphere that hints at a filmmaker eager to break cinematic rules. 12. The Killing (1956) Despite its reputation as an early example of Kubrick's emerging talent, The Killing feels more like a technical exercise than a compelling film in its own right. The nonlinear storytelling, while innovative for its time, often comes across as unnecessarily convoluted, sapping momentum from the heist plot rather than enhancing it. The characters are thinly drawn, with wooden performances that fail to generate much emotional investment. Sterling Hayden’s gravelly lead turn lacks nuance, and the supporting cast mostly feels like stock archetypes plucked from dime-store crime novels. Kubrick’s direction shows flashes of visual flair, but the film lacks the thematic complexity or stylistic boldness that would define his later work. 11. Spartacus (1960) Spartacus is the odd man out in Stanley Kubrick’s filmography—a sweeping historical epic that feels more like a polished studio product than a true expression of the director’s vision. While it boasts grand production values, a star-studded cast, and a few stirring moments of rebellion, the film is ultimately burdened by its bloated runtime and conventional storytelling. Kubrick, who stepped in after the original director was fired, had limited creative control. The film lacks the psychological depth, visual innovation, and thematic ambiguity that define his later work. Kirk Douglas brings gravitas to the title role, and the gladiator sequences have a specific primal energy, but the film often meanders and leans into melodrama. Spartacus is competently made and occasionally rousing, but it’s also overly safe, unevenly paced, and largely devoid of the subversive edge that would come to define Kubrick’s greatest films. 10. Dr. Strangelove (1964) Kubrick’s pitch-black Cold War satire remains a scathing and absurdly funny examination of nuclear hysteria and institutional madness. Peter Sellers is in top form, playing three wildly different characters, and the film's dry, ironic tone perfectly balances comedy with the looming specter of annihilation. While it’s a beloved classic, its overt comedic stylings and topical focus place it slightly lower in the ranking when compared to Kubrick’s more formally daring, psychologically immersive works. That said, its sharp political commentary and bone-dry humor feel disturbingly relevant even decades later. The War Room set is iconic, the dialogue endlessly quotable, and Kubrick’s transition from thriller to farce is pulled off with surgical precision. It’s one of the most acclaimed satires ever made, even if it feels more like a razor-edged statement than a fully immersive cinematic experience. 9. Paths of Glory (1957) One of Kubrick’s most emotionally potent films, Paths of Glory is a blistering condemnation of war and military hierarchy, centered on a court-martial of three innocent French soldiers during World War I. With fluid tracking shots through the trenches and a riveting performance by Kirk Douglas, the film is as morally outraged as it is visually controlled. Its relatively straightforward narrative and passionate humanism make it unique among Kubrick’s often cold, detached oeuvre. Yet even here, his clinical eye for composition and taste for the absurdity of power dynamics are fully evident. The final scene—featuring a young German girl singing to hardened soldiers—shows Kubrick at his most unexpectedly tender. It's one of his shortest films, but also among his most piercing and devastating. 8. Killer's Kiss (1955) Kubrick’s second feature is a noir-tinged urban thriller that serves as an atmospheric mood piece more than a plot-driven story. Shot on location in New York City, Killer’s Kiss exhibits a remarkable eye for shadow and geometry, suggesting Kubrick’s early fascination with form over content. It’s a lean, raw effort that showcases his visual instincts in their infancy, filled with striking compositions and a dreamlike sense of menace that would later become a hallmark of his style. The story is rudimentary—a boxer, a damsel in distress, a violent lover—but the cityscape becomes the real star. With its expressionistic visuals, jarring edits, and minimalist storytelling, Killer’s Kiss feels like a sketchbook for a director still figuring out how to pair narrative with atmosphere. It may be slight, but it lingers. 7. Eyes Wide Shut (1999) Kubrick’s legendary final film, Eyes Wide Shut , is a hypnotic, erotic mystery that meditates on desire, secrecy, and the masks people wear in marriage and society. With its dreamlike pacing, unsettling mood, and haunting use of repetition, the film polarizes audiences but reveals deeper layers upon rewatch. Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman’s performances simmer with repression and ambiguity, while the film’s notorious masked orgy sequence captures Kubrick’s fixation on power, ritual, and control. The sterile opulence of New York City’s streets (filmed in London) adds to the surreal tone, and Jocelyn Pook’s eerie score enhances the slow, dreamlike tension. Beneath the surface, it’s not just about sex but about alienation, jealousy, and emotional detachment. As a swan song, it’s an enigmatic and fitting farewell from cinema’s most enigmatic master. 6. Lolita (1962) Adapting Vladimir Nabokov’s controversial novel, Lolita is Kubrick’s most slyly subversive film, trading explicit content for suggestion, innuendo, and biting wit. James Mason delivers a masterclass in pathetic obsession as Humbert Humbert, while Peter Sellers’ unhinged turn as Clare Quilty introduces a surreal, anarchic energy. Kubrick navigates the delicate subject matter with dark irony, turning the story into a disturbing portrait of delusion and decay. The film walks a tonal tightrope between seduction and satire, using style to both obscure and comment on its morally repugnant characters. While Nabokov’s prose is softened, Kubrick’s take is no less unsettling, examining how obsession disguises itself as love. It’s a film of uneasy laughter, one that dares you to be amused—and then shames you for it. 5. A Clockwork Orange (1971) One of the first major studio movies to receive an MPAA rating explicitly higher than R, A Clockwork Orange is a crazy crime thriller, seeing Kubrick at his rawest. Drenched in stylized violence, Beethoven, and linguistic invention, A Clockwork Orange is one of Kubrick’s most daring and controversial films. As a meditation on free will, societal control, and the nature of evil, it’s both chilling and exhilarating. Malcolm McDowell’s charismatic performance as Alex DeLarge anchors the film’s moral ambiguity, while Kubrick’s clinical direction ensures the film never feels exploitative despite its shocking content. The film’s brutal symmetry and cold beauty challenge viewers to question the limits of morality, punishment, and psychological conditioning. Its unique visual language—echoed in costume, set design, and camera movement—has become iconic. Love it or loathe it, A Clockwork Orange is one of the boldest and most unforgettable films of the 20th century. 4. Full Metal Jacket (1987) Split into two distinct halves—boot camp and battlefield— Full Metal Jacket offers a fragmented but devastating look at the dehumanizing machinery of war. R. Lee Ermey’s volcanic turn as Gunnery Sergeant Hartman dominates the first half, while the second morphs into a bleak descent into Vietnam's chaos. Kubrick’s cool, precise framing contrasts with the emotional disintegration of his characters, creating a war film that is less about action and more about the psychological ruins left behind. While some argue the film loses momentum after the unforgettable first act, that structural imbalance mirrors the deconstruction of identity and illusion that defines the entire war experience. The final image—soldiers marching through the flaming city and singing the Mickey Mouse Club theme—is vintage Kubrick: ironic, disturbing, and unforgettable. 3. Barry Lyndon (1975) Barry Lyndon is Kubrick’s most visually exquisite film, a painterly period epic told with ironic detachment and tragic inevitability. Every frame looks like a classical oil painting, aided by the revolutionary use of natural light and candlelit interiors. The story of Redmond Barry’s rise and fall is one of vanity, fate, and moral rot, presented with Kubrick’s signature emotional distance. Ryan O’Neal’s performance is deliberately blank, allowing the viewer to project onto a character who drifts through privilege, cruelty, and eventual ruin. Though criticized upon release for its glacial pace, Barry Lyndon has since been rightfully reclaimed as a masterpiece. Beneath its cold surface lies a quietly devastating meditation on time, class, and the inevitability of decline. 2. 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968) A towering achievement in cinematic form and ambition, 2001: A Space Odyssey redefined the possibilities of science fiction. Through its abstract narrative structure, groundbreaking visual effects, and haunting use of classical music, Kubrick presents a meditation on evolution, artificial intelligence, and the unknown. HAL 9000, the emotionless yet tragic AI, remains one of the most iconic characters in film history. It’s a film that demands patience and contemplation, eschewing dialogue for long stretches to let images and sound speak for themselves. Watching 2001: A Space Odyssey is like entering a trance—it’s more an experience than a story. With its elliptical structure and cosmic scope, it doesn’t explain itself; it dares you to find meaning in the void. 1. The Shining (1980) Kubrick’s ultimate masterpiece, The Shining, is a genre-defying horror film that stays with viewers long after the credits roll. Jack Nicholson’s decline into madness as Jack Torrance is both terrifying and eerily theatrical, while the Overlook Hotel becomes a character in its own right—sprawling, haunted, and carefully crafted. With its unsettling sound design, uncanny symmetry, and ambiguous storytelling, The Shining showcases Kubrick at his most psychologically intense, blending dread and artistry into a film that is endlessly rewatchable, open to interpretation, and iconic. The film deviates notably from Stephen King's novel, favoring icy ambiguity over blatant horror—and it benefits from it. Few films have sparked more theories, rewatchings, or debates, and none more clearly demonstrate Kubrick’s talent for merging the cerebral with the visceral into a singular cinematic nightmare. You can follow Tyler and hear more of his thoughts on Twitter , Instagram , and Letterboxd . More Reviews Blue Moon October 13, 2025 By: Hunter Friesen Good Fortune October 12, 2025 By: Hunter Friesen Tron: Ares October 8, 2025 By: Hunter Friesen After the Hunt October 7, 2025 By: Hunter Friesen Hunter Friesen

A House of Dynamite October 9, 2025 By: Button Hunter Friesen If, for some reason, director Kathryn Bigelow and distributor Netflix decided to cut out the final two-thirds of their new film, A House of Dynamite , then they might have had a serious contender for the Academy Award for Best Live Action Short Film. Of course, they didn’t do that, so what’s left is a pretty good film that immediately reaches its apex, only to then gradually deflate from there. It’s a disappointing fact, but I’d bet that any filmmaker would commit a host of unholy acts to be given the skill of dramatic storytelling that Bigelow possesses throughout that first act. A House of Dynamite arrives nearly a decade after Bigelow’s last feature, Detroit , the final entry in a fact-based trilogy about the perils of modern America. That movie tackled racial politics through the lens of the 1967 Detroit riots, with the two preceding films, The Hurt Locker and Zero Dark Thirty , using the power of immediacy to take a moral stand on our involvement in the Middle East. Within those three films is a near-perfect balance of entertainment and education, made possible by the combination of Hollywood bravura and gritty journalism. Although this latest feature is not based on historical events, it doesn’t make it any less true. Screenwriter Noah Oppenheim, formerly the senior producer of Today Show and president of NBC News, has clearly done his homework, filling his script with rigorous procedures, acronyms, and chains of command throughout the United States federal government. The opening captions state that cooler heads started to prevail after the Cold War, with the world’s superpowers decreasing their nuclear arsenals in an attempt to avert a potential crisis that could not be undone. “That era is now over,” flashes next across the screen, as now thousands of little red buttons can wipe out all life on Earth. This is the story of what happens when that fateful day finally arrives. It begins at an air defense installation in Alaska. Major Daniel Gonzalez (Anthony Ramos) and his team identify a single ballistic missile crossing the Pacific Ocean towards the United States. They pull out their instruction manuals and start transmitting their findings to the White House Situation Room, where Captain Olivia Walker (Rebecca Ferguson) assembles the leaders of the Executive Branch. Secretary of Defense Reid Baker (Jared Harris) and General Anthony Brady (Tracy Letts) mull the options, eventually presenting them to POTUS (Idris Elba) for a final decision. All of this must take place within eighteen minutes, all while the missile is headed directly for a major American city. To lend the power of perspective to this condensed timeline, Bigelow and Oppenheim go through these motions on three occasions, each time offering a different viewpoint. The first cycle is about the shock of discovery, with everyone doubtful that what they’re seeing is actually true. The second is about gathering facts, establishing defense measures, and following long-established procedures. The third and final cycle is about reaction, walking the walk after talking the talk. What level of response is required? Rare, medium, and well-done are the options given to the president, each placing the entire world in the palm of his hand. My introductory point about diminishing returns is derived from this repetition. For as much as the second and third cycles do their best to offer tidbits of new information by focusing on different characters, they can never escape the feeling that we’re just retreading what’s already been established. Phrases are repeated, and similar themes of hopelessness are copied between generically constructed characters. The several times that Ferguson’s character clutches her son’s dinosaur toy did not make me care more about what would happen to her personally. Volker Bertelmann’s score would be accused of stealing from Conclave had he not also been that film’s composer. The second cycle involves a moment at Gettysburg, which is still the bloodiest battle in American history, with over fifty thousand casualties across both sides. Now it’s a tourist attraction, with children and families walking the fields with smiles on their faces as they snap pictures and cheer on reenactments. The next war will not offer any such future luxuries, obliterating the board before anyone could make another move. While it may not be as succinct as originally promised, Bigelow has conveyed that message with fierce resolve. We’re all sitting in a house of dynamite, and the fuse is only getting shorter. More Reviews Blue Moon October 13, 2025 By: Hunter Friesen Good Fortune October 12, 2025 By: Hunter Friesen Tron: Ares October 8, 2025 By: Hunter Friesen After the Hunt October 7, 2025 By: Hunter Friesen Hunter Friesen

Explore the captivating world of cinema through our insightful essay collection, containing thought-provoking analyses and interpretations of your favorite movies, shedding new light on their themes, characters, and artistic brilliance. Essays Button Button Tyler’s Takes: Andrew Garfield Should Have an Oscar by Now October 11, 2025 By: Tyler Banark Tyler’s Takes: Philip Seymour Hoffman's Legacy in 'Licorice Pizza' September 26, 2025 By: Tyler Banark Button Button Tyler’s Takes: Buggin' Out is The Heartbeat of 'Do the Right Thing' August 16, 2025 By: Tyler Banark Tyler's Takes: 'Call Me by Your Name' is the Perfect Summer Movie July 17, 2025 By: Tyler Banark 'Bonnie & Clyde' and New Sentimentality Button 1967: A Dramatic Shift in Film Button How 'The Godfather' Signaled Hollywood Change 50 Years Ago Button The Influence of Howard Hawks in John Carpenter's 'Assault on Precinct 13' Button Tyler's Takes: 'Call Me by Your Name' is the Perfect Summer Movie Button Tyler's Takes: 'Pearl' Is A Slice Below 'X' Button Tyler's Takes: 'The Polar Express' Should Be Live-Action Button Tyler's Takes: 2015 and the Popularization of the Legacy Sequel Button Tyler's Takes: Chadwick Boseman Should Have Won the Oscar Button Tyler's Takes: How 'Coraline' Possessed 2009 Button Tyler's Takes: Rapunzel is the Best Disney Princess Button Tyler’s Takes: Andrew Garfield Should Have an Oscar by Now Button Tyler’s Takes: Philip Seymour Hoffman's Legacy in 'Licorice Pizza' Button 'Night of the Living Dead': The First Liberal Horror Film Button Cassavetes & Newman: Hollywood Stars, Art Cinema Auteurs Button Poitier and Hoffman: The Dueling Kings of 1967 Hollywood Button The New Hollywood of the 1970s Button Tyler's Takes: 'Ghost Protocol' is the Pinnacle of the M:I Franchise Button Tyler's Takes: 'Terrifier' is a Terrifyingly Awful Franchise Button Tyler's Takes: 'When Harry Met Sally' is the Perfect Rom-Com Button Tyler's Takes: Bassett's Undeserved Oscar Buzz for 'Wakanda Forever' Button Tyler's Takes: Forty Years of 'The Breakfast Club' Button Tyler's Takes: In Defense of 'Elemental' Button Tyler's Takes: Why I Love 'How to Train Your Dragon ' So Much Button Tyler’s Takes: Buggin' Out is The Heartbeat of 'Do the Right Thing' Button

Tyler’s Takes: Andrew Garfield Should Have an Oscar by Now October 11, 2025 By: Tyler Banark Andrew Garfield has been one of the most consistently compelling actors of the past decade and a half. From breakout supporting turns to lead performances that require immense physical and emotional transformation, Garfield has proven himself capable of tackling just about anything. And yet, despite delivering multiple roles that easily could have earned him an Academy Award, he’s still without one. Few actors of his generation have a résumé as stacked with Oscar-worthy work in films such as The Social Network , Silence , Hacksaw Ridge , and Tick, Tick…Boom! . With his new film, After the Hunt, coming to theaters this weekend, now’s the time to look back and make it clear that Garfield should already be an Oscar winner. When David Fincher’s The Social Network premiered in 2010, much of the attention went to Jesse Eisenberg’s cerebral portrayal of Mark Zuckerberg. But Garfield, as Eduardo Saverin, gave the film its heart. Eduardo is the audience’s entry point into a world of ambition, betrayal, and ruthless innovation. Garfield plays Eduardo as someone caught between loyalty to his friend and the realization that he’s being slowly pushed out of something he helped create. His wide-eyed hope curdles into frustration, and ultimately heartbreak, culminating in one of the film’s most memorable scenes—Eduardo confronting Mark after his shares of the company got reduced. His rage is volcanic, but underneath it is genuine devastation. It’s not an exaggeration to say that Garfield made the movie’s emotional impact. Without him, The Social Network might have been a brilliant but cold procedural. He was nominated for a Golden Globe, but the Oscars ignored him. Looking back, it’s baffling—his performance stands as one of the best supporting turns of the 2010s and deserved a nomination, if not the win. In 2016, Garfield took on one of the most demanding roles of his career in Martin Scorsese’s Silence . Playing Father Rodrigues, a Jesuit priest searching for his mentor in 17th-century Japan, Garfield delivered a performance that was at once spiritual, physical, and deeply internal. The film asked enormous things of him: he had to embody the endurance of torture, the slow erosion of faith, and the paradox of clinging to belief while feeling abandoned by God. Garfield prepared for the role by undergoing spiritual exercises with Jesuit priests, and that commitment shows in every frame. His gaunt appearance mirrored his character’s suffering, but it was his eyes that told the real story—eyes that wavered between conviction and despair. Though Silence didn’t find a huge audience, Garfield’s work in it is one of the most raw and haunting performances of the 2010s. In the climactic scene where Father Rodrigues is forced to choose between his faith and the lives of five Christians, you can see the struggle he must face and ultimately the reluctant acceptance when he hears the voice of Jesus telling him to abandon his faith. If the Academy truly values transformation and courage in acting, this should have been a defining Oscar role. Instead, it was overlooked entirely, another case of Garfield’s best work not lining up with the Academy’s spotlight. The same year as Silence , Garfield starred in Mel Gibson’s Hacksaw Ridge , finally earning his first Oscar nomination for Best Actor. Playing real-life medic Desmond Doss, a conscientious objector who served in World War II without ever carrying a weapon, Garfield gave a performance that was equal parts humble and heroic. What makes the role so powerful is Garfield’s ability to convey quiet conviction. Doss isn’t a traditional war hero who charges into battle; his bravery stems from his unwavering commitment to his beliefs, even when he is mocked, ridiculed, and threatened. Garfield captured that inner strength perfectly, playing Doss as a man whose faith fuels his courage. The battle sequences are grueling, and Garfield sells the horror of them without ever losing sight of Doss’s humanity. His constant pleas for survival while saving fellow soldiers are some of the most gut-wrenching moments in any modern war film. Garfield lost the Oscar to Casey Affleck for Manchester by the Sea, and possibly to Ryan Gosling for La La Land, if Affleck hadn’t. While they were strong, some may argue that Garfield’s transformation into Doss—and the unique kind of heroism he embodied—was more deserving. It’s tough to say who was the more deserving winner between Garfield and Gosling, as they both had career-defining years in their respective movies. If you were to ask me who I think, my answer would flip back and forth depending on the day. If there was ever a moment when Garfield should have walked away with an Oscar, and there’s no doubt in my mind about it, it was for Tick, Tick…Boom! in 2021. Playing the role of Rent creator Jonathan Larson, Garfield not only acted but also sang, danced, and captured the restless energy of an artist racing against time. What makes the performance extraordinary is how fully Garfield disappears into Larson’s skin. He conveys the manic joy of creation, the anxiety of failure, and the frustration of being misunderstood. His physicality is electric—every gesture, every note sung feels charged with purpose. And the emotional depth is staggering: in quieter moments, Garfield reveals Larson’s insecurities, vulnerability, and desperation to leave something behind. It’s the kind of performance that defines a career. Garfield trained for months to sing, and the result wasn’t just convincing—it was transcendent. He made the audience believe in Larson’s genius while also showing the human cost of that drive. Critics hailed it as the best work of his life, and it earned him his second Best Actor nomination. Yet again, he lost—this time to Will Smith for King Richard . The controversy surrounding that win only deepened the sense that Garfield had been robbed. Whether it’s about the performances or the slap heard around the world, Garfield was, by and large, the better man. I even bet that if the Academy knew what they know now, they’d give it to him instead of Smith. Taken together, these four performances paint a clear picture: Garfield has already delivered the kind of work that, in most cases, earns actors their first Oscar and then some. The Social Network should have landed him a supporting nod. Silence should have cemented him as one of the greats of his generation. Hacksaw Ridge was nomination-worthy and deserved to win. And Tick, Tick…Boom! was the crowning achievement of his career to date—a performance so alive and so unforgettable that it’s hard to believe the Academy passed him over. Part of the issue is timing. The Academy sometimes rewards narratives as much as performances (Leonardo DiCaprio in The Revenant as an example), and Garfield hasn’t yet benefited from the “it’s his time” momentum. Instead, he has been competing against other industry favorites or caught in years when bigger campaign pushes overshadowed his work. However, if the Oscars are truly about honoring artistry, craft, and commitment, Garfield’s missing statue is one of their most significant oversights. Andrew Garfield is more than just a talented actor; he’s a transformative one. His performances in The Social Network , Silence , Hacksaw Ridge , and Tick, Tick…Boom! are not just highlights of his career, but some of the best performances of their respective years. Each one demanded something different: the wounded loyalty of Eduardo Saverin, the spiritual torment of Father Rodrigues, the humble conviction of Desmond Doss, and the fiery genius of Jonathan Larson. Garfield not only met those challenges—he exceeded them. By now, he should already have an Oscar. Instead, he remains one of the most glaring omissions in recent Academy history. The hope is that his time will still come, and it almost certainly will. But when it does, it won’t feel like the Academy finally caught up—it will feel like long overdue recognition. You can follow Tyler and hear more of his thoughts on Twitter , Instagram , and Letterboxd . More Reviews A House of Dynamite October 9, 2025 By: Hunter Friesen Good Fortune October 12, 2025 By: Hunter Friesen Tron: Ares October 8, 2025 By: Hunter Friesen After the Hunt October 7, 2025 By: Hunter Friesen Hunter Friesen

The Woman in Cabin 10 October 10, 2025 By: Button Hunter Friesen Keira Knightley stars in The Woman in Cabin 10 , not to be confused with Emily Blunt in The Girl on the Train , Amy Adams in The Woman in the Window , Danielle Deadwyler in The Woman in the Yard , or Kristen Bell in The Woman in the House Across the Street from the Girl in the Window . It might be a worrying sign that studios are still producing entries into this female-driven modern Rear Window subgenre, even after it has reached the point of self-parody. The Woman in Cabin 10 isn't here to be a change of pace, or even to be the sharpest knife in the drawer. That would require it to be positively memorable, which it most certainly isn't. Apart from the occasional statements of red, much of this whodunnit mystery is enveloped in a sea of sleek grey. It's meant to represent the cold indifference that has permeated the modern world, of which investigative reporter Laura Blacklock (Knightley) knows all too well. Her latest piece about Kurdish female freedom fighters caused her source to be drowned in retaliation, and her uncovering of a misappropriation of funds at a well-known NGO didn't make a dent in the headlines. An opportunity for a change of pace comes her way in the form of an invitation to attend the sailing of billionaire Richard Bullmer's (Guy Pearce) mega yacht in remembrance of his wife Anne, who is nearing the end of her terminal cancer diagnosis. The journey will be attended by a group of wealthy elites, and end with a gala celebration where everyone will make exorbitant pledges to Anne's foundation. It's charity filtered through the biggest egos on the planet. This scenario means that The Woman in Cabin 10 is another movie where the normal main character arrives at a swanky destination under routine pretenses, only to learn that not everything is what it seems. You've probably seen this trope played out multiple times before over the last few years in stuff like Opus , Shell, Blink Twice , The Menu , etc. This movie even has a similar scene where Laura must swap out her shoes to comply with the dress code, and is notified that cell phone services are restricted while on board. This takes place in the third scene, and, if you've seen any of the films already mentioned in this review, you can very accurately guess where the rest of this story is going to go. The ensemble of guests is rich assholes, although they're all extremely generic and uninteresting. Hannah Waddingham is an art dealer, Daniel Ings is an alpha bro, Kaya Scodelario is his fake influencer girlfriend, and Paul Kaye is a vague drug-addled rockstar. Honestly, it doesn't matter, as their entire personalities are devoted to shaming Laura for ruining their weekend when she claims to have witnessed the woman in Cabin 10 being thrown overboard. However, the ship's captain insists that the room was never occupied, and no one else on board has been reported missing. Laura knows what she saw, and only has a few days to prove it before these people disembark and return to their consequence-free empires. "Tell the truth" is a phrase repeatedly used, with writers Simon Stone, Joe Shrapnel, and Anna Waterhouse rallying the everyman against the elites who believe that their wealth and power place them above the law. It's a mission statement inundated with modern culture (I'll spare you from another list of movies that have already done this), almost as if it's become gauche for a movie to simply be a piece of entertainment. The Woman in Cabin 10 is too shallow and ludicrous to be taken seriously, and too dull to have fun with. The less said about the ending, the better, in which the film thinks that all wrongs have been righted (hint: they most certainly haven't). The boat at least looks pretty, giving me another small nudge to finally book that Scandinavian cruise I've always wanted to go on. And Knightley is a very capable lead, effortlessly making the material seem much more elevated than it really is. Her presence has been sorely missed on the silver screen, with only two other films - Boston Strangler and Silent Night - to her name in the last five years. Someone needs to come along with a script worthy of her talents, because we're currently letting one of our best actors languish in mediocrity. More Reviews A House of Dynamite October 9, 2025 By: Hunter Friesen Good Fortune October 12, 2025 By: Hunter Friesen Tron: Ares October 8, 2025 By: Hunter Friesen After the Hunt October 7, 2025 By: Hunter Friesen Hunter Friesen

Tyler’s Takes: Buggin' Out is The Heartbeat of 'Do the Right Thing' August 16, 2025 By: Tyler Banark Spike Lee’s Do the Right Thing is one of the most vibrant, incendiary, and culturally resonant films in American cinema, a mosaic of voices and perspectives converging on one sweltering day in Brooklyn’s Bedford–Stuyvesant neighborhood. From its kaleidoscopic ensemble cast to its sharp social commentary, the film thrives on a symphony of performances—Danny Aiello’s flustered Sal, Spike Lee’s laid-back yet conflicted Mookie, Ossie Davis’s dignified Da Mayor, and Bill Nunn’s philosophical Radio Raheem. But within this tapestry, one performance not only stands out but catalyzes much of the film’s tension: Giancarlo Esposito’s portrayal of Buggin’ Out. Often remembered for his later, understated, reserved, and often villainous turns, especially in TV’s Breaking Bad and Better Call Saul , Esposito here is operating in an entirely different gear—loud, magnetic, and unapologetically brash. He is, in many ways, the film’s MVP, not because he dominates every scene, but because his energy, presence, and choices elevate the stakes and sharpen the movie’s central conflicts. Buggin’ Out is, on the surface, a comic presence. He bursts onto the screen with kinetic energy, decked out in bright clothes, rocking airbrushed sneakers, and speaking in a rapid-fire rhythm that’s equal parts charm and agitation. Early in the film, his beef with Sal over the pizzeria’s Wall of Fame ignites the main thread of racial tension. While Sal proudly hangs pictures of famous Italian-Americans, Buggin’ Out—pointing out the restaurant’s overwhelmingly Black clientele—insists there should be African-American faces on the wall. What might be dismissed as a small complaint becomes the fuse that burns toward the film’s climactic explosion. Esposito doesn’t play Buggin’ Out as merely angry or self-righteous. There’s a playful pettiness in his delivery—when he says, “Why ain’t there no brothers on the wall?” he’s not just protesting; he’s testing, provoking, daring Sal to recognize the imbalance. Esposito makes this moment memorable because he imbues it with both comedic flair and underlying seriousness. You laugh at Buggin’ Out’s persistence, but you also recognize the truth behind his complaint. This tonal complexity is a hallmark of the performance. Much of Buggin’ Out’s persona comes from Esposito’s physical commitment to the role. His animated gestures, darting movements, and expressive face give the character a restless, buzzing quality, true to his name. He leans into the comedy without undermining the social message, making Buggin’ Out one of the film’s most quotable and visually memorable figures. When a white man accidentally scuffs his pristine sneakers, Esposito turns what could have been a throwaway gag into a showcase of timing and rhythm. His exaggerated outrage becomes equal parts absurd and relatable to anyone who’s ever prized their fashion. This blend of humor and simmering anger is crucial. Do the Right Thing is filled with tension, but it’s not a dour film; it’s funny, colorful, and alive. Esposito helps maintain that tonal balance. Even when Buggin’ Out is in conflict, he’s not a one-note antagonist. He’s likable, in part because Esposito never loses sight of the fact that Buggin’ Out is a member of this community—a loud cousin, not an outsider. The genius of Esposito’s work is that Buggin’ Out isn’t the film’s villain. He’s an instigator, but his motives aren’t rooted in malice—they’re rooted in pride, frustration, and a demand for recognition. When he tries to organize a boycott of Sal’s Famous Pizzeria, there’s an almost comedic futility in his efforts. People brush him off, preferring to eat their meal rather than join his protest. Esposito plays these rejections with a mix of annoyance and determination, letting us see Buggin’ Out’s stubborn streak without turning him into a parody. By the time the film reaches its climax, Buggin’ Out is in the middle of the chaos, not leading it, but undeniably part of the spark. The tragic outcome is not solely his fault; Spike Lee’s screenplay makes clear that systemic tensions and personal tempers create the explosion. Yet without Buggin’ Out’s initial challenge, the events might not have unfolded in the same way. Esposito’s performance makes that challenge unforgettable. What makes Esposito’s work here even more fascinating in hindsight is how different it is from his later, more restrained roles. As Gustavo Fring, his iconic villain from the Breaking Bad universe, he’s all precision and quiet menace; as Buggin’ Out, he’s a whirlwind of emotion and noise. This range shows Esposito’s versatility, but it also underlines how much skill it takes to play a “big” character without tipping into caricature. One subtle example is the way Esposito reacts in scenes where he’s not speaking. In group shots, Buggin’ Out is always in motion—nodding, gesturing, reacting—but never in a way that distracts from the main action. It’s controlled chaos. Esposito knows when to push for a laugh and when to pull back, letting the camera catch a quiet flash of hurt or resolve in Buggin’ Out’s eyes. Buggin’ Out also serves a narrative purpose as a mirror to the community’s underlying tensions. His complaint about the Wall of Fame is really about visibility, ownership, and who gets to define the cultural space of a neighborhood. Esposito’s charismatic delivery ensures that this theme isn’t lost in the noise of the film’s busier moments. Do the Right Thing may be an ensemble film, but Esposito understands where and when Lee lets/wants him to shine. When other characters dismiss him, the audience is subtly invited to question whether they’re also dismissing the real grievances he represents. This layered effect—the ability to entertain while carrying thematic weight—is part of what makes Esposito the film’s MVP. In sports terms, an MVP isn’t always the highest scorer or the flashiest player on display; sometimes it’s the player who changes the pace of the game, forcing everyone else to react. In June of last year, my NBA team, the Boston Celtics, won the finals, and Jaylen Brown was crowned MVP. Brown doesn’t always get the spotlight, but he’s the hardest-working player on the team and steps up when accountability or a spark is needed from his teammates. Esposito is like that in Do the Right Thing , although I’m sure he would take great offense to being compared to a Celtic. He injects energy into every scene he’s in, whether needling Sal, arguing over sneakers, or trying to rally the neighborhood. His presence forces other characters—and the audience—to confront uncomfortable truths. He’s a character you can’t ignore, and Esposito ensures you won’t want to. Do the Right Thing thrives on ensemble chemistry, but Giancarlo Esposito’s Buggin’ Out is the character who most effectively bridges the film’s humor, style, and political bite. He’s the spark that sets the narrative in motion, the comic relief that keeps the film buoyant, and the conscience—however messy—reminding us that representation and respect matter. Esposito’s fearless performance ensures that Buggin’ Out is not only a scene-stealer but also an essential thread in Spike Lee’s tapestry of Bedford–Stuyvesant life. It’s the balance between comedy and seriousness, exaggeration and authenticity, that cements him as the overlooked star of the movie. You can follow Tyler and hear more of his thoughts on Twitter , Instagram , and Letterboxd . More Reviews A House of Dynamite October 9, 2025 By: Hunter Friesen Good Fortune October 12, 2025 By: Hunter Friesen Tron: Ares October 8, 2025 By: Hunter Friesen After the Hunt October 7, 2025 By: Hunter Friesen Hunter Friesen

Tyler’s Takes: Philip Seymour Hoffman's Legacy in 'Licorice Pizza' September 26, 2025 By: Tyler Banark When Paul Thomas Anderson released Licorice Pizza in 2021, audiences expected another masterclass in storytelling from one of America’s most celebrated filmmakers. What they may not have expected was how deeply personal the movie would feel—not just for Anderson, but for anyone who had admired the work of Philip Seymour Hoffman. On the surface, Licorice Pizza is a playful, nostalgic story about a teenager hustling his way through the San Fernando Valley in the 1970s. Beneath that surface, though, it carries the unmistakable weight of Hoffman’s presence. Through the casting of his son, Cooper Hoffman, and through themes that reflect the elder Hoffman’s strengths as an actor, Licorice Pizza becomes a heartfelt tribute to one of Anderson’s most important collaborators and closest friends. Philip Seymour Hoffman was more than just a frequent actor in Anderson’s films—he was part of the director’s creative DNA. From his unforgettable turn as the lovestruck boom operator Scotty in Boogie Nights to the compassionate hospice nurse in Magnolia , and finally to his towering role as Lancaster Dodd in The Master , Hoffman gave Anderson’s films their beating heart. He had a way of bringing every character to life, no matter how small the role. Anderson often said that Hoffman elevated his movies, bringing a mix of vulnerability, humor, and power that couldn’t be faked. Their partnership lasted nearly two decades, and Hoffman became a kind of anchor for Anderson’s storytelling. When Hoffman died suddenly in 2014, the loss was felt not only in Hollywood but also very personally by Anderson. It wasn’t just the end of a working relationship; it was the loss of someone who had shaped his films in ways both obvious and subtle. This is what makes the casting of Cooper Hoffman in Licorice Pizza so moving. Cooper, Philip’s son, makes his acting debut as Gary Valentine, a child actor-turned-aspiring entrepreneur who spends the movie bouncing from one scheme to another while chasing after the older, enigmatic Alana Kane (played by Alana Haim). It’s a bold choice for Anderson, not only because Cooper had never acted before but also because his very name invokes the memory of his father. All eyes are on him upon this movie’s release, and Cooper delivered. He’s not imitating Philip, but there are flashes—the posture, the sudden shifts from confidence to insecurity—that remind you of him. Anderson’s decision to guide Cooper through his first performance feels almost paternal, as if he’s passing the torch he once shared with Philip. Licorice Pizza works as a warm, nostalgic trip back to Anderson’s own youth in the Valley, but it also reflects the kinds of roles Hoffman so often embodied. Gary Valentine is a performer by nature—an actor, a hustler, a salesman, always putting on a show. The concept of “performance” was central to many of Hoffman’s characters, whether he portrayed the manipulative cult leader in The Master or the tender caregiver in Magnolia . He excelled at showing how people present themselves one way while hiding their real emotions underneath. Gary is a teenager trying to figure out why he is by pretending to be someone bigger, older, and more successful than he really is. That same tension—between performance and vulnerability—defined Hoffman’s best work. Through Gary, Cooper channels something that feels directly connected to his father’s spirit. It’s also worth noting that Licorice Pizza feels different from the Anderson films Hoffman once starred in. After Hoffman’s death, Anderson’s work underwent a shift, at his most relaxed, making a film about kids figuring out life rather than adults wrestling with big philosophical questions. This lightness can also be read as a way of honoring Hoffman, who was known for his intensity, but was also famously funny and full of warmth off-screen. By making a movie about joy, absurdity, and youthful energy, Anderson is remembering not just the actor audiences saw on screen, but the person he knew in real life. In many ways, the entire film is built on the idea of legacy. Cooper Hoffman steps into a role that carries the memory of his father, but the film doesn’t weigh him down with that responsibility. Instead, Anderson gives him space to be his own performer. The audience feels the connection, but Cooper is allowed to make Gary Valentine his own character—funny, arrogant, vulnerable, and full of contradictions. It’s hard not to think of Philip Seymour Hoffman when watching Cooper, but instead of sadness, what comes through is a sense of continuity. It’s as if Anderson is saying that while Hoffman is gone, his presence still shapes the art being made today. By the end of Licorice Pizza , when Gary and Alana run through the streets to find each other, the film feels less like a traditional narrative and more like a memory captured on film. That sense of memory is what makes it such a powerful tribute. Anderson isn’t making a movie “about” Philip Seymour Hoffman, but every frame feels touched by him. The joy of the film is inseparable from the grief of his absence, and the result is something deeply human: a love letter disguised as a romantic dramedy. It’s why Licorice Pizza is more than a movie about teenage love; it’s a tribute to friendship, memory, and the kind of legacy that can only come from true collaboration. And in that sense, it may be the most beautiful way Anderson could have said goodbye—and thank you—to Philip Seymour Hoffman. You can follow Tyler and hear more of his thoughts on Twitter , Instagram , and Letterboxd . More Reviews A House of Dynamite October 9, 2025 By: Hunter Friesen Good Fortune October 12, 2025 By: Hunter Friesen Tron: Ares October 8, 2025 By: Hunter Friesen After the Hunt October 7, 2025 By: Hunter Friesen Hunter Friesen

Tyler's Takes: 'Call Me by Your Name' is the Perfect Summer Movie July 17, 2025 By: Tyler Banark Luca Guadagnino’s Call Me by Your Name is more than just a film about first love—it’s a cinematic reverie that captures the heat, haze, and heartbreak of a summer that lingers in memory long after it ends. Adapted from André Aciman’s novel, the 2017 film unfolds over the course of a single summer in northern Italy, following the romantic and emotional awakening of 17-year-old Elio Perlman (Timothée Chalamet) and his relationship with Oliver (Armie Hammer), a visiting American academic. What makes Call Me by Your Name the perfect summer movie is not just its sun-drenched setting or languid pacing, but its immersive evocation of time, place, mood, and emotion. It doesn’t merely take place during summer—it feels like summer, in all its intensity, restlessness, and fleeting beauty. At the heart of the film’s summery perfection is its idyllic setting: the Perlmans’ villa in northern Italy. Guadagnino turns this countryside locale into a sensorial paradise—a place where the air seems thick with the scent of ripe peaches and the hum of cicadas. Bicycles roll through dusty roads, feet dangle in cold rivers, and meals are eaten alfresco under fig trees. It’s a setting that invites not just leisure, but contemplation and discovery. The house itself, with its stone floors and stacked books, feels lived-in and timeless—a haven where time seems to stand still. This immersive environment makes the viewer feel as though they, too, are on vacation, free to drift through the days with the characters. The cinematography by Sayombhu Mukdeeprom plays a vital role in creating this atmosphere. The camera lingers over textures—sweaty skin, sun-dappled walls, water glinting in the light. The visuals are rich and tactile, emphasizing not just what the characters see, but what they feel. There is a sensuousness to every frame, and that sensuality—whether in the breeze rustling through trees or the quiet intimacy of shared glances—perfectly captures the spirit of summer: dreamy, languorous, and filled with possibility. One scene that showcases this is a long take of Elio and Oliver visiting the Battle of Piave Monument. Elio subtly confesses his feelings to Oliver as they both walk around the statue. Elio repeats the phrase “because I wanted you to know” as Andre Laplante’s cover of Maurice Ravel’s Une Barque Sur L’océan plays. This creative choice adds a sense of wonderment, capitalizing on the love that’s building in the air between the two boys. Summer is traditionally a time of transformation—a seasonal limbo often associated with the transition from the structure of school to the demands of adult life. Call Me by Your Name leans into that idea, tracing Elio’s emotional and sexual maturation during this brief yet life-altering period of time. Days blur together, and there’s a soft aimlessness to Elio’s routine: transcribing music, reading, swimming, socializing. The film lets the relationship between Elio and Oliver unfold naturally, with hesitations, miscommunications, and long silences that are truer to lived experience than to conventional storytelling. This patient, observational approach heightens the film’s emotional impact. Rather than rushing toward dramatic confrontation, the film simmers with quiet tension and slowly evolving intimacy. Elio and Oliver’s relationship feels both inevitable and fragile, like something that could only happen in that time, place, and under that particular sun. Their love is born of summer’s temporary magic: the freedom to experiment, to explore, and to step outside the bounds of ordinary life. Integral to the film’s emotional and seasonal resonance is its use of music, particularly the original songs by Sufjan Stevens. Tracks like “Mystery of Love” and “Visions of Gideon” are delicate and mournful, capturing both the joy of falling in love and the ache of knowing it won’t last, respectively. The film’s soundtrack also includes classical pieces, ‘80s pop, and ambient soundscapes that reflect Elio’s eclectic, intellectually vibrant world. Music floats through the film like a half-remembered dream, weaving together the tactile present with the emotional aftermath. The connection between music and memory is essential to the film’s impact as a summer movie. We often associate particular songs with specific times in our lives, especially those marked by heightened emotions and change. Call Me by Your Name understands that deeply. Its musical cues serve as emotional anchors, crystallizing moments of pleasure and pain into something unforgettable. What sets Call Me by Your Name apart from more conventional summer romances is its refusal to tie everything up neatly. There is no dramatic fight, no tidy reconciliation, no overt moral lesson. What we get instead is something truer: a brief love affair that changes Elio irrevocably, even as it slips away with the season. Guadagnino’s decision to avoid melodrama and focus instead on quiet, truthful observation allows the film to become a vessel for the audience’s memories and desires. Like summer itself, it passes too quickly, leaving us with a longing that’s both sweet and sorrowful. Summer, like young love, is beautiful precisely because it cannot last. The film doesn’t fight that truth—it leans into it. When Oliver leaves, and the leaves begin to fall, the magic fades, and reality resumes. But something has changed in Elio. The person he becomes is shaped by the person he was during those sun-drenched weeks. The beauty of the film lies in its refusal to make this loss tragic. Instead, it’s part of the cycle of life and growth—a memory to be treasured, not mourned. In its embrace of the fleeting, Call Me by Your Name mirrors the bittersweetness of every summer we’ve ever loved and lost. It doesn’t offer escapism so much as a meditation on why we seek escape in the first place. It’s a film that makes us want to sit in the sun longer, look more closely, and feel more deeply. It’s not just set in the summer—it is summer, distilled into 132 perfect minutes. Call Me by Your Name earns its place as the ideal summer movie not through spectacle or nostalgia, but through its honest portrayal of how one season can transform a life. Guadagnino’s film doesn’t just tell a story—it invites us to remember our own, to feel the warmth of a sunlit afternoon long after the credits roll. It’s a film that pulses with life, that aches with beauty, and that reminds us—just like the best summers—how wonderful and painful it is to feel everything all at once. You can follow Tyler and hear more of his thoughts on Twitter , Instagram , and Letterboxd . More Reviews A House of Dynamite October 9, 2025 By: Hunter Friesen Good Fortune October 12, 2025 By: Hunter Friesen Tron: Ares October 8, 2025 By: Hunter Friesen After the Hunt October 7, 2025 By: Hunter Friesen Hunter Friesen

Tyler's Takes: Why I Love 'How to Train Your Dragon ' So Much June 9, 2025 By: Tyler Banark If you read this essay's title and remember when I did my Top 10 DreamWorks Animated Movies List , you’ll know that How to Train Your Dragon took the number one position. This month marks one year of doing this essay series, and what better way to commemorate it than by discussing the original How to Train Your Dragon animated film in time for the live-action remake? It’s more than just a visually stunning family film—it’s a masterclass in storytelling, character development, thematic depth, emotional resonance, and a pillar of what makes me a cinephile. I remember seeing the poster for it, thinking, “This sounds so dumb, no way anyone will want to see this.” Lo and behold, How to Train Your Dragon became the best animated film of the 2010s, proving the age-old adage that you can’t judge a book by its cover. It’s a reminder to be yourself, even if you feel like an outcast in your environment. At its heart, How to Train Your Dragon is a coming-of-age story. Unlike many animated features that rely on slapstick humor or simplistic narratives, this film offers a deeply emotional journey grounded in empathy, courage, and self-discovery. Hiccup is not a typical hero; he is skinny, awkward, and often dismissed by his Viking peers, especially his father, Stoick the Vast. The movie doesn't rush to make him a warrior. Instead, it charts his path not through force, but compassion and understanding. The relationship between Hiccup and Toothless is the emotional cornerstone of the film. Their bond develops silently at first, built on curiosity, patience, and trust. When Hiccup first realizes he cannot kill the injured dragon, it’s a defining moment that encapsulates the film’s emotional intelligence. That decision leads him to challenge his entire culture’s worldview, a surprisingly complex moral arc for a children’s film. Rather than following the mold of good vs. evil, How to Train Your Dragon explores the fear of the unknown and the cost of blind tradition—ideas rarely handled so delicately in family animation. Technically, the film is a landmark in animation. Collaborating with cinematographer Roger Deakins as a visual consultant, directors Dean DeBlois and Chris Sanders crafted a world that feels fantastical and real. The animation of Toothless is particularly noteworthy—his feline and reptilian qualities are blended seamlessly, making his expressions deeply readable and endearing without relying on anthropomorphism. He doesn’t speak, yet he’s one of the most emotive characters in animation history. The flying sequences are perhaps the film’s most breathtaking technical achievement. Using dynamic camera movements and sweeping aerial perspectives, they capture the visceral thrill of flying in ways rarely matched in cinema. The first flight scene with Hiccup and Toothless soars not just because of the animation, but because it reflects their growing trust. These scenes evoke awe and wonder, but they are always grounded in emotion. Few animated scores rival the one composed by John Powell. It’s not just an accompaniment; it’s a voice in the film. The fusion of Celtic, Nordic, and orchestral influences gives the world of Berk a unique sonic identity that is both exotic and intimate. It's more engaging to hear it live, as it pulls you in even more. I saw the Kansas City Symphony perform it live in concert back in March. Powell's themes are soaring and unforgettable, particularly “Test Drive” and “Romantic Flight.” They help elevate the flight sequences into cinematic magic. Not to mention “Forbidden Friendship” being the most soulful score piece I’ve heard in a kids' movie, acting as the icing on the cake to Hiccup and Toothless’ initial time bonding. When Hiccup and Toothless finally take to the skies in perfect sync, Powell’s score swells with energy and beauty, creating a moment of cinematic euphoria as their themes mash with such beauty. Another key strength of the film lies in its characters, who feel refreshingly real. Hiccup’s journey from outcast to innovator is rich with internal conflict. His struggle to earn his father’s respect while staying true to his compassionate instincts is poignant and relatable. Stoick, voiced by Gerard Butler, is not just a gruff authority figure; he is layered, capable of change, and ultimately embodies a father trying, and failing, to understand his son—until he finally does. Despite being a dragon, Toothless emerges as one of the most beloved animated characters. His personality—mischievous, proud, and loyal—is conveyed entirely through body language and facial expression, a testament to the animators’ skill. The supporting characters, like Astrid, Gobber, and the other dragon trainees, also bring warmth and humor, adding texture to the world without distracting from the core narrative. But what truly cements How to Train Your Dragon as one of the greatest animated films of all time is its thematic resonance. It deals with acceptance, empathy, the courage to defy tradition, and the ability to see beyond fear. Hiccup’s bond with Toothless becomes a metaphor for embracing the misunderstood, and the film argues—without didacticism—that true strength lies not in domination but in understanding. The film also challenges generational divisions. Stoick and the older Vikings represent a world built on survival and fear, while Hiccup’s generation offers a path forward through compassion and adaptability. That intergenerational tension is rarely depicted with such subtlety in animated films, making the resolution not only satisfying but thematically rich. Its themes extend to questions of war and peace, predator and prey, and the idea that enemies are often misunderstood allies. These are heady topics for a film aimed at children, but they are presented with elegance and clarity that resonate across all age groups. How to Train Your Dragon is not merely a great animated movie—it is a great film, period. Its blend of emotional storytelling, technical excellence, unforgettable music, and meaningful themes allows it to transcend its genre and appeal to audiences of all ages. It dares to be sincere in an era where cynicism often prevails, and it prioritizes empathy, growth, and understanding over spectacle and noise. Hiccup’s journey from misunderstood outcast to a bridge between worlds speaks to anyone who has ever felt different or questioned tradition. The film’s breathtaking animation, especially in its flight sequences, and John Powell’s soaring score only heighten its emotional power. Toothless, one of the most beloved non-speaking characters in film, represents the magic that can come from trust and patience. How to Train Your Dragon remains a testament to the storytelling potential of animation and a timeless tale of courage, connection, and transformation. You can follow Tyler and hear more of his thoughts on Twitter , Instagram , and Letterboxd . More Reviews A House of Dynamite October 9, 2025 By: Hunter Friesen Good Fortune October 12, 2025 By: Hunter Friesen Tron: Ares October 8, 2025 By: Hunter Friesen After the Hunt October 7, 2025 By: Hunter Friesen Hunter Friesen

Roofman October 6, 2025 By: Button Hunter Friesen Roofman had its World Premiere at the 2025 Toronto International Film Festival. Paramount Pictures will release it in theaters on October 10. How many McDonald's do you think you'd have to rob to afford a nice house, birthday presents for your kids, and a tidy nest egg for the future? Luckily, you don't have to answer that, because Jeffrey Manchester (Channing Tatum) already made that calculation for us. It turns out that forty-five robberies will do the trick, with the best success coming from cutting a hole through the roof. That's how he got his titular nickname and became a local celebrity during his spree from the late ‘90s and early 2000s. A prison guard once described Jeffrey as a "genius" and "complete idiot" in the same sentence. Both of those are true, with his methods and efficiency being unparalleled when it came to stealing money. But he's also a good guy, which is not an asset in this line of work. He never resorted to violence and even gave his coat to a McDonald's manager when he temporarily locked them in the freezer. He only decided to commit robberies after he was embarrassed by not being able to provide nice things for his wife and three children. It's that dichotomy between criminal mastermind and lovable loser that makes Manchester such an interesting character. It's just a tad disappointing that co-writer/director Derek Cianfrance - taking a major studio-sponsored detour after a string of harrowing indies like Blue Valentine and The Place Beyond the Pines - tends to commit a lot more resources to the latter. Sure, we've all been down on our luck a few times and fantasized about how robbing an unimportant place would solve a lot of problems. But we never go through with it. God forbid someone does do it, one minor robbery probably isn't enough to deem them a bad person. But forty-five robberies? At that point, I'd need a REALLY good explanation. Despite his knack for diving deep into the traumas and rationale of his characters, Cianfrance doesn't offer much of a reason for all this madness. Why was Jeffrey never able to land a steady job when he clearly has a strong set of skills and is well-liked by everyone he meets? Why didn't he stop robbing once he had enough money? These holes steadily grow into gaps the more the story progresses, with even more piled on once Jeffrey escapes from prison and hides in a Toys "R" Us for months. Yes, you read that right. For almost a year, Jeffrey hid in the backrooms of a Toys "R" Us, taking showers using the bathroom sink and subsisting on a diet of candy and baby food. It's there that he grew fond of Leigh Wainscott (Kirsten Dunst), a single mother of two teenage girls just trying to make ends meet. They strike up a relationship when he donates a bunch of toys to her church. Never mind that all those toys are stolen from the store she works at, and that Jeffrey has to lie about every personal detail under the guise that he's working for the government. Aiding Cianfrance's strategy to keep things lighter than they probably should be is Tatum’s pitch-perfect casting. He dances around the store at night, breaks a Tickle Me Elmo display when it almost gets him caught, and genuinely wants to be a positive influence on Leigh and her daughters. It's the question so many of Jeffrey's victims asked: How could such a good person be so lost? Dunst is wonderful as well, desperately turning off the rational part of her brain just so she can preserve something good that finally happened in her life. I may fault Roofman for being too much of a comedy, but I have to admit that it’s very smart about being extremely funny. Ben Mendelsohn and Uzo Aduba play a husband and wife preaching duo at the church, with them and the single women's prayer group welcoming Jeffrey into their flock with open arms. Doing all of these things at this register is not something I would have expected from Cianfrance, so it’s nice to see him stretch his wings a little. I wonder if he’d be interested in the story of William Scott Scurlock, "The Hollywood Bandit," who robbed nineteen banks in Seattle by wearing elaborate, Hollywood-quality disguises? More Reviews A House of Dynamite October 9, 2025 By: Hunter Friesen Tron: Ares October 8, 2025 By: Hunter Friesen After the Hunt October 7, 2025 By: Hunter Friesen The Woman in Cabin 10 October 10, 2025 By: Hunter Friesen Hunter Friesen

Hamnet September 10, 2025 By: Button Hunter Friesen Hamnet had its Canadian Premiere at the 2025 Toronto International Film Festival. Focus Features will release it in theaters on November 27. Not that the one-letter difference was totally throwing everyone for a loop, but the opening script to Hamnet , director Chloé Zhao’s adaptation of Maggie O'Farrell’s book of the same name, states that the names “Hamnet” and “Hamlet” were essentially the same in England during the 16th and 17th centuries. They were interchangeable, with both versions being equally represented across documents. By that logic, it doesn’t take a licensed psychiatrist to diagnose what kind of headspace William Shakespeare was in when he wrote “The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark,” only a few years after the death of his child, Hamnet. Despite being a master of words, young Shakespeare (Paul Mescal) was not as eloquent with his tongue. He is poor, tutoring the local children in Latin to help pay off his unloving father’s debts. It’s obvious he’s destined for something than just being a glovemaker or farmer, but the opportunity to be anything more than that is simply not possible in the rural fields of Stratford. Anne Hathaway, or “Agnes” (Jessie Buckley), is also conflicted with the cards she’s been dealt, rebelling against her strict family by venturing deep into the forest with her falcon. One sight of her bright red dress contrasting against the lush green trees pushes Will to fall for her immediately. They’re perfect for each other, two souls seemingly lost in time. Before being sucked into the increasingly creaky Marvel machine with Eternals , Zhao delivered two of the most interesting American independent films of the last decade in The Rider and Nomadland . The latter became a sensation during the COVID-19-stricken 2020 awards season, winning Oscars for Best Lead Actress, Best Director, and Best Motion Picture. Zhao has an uncanny ability to view the natural world with a lyrical quality, simultaneously conveying stark realism and a dreamlike gentleness. The rustling of the forest trees is just as important as any line of dialogue. The camera captures its sweeping serenity with compassion, inviting Agnes to live in a world of her own. That world is eventually populated with her three children: the oldest, Susannah, and twins Hamnet and Judith. The family is a tight unit, with their interactions providing hints for William’s inspirations for his work. His first kiss with Agnes is followed by a burst of inspiration for a romance about a pair of star-crossed lovers, and the children perform as three witches for their mother. Young Hamnet dreams of being a player on the stage for his father, practicing his sword fighting daily. As explained by William’s stern mother, Mary (Emily Watson), God can just as quickly take away what he has granted. The death of young Hamnet from disease, coupled with the physical separation between Agnes and Will as he works in London, sends Agnes into a downward spiral of grief. The pair goes through the stages in different cadences, losing sight of each other and inviting agony. This story may be a tear-jerker (this is the most I’ve cried during a movie in years), but there isn’t a single moment where it's cloying at those ducts. Zhao depicts an honest collision course of pain, featuring two of the best actors working today. Buckley is nothing short of transcendent, practically engraving her Oscar with every moment of laughter and cries. She is not a tragic figure to be tossed aside in favor of her husband’s greatness. She encapsulates the entire human experience, what it means to be your true self, and then produce an extension of that through children. Like Zhao, Mescal’s abilities are better suited for smaller stories, as evidenced by his relatively disappointing work in last year’s Gladiator II as opposed to his previous highlights of Aftersun and All of Us Strangers . But that’s not to say any of his performances are small, far from it. It’s heartbreakingly cathartic to witness him channeling his torment into his work, recontextualizing the most celebrated works of the English language for those who were previously uninitiated. A special mention must be given to the young actors who play the children: Bodhi Rae Breathnach, Olivia Lynes, and Jacobi Jupe. The latter is phenomenal as the titular boy, never once falling into the perennial trap of overplaying their hands. He is pushed just as hard as the adults, passing with flying colors at every moment. Outstanding music from the industry’s most underappreciated composer, Max Richter, aids in this journey. The apex is reached when he reintroduces his most famous piece of music, all but guaranteeing the need for tissues to be passed around for each person in the audience. By staging "Hamlet," Shakespeare preserved his child. His body may have only been a part of this physical world for a mere eleven years, but his spirit has lived on for over half a millennium, adapting to serve different cultures and contexts. Zhao’s film is a single drop in an ocean; the mightiest one that pushes the waves in a bold new direction. More Reviews A House of Dynamite October 9, 2025 By: Hunter Friesen Tron: Ares October 8, 2025 By: Hunter Friesen After the Hunt October 7, 2025 By: Hunter Friesen Roofman October 6, 2025 By: Hunter Friesen Hunter Friesen