Tag: Reviews

The Walking Dead: Dead City Season 3 Review – Maggie and Negan Evolve

A cinematic, atmospheric editorial illustration for a television review of The Walking Dead: Dead City Season 3. Show a post-apocalyptic Manhattan skyline at dusk, with overgrown skyscrapers, a fortified community glowing with warm lights, distant walkers as small silhouettes, and two separate human figures standing together on a rooftop—one rugged older man and one determined woman—suggesting uneasy partnership, survival, and hope. Moody blue-gray shadows contrasted with amber community light, dramatic composition, no text, no logos, no recognizable actor likenesses.

My fellow zombie lovers, you will delighted to hear that Series 3 of Dead City is out. So far I’ve watched the first two episodes and I haven’t been disappointed.

The Walking Dead: Dead City Season 3 is the season this spin-off has been circling for two years: leaner, warmer, and finally built around what Maggie and Negan can become together rather than what they keep refusing to forgive.

After seasons that sometimes felt trapped in the same argument, Season 3 lets the pair stop circling the grave and start building something. The official pitch is simple and surprisingly effective: Maggie and Negan put their differences aside to help create the first thriving community in Manhattan since the fall. That shift, under new showrunner Seth Hoffman, is the whole point. The show still has walkers, raids, and ugly choices, but the engine is no longer revenge. It is whether two people with a decade of blood between them can share a purpose without collapsing.

Lauren Cohan and Jeffrey Dean Morgan have always been the reason to watch. Here they finally get scenes that treat their history as settled enough to work with, not as a reset button. Maggie is a leader again, not just a wound in motion. Negan is useful, funny, and still dangerous, but the performance is less about swagger and more about someone who wants a place to stand. Their chemistry is sharper when they are allies with unfinished business than when they are enemies reciting the same speech. Hershel’s presence gives that alliance a future instead of just a score to settle

The new company helps. Aimee Garcia’s Renata and Raúl Castillo’s Luis give the season a community with a pulse: siblings trying to make a hospital and a neighborhood feel like a home instead of a bunker. Jimmi Simpson’s Dillard is the season’s wild card, eccentric and increasingly unhinged, the kind of guest star who makes every scene tilt. The show uses these characters to ask a better question than “Who is the next warlord?” It asks what happens when hope advertises itself in a city that has learned not to trust beacons.

Hoffman has talked about wanting hope after years of writing some of the franchise’s bleakest stretches, and you can feel that intention. Season 3 is still violent and messy. It is also interested in work, mentorship, apartments, overflow survivors, and the awkward business of living next to people you did not choose. Manhattan looks better for it. The city is not just rubble and set dressing; it is a place characters want to keep.

Four stars out of five from me.

The Fix: Kabul, Tehran, and an Old-School Mission of Redemption

A cinematic movie review aesthetic image featuring popcorn in a striped bucket, a vintage film reel, a clapperboard, and soft dramatic cinema lighting. Warm golden and deep red tones, moody atmosphere, film grain texture overlay. Horizontal composition, editorial feel.

My dear readers, this is a very interesting film I watched earlier. I have to say, I really enjoyed it.

The Fix is the kind of mid-budget action thriller Hollywood used to make with more regularity: long, loud, a little overstuffed, and unexpectedly sincere about the damage that follows the men who do the dirty work. Directed by Guy Moshe from a story that began with former CIA officer Bazzel Baz, it follows a team of disgraced operators from the wreckage of Kabul to the streets of Tehran, chasing both a hidden fortune and a last shot at meaning. It is not a lean machine. It is a bruising, old-fashioned mission picture that wants spectacle and conscience, and for long stretches it gets both.

The film opens in August 2021, in the collapsing chaos of the American withdrawal from Afghanistan. Tucker, played by Zachary Levi with a clenched, exhausted gravity far from his superhero charm, leads a CIA special-operations team tasked with extracting a valued Afghan ally before the Taliban close in. This is not really that well explained in the film, and this could become a major shortcomings in time when the average viewer won’t know the history. The mission goes wrong in the way these missions always seem to go wrong: too late, too little air cover, impossible choices. Tucker makes one of those choices — one that saves some lives and ends another — and the Agency answers by discarding the entire unit. Liam Neeson’s Larry, their handler and something close to a father figure, is left equally stranded. The first half-hour is the film at its most effective: dusty, panicked, morally ugly, and unusually willing to sit with the shame of a botched rescue rather than rushing to the next explosion.

A year later, Tucker is adrift. The movie takes time with that drift — the strained marriage, the son he barely knows how to talk to, the nights that never quite end. Then Larry, now frail and slipping, lets something slip: in 1981, after the embassy fell, he and others bricked $25 million into a wall in Tehran for a counterrevolution that never came. The money is still there. So is an Iranian former asset who will only give up the location if Tucker also extracts her activist daughter. What begins as a payday becomes a redemption job, then a rescue, then a tangle of both. Tucker does what operators like him do. He calls the old team.That team is the movie’s secret weapon. Wes Chatham, Quincy Isaiah, Jake Choi, Augusto Aguilera, and Grant Harvey play the kind of interchangeable-looking operators who, in lesser films, vanish into beards and tactical vests. Here they have enough texture — grief, gallows humor, private debts — to feel like a unit rather than a firing squad. Elnaaz Norouzi’s Zara, recruited as Tucker’s cover wife and Farsi-speaking partner on the ground, gives the infiltration scenes a live-wire tension; Lara Wolf’s Maryam, the young woman they have to get out, refuses to be cargo. Annet Mahendru and Titus Welliver fill the edges with the bureaucratic and personal wreckage these men left behind. Neeson, used sparingly, is the film’s moral weather system: gravel, regret, and the sense that he has already paid more than the plot will admit.

Once the team is inside Iran, Moshe starts stacking plates. Cover identities, hotel corridors, Revolutionary Guard compounds, a train extraction running in parallel with a heist. The New York Times called that dual sequence lunacy that “plays,” and that is exactly right. Moshe cross-cuts with real showmanship: one team moving people, another tearing into a wall that has waited forty years, both clocks running out at once. It is the high point of the movie — messy, improbable, and genuinely exciting in the way a good heist-rescue hybrid should be. Larry Smith’s cinematography keeps the Tehran sequences readable even when the geography gets busy; the action is physical and a little brutal, more 13 Hours than slick superhero cleanup.

Visually, the film is very impressive with long camera shots of the Iranian landscape, further immersing you in the action, and making it all “feel” very real.

What distinguishes The Fix from a dozen other “one last job” pictures is its preoccupation with aftermath. These men are not looking for glory. They are looking for a version of themselves that can sleep. The script keeps circling sin, loyalty, and the difference between following an order and doing the right thing when the order is already too late. Faith language flickers at the edges — truth, freedom, the possibility of being remade — without turning the film into a sermon. Plugged In, of all places, noticed that the movie is about flawed people trying to make a better choice after they have already failed. That is the heartbeat under the gunfire. Tucker is not a superhero who discovers his power. He is a man who already used his power and cannot forget what it cost.

The film is long — 141 minutes — but I didn’t feel it. Moshe knows when to add a twist, a double-cross, or another corridor. Some of the geopolitics is broad. Some of the plotting is the kind of late-movie convolution that makes you throw up your hands and then, a minute later, lean forward anyway because the set piece is working. Variety called it polished but uneven, watchable even when it misses the bullseye. That is a fair description of its best self: not elegant, but committed. The performances hold when the story overreaches. Levi, asked to play the strong-silent type, finds something wounded and stubborn rather than blank. Neeson can do this role in his sleep and still makes it sting. The supporting women, given less room than they deserve, still register as people with agency rather than prizes.

The Fix will not convert anyone who wants lean, modern, morally tidy thrillers. It is an unapologetic American action movie about operators who break rules, bury cash, and then try to dig something better out of the wall. It is also, in its better hours, a film about what happens when the war ends and the men who fought it are still standing in the rubble, looking for a job that might feel like grace. See it for the Kabul opening, for the train-and-compound cross-cut, for Neeson’s quiet wreckage, and for a team that actually feels like a team.

Four point five stars out of five from me.

Why Blood Sacrifice Is a Must-Watch Nordic Noir on Netflix

Stockholm waterfront with City Hall tower, boats, and sunset

Now, for something a bit different from Sweden. Blood Sacrifice is one of the sharpest, most satisfying Nordic noirs Netflix has delivered in years. The five-episode Swedish series, created by George Kay (Lupin, Hijack) and directed by Kristoffer Nyholm (The Killing), dropped on August 20, 2026 and immediately announced itself as a late-summer standout: taut, emotionally grounded, and constructed for a single sitting.

It is summer in Stockholm, when the light never fully dies. An emergency call about a home invasion at a summer house in the archipelago sends two officers to a scene that appears empty. The next day their bodies are found. What follows is a string of attacks that appear to target the police themselves. Detective Thomas Berg (Jakob Oftebro) is put in charge and, against every instinct, turns to the last person he wants involved: his estranged father Alfred (Peter Andersson), a retired detective whose career ended in disgrace. That is the setup. The show never wastes it.

It has facets of a love story between an estranged father and son… wrapped up inside a dark horror. The procedural engine is strong—the killer’s pattern, the institutional pressure, the sense that time is running out—but the real voltage comes from the relationship between Thomas and Alfred. Oftebro plays the younger Berg as tightly controlled, professional, and quietly furious at the man who was never there. Andersson gives Alfred a lived-in mix of bitterness, residual brilliance, and the particular loneliness of someone who knows the job better than the people still doing it. Their scenes together have the uncomfortable intimacy of people who share history they would rather not examine. The supporting ensemble (Electra Hallman, Henrik Norlén, Lisette T. Pagler and others) feels lived-in rather than decorative.

Nyholm’s direction is a major asset. He uses the strange, lingering Nordic summer light as both atmosphere and metaphor: everything is visible and nothing feels safe. The Stockholm and archipelago locations are photographed with a cool precision that never tips into postcard prettiness. Violence, when it arrives, is sudden and ugly rather than stylized. The five-episode length (episodes run roughly 44–58 minutes) is the show’s secret weapon. There is no room for padding. Clues land, tensions escalate, and the father-son dynamic is allowed to breathe without being subordinated to endless red herrings. The result is a series you can finish in an evening and still feel you’ve watched something substantial.

Four stars out of five from me.

The Epic Career of Samuel L. Jackson, Hollywood’s Iron Man

A dramatic, cinematic illustration of a powerful, charismatic Hollywood actor on a dark, moody background. The scene evokes classic film noir combined with blockbuster energy — a silhouette of a commanding figure in a long coat, standing center frame with confident posture, surrounded by subtle visual references to iconic movie moments: a briefcase, a lightsaber glow, a shield emblem. Rich blacks, deep reds, and gold tones. Epic and timeless in feel.

Now, for a post about one of my favorite actors, the iconic Samuel L. Jackson. His career is one of the great American acting stories: late-blooming, relentlessly productive, and built on a rare mix of craft, presence, and pop-cultural permanence. He didn’t land a major role till his mid-forties. Over more than five decades he has gone from regional theater and bit parts to becoming one of the most recognizable faces in world cinema—and, by several box-office measures, among the highest-grossing actors of all time.

Born Samuel Leroy Jackson on December 21, 1948, in Washington, D.C., and raised in Chattanooga, Tennessee, he found acting while studying at Morehouse College. A stutter led a speech therapist to suggest the stage; he switched from architecture to drama and never really left. After graduating in 1972 he worked in New York theater, originating roles such as Private Louis Henderson in Charles Fuller’s A Soldier’s Play and Boy Willie in August Wilson’s The Piano Lesson. That stage foundation—precision of language, physical command, and an ability to hold a room—still shows in almost everything he does.

The film work started small: Coming to America (1988), Spike Lee’s School Daze and Do the Right Thing, a flash in Goodfellas. Then came Jungle Fever (1991). As Gator Purify, the crack-addicted brother of Wesley Snipes’s architect, Jackson was so raw and specific that the Cannes jury created a special supporting-actor prize for him. He used some of his own problems with drugs to help him reflect the rawness of it all. It was the first time many people outside the theater world saw what colleagues already knew: he could make a supporting part feel like the center of the movie.

Pulp Fiction (1994) made him a star. Jules Winnfield—scripture-quoting, briefcase-guarding, morally awakening hit man—is one of the defining performances of 1990s cinema. Jackson won the BAFTA for Best Supporting Actor and earned an Oscar nomination; the Ezekiel 25:17 monologue became part of the culture. This is my favorite role that he played.

He followed it with a run that proved range rather than type: Zeus Carver in Die Hard with a Vengeance, Carl Lee Hailey in A Time to Kill, Mitch Henessey opposite Geena Davis in The Long Kiss Goodnight, and Ordell Robbie in Tarantino’s Jackie Brown, which won him the Silver Bear at Berlin. He could be terrifying, funny, righteous, or all three in the same scene.

Then came the franchises that turned a great character actor into a global brand. As Mace Windu in the Star Wars prequels he gave the Jedi Council a steel spine and a purple lightsaber—his own request so he could find himself in the crowd. As Nick Fury in the Marvel Cinematic Universe, beginning with a post-credits cameo in Iron Man (2008), he became the connective tissue of the biggest film series of the 21st century. Marvel had already modeled Ultimate Nick Fury on his likeness; Jackson signed a multi-picture deal and made the eyepatch, the trench coat, and the dry authority feel inevitable. He also voiced Frozone in The Incredibles films, proving he could sell heroism with nothing but a voice.

What is most impressive is that the blockbusters never replaced the interesting work. He kept returning to Spike Lee and Quentin Tarantino (Django Unchained, The Hateful Eight), took on Unbreakable and Glass with M. Night Shyamalan, led Shaft, and later went back to Broadway in the 2022 revival of The Piano Lesson, earning a Tony nomination. In 2022 the Academy gave him an Honorary Oscar, describing him as “a cultural icon whose dynamic work has resonated across genres and generations and audiences worldwide.” That citation is accurate.

The numbers only underline the consistency. His films have collectively grossed well over $27 billion worldwide; Guinness and box-office trackers have repeatedly placed him at or near the top of actor gross lists, with dozens of titles clearing $100 million. He works constantly, chooses roles that amuse him as much as they pay him (Snakes on a Plane is the famous example), and still sounds like himself—wry, precise, a little dangerous—whether he is quoting scripture or assembling the Avengers.

The career is a model of durability without calcification. Jackson did not become a movie star until his mid-forties, then spent the next thirty years refusing to shrink. He made supporting parts legendary, leading parts bankable, and franchise parts human. That combination—theater-trained intensity, pop-star recognizability, and a work ethic that never cooled—is why the review of his career stays so easy to write in the positive: there is simply an enormous amount of good work, and it keeps arriving.

Vince Young’s Rise, Fall and Reckoning in Netflix’s ‘Untold’

A lone American football player silhouetted against the bright stadium lights at dusk, standing on an empty field, cinematic and moody atmosphere evoking reflection, reckoning, and the weight of fame and legacy

This is well worth a watch. It’s very different from previous documentaries I’ve reviewed in that this is the story of a sports star who didn’t end up with a great professional career. Untold: The Testimony of Vince Young is one of the most affecting entries in Netflix’s sports documentary series: a raw, first-person reckoning that treats a college football icon as a full human being rather than a cautionary headline.

Directed by John Henion and clocking in at a tight 78 minutes, it opens with Vince Young’s blunt admission that he is still not at peace with his journey. That honesty sets the tone. The film does not simply replay the 2006 Rose Bowl—the fourth-and-five scramble, the national championship, the “greatest individual performance” lore—then fade to black. It uses that night as the starting point for a deeper story about pressure, absent fathers, the wrong coach at the wrong time, sudden grief, and the long work of owning your mistakes.

Young’s college years are presented with the electricity they deserve. Mack Brown’s Texas program needed a transcendent talent to restore relevance; Young delivered it. The documentary captures both the physical gifts (the run, the jump, the throw) and the emotional ones: a young man who grew up without a father in the house, who found surrogate guidance in Brown and especially in Steve McNair, and who still carries the ache of watching other Heisman finalists celebrate with their dads. When McNair is later murdered, the loss lands as more than sports tragedy. Heroes are not supposed to die, Young says. The film lets that wound stay open.

The NFL section is where the documentary becomes most compelling. Young was Offensive Rookie of the Year. He was the face of a franchise and a video game. Then injuries, a frosty relationship with Jeff Fisher, public outbursts, and personal unraveling took over the narrative. Fisher sits for an interview and remains strikingly unrepentant—“He showed weakness”—which gives the film a clear dramatic foil without turning Young into a simple victim. Young himself takes responsibility for drinking, partying, fighting, financial wreckage, and the moments he let people down. The testimony in the title is not spin. It is a man in his forties looking at the highlight reels and the wreckage and refusing to flatten either.

What elevates the film beyond a standard rise-and-fall sports doc is its refusal to treat redemption as a tidy third act. Young is now back at Texas as a special assistant, a husband and father of three, still working through forgiveness toward the father who left. The movie does not pretend the last chapter is written. It simply insists the last public image—the flameout, the pads thrown into the stands, the bankruptcy—does not have to be the whole story.

Henion’s film is lean, well-paced, and emotionally direct. Interviews with Brown, teammates, Matt Leinart, and Young’s family give it texture without turning it into a talking-head parade. Archival footage of the Rose Bowl still thrills; the quieter scenes of Young reflecting on what he needed and what he never got are what linger. It is bittersweet, captivating, and unexpectedly generous. For anyone who remembers that January night in 2006, or anyone interested in how talent, timing, and trauma collide, this is essential viewing. It does what the best Untold films do: it complicates the legend without diminishing it.

Four stars out of five.

One Mile: Chapter One Review – A Gripping Survival Thriller

Highway winding toward snow-capped mountains at sunset

This film is currently being shown on Paramount+. I decided that I’d give it a try.

One Mile: Chapter One (2026) is a taut, gripping, and emotionally grounded survival thriller that delivers high-stakes action while never losing sight of its heart: a father’s fierce determination to protect and reconnect with his daughter. That’s the first thing that’s different about this film. It’s the first one in quite some I’ve watched with this father, daughter dynamic.

Ryan Phillippe stars as Danny Beckett, a recently retired U.S. Army Special Forces operative struggling to bridge the gap with his teenage daughter Alex (Amélie Hoeferle) after years of absence due to his military service.

What begins as an earnest college road-trip detours into nightmare territory when the pair encounters a secretive, violent off-the-grid community in the wilderness. Alex is taken, and Danny must rely on every hard-earned skill he possesses to track the kidnappers, outmaneuver them, and bring her home—alone and outnumbered.Phillippe delivers a compelling, grounded performance.

He plays Danny not as an invincible action machine but as a capable yet weary, emotionally frayed father whose protective instincts and tactical expertise feel authentic and hard-won. The early scenes establishing the strained father-daughter dynamic give the subsequent violence real weight; you root for Danny because his mission is as much about redemption and reconnection as pure survival.

Hoeferle is excellent as Alex—intelligent, resilient, and fully realized rather than a passive victim—creating genuine chemistry and tension with Phillippe that elevates the material. C. Thomas Howell brings layered intensity as Stanley Dixon, the community’s leader, portraying a man driven by his own twisted sense of protecting his people rather than cartoonish villainy.

Director Adam Davidson (known for strong television work on shows like Bosch and Deadwood) keeps the pacing lean and purposeful across the roughly 90-minute runtime. The film builds atmosphere effectively through its remote, isolating wilderness setting (shot on Vancouver Island), then shifts into sharp, practical action sequences that emphasize resourcefulness and high tension over excess spectacle. The sense of isolation and danger feels palpable, and the story balances pulse-pounding set pieces with quieter character moments that make the stakes personal.

As the first half of a two-chapter story released simultaneously, Chapter One works strongly on its own: it establishes the characters, ratchets up the conflict, and leaves you eager for the resolution without feeling incomplete or padded. It’s a satisfying, no-frills thriller in the vein of efficient modern survival-rescue films, distinguished by solid performances, a clear emotional core, and efficient storytelling.

Spoiler!

Still, the film’s ending doesn’t make much sense. He rescues her but they forget to do anything about the compound or the other women. Like even telling the police.

Four stars from me.

The Man from U.N.C.L.E.: A Stylish Spy Adventure Review

Two vintage sports cars driving along a winding coastal cliff road

Another gem from the 2010s. I’m on my holidays so that’s why I’m spewing out content lol If you would like to support this blog why not make a contribution or support our advertisers.

The Man from U.N.C.L.E. (2015) is pure stylish escapism—a sparkling, high-octane Cold War romp that delivers charm, chemistry, and cinematic flair in equal measure.Guy Ritchie’s sleek adaptation of the classic 1960s television series is a gleeful throwback that feels both nostalgic and freshly invigorating. Set against the tense backdrop of 1963, the film follows CIA operative Napoleon Solo (Henry Cavill) and KGB agent Illya Kuryakin (Armie Hammer) as they are forced into an uneasy alliance. Their mission: prevent a dangerous criminal organization from acquiring the means to build a nuclear weapon, with the help of the enigmatic Gaby Teller (Alicia Vikander). What unfolds is less a grim geopolitical thriller and more a stylish adventure filled with sharp banter, elegant set pieces, and irresistible period gloss. The original show was from the 60s, and its amusing that the Russian agent often has the better equipment. This is not something that would happen in a more modern film. Probably due to the fact that the failur

Cavill is perfectly cast as the debonair, morally flexible Solo. He brings a suave, effortless cool that channels classic leading-man charisma while adding a dry, self-aware wit. Hammer matches him beat for beat as the intense, disciplined, and occasionally explosive Illya; the physicality and simmering rivalry between the two create some of the film’s most entertaining moments. Their evolving partnership—from reluctant adversaries to reluctant partners—is the emotional and comedic heart of the movie, and their chemistry crackles with playful tension. Vikander is luminous as Gaby, bringing intelligence, vulnerability, and quiet strength that elevates every scene she’s in. Supporting turns, including Hugh Grant’s silky, understated contribution, add extra polish.

Ritchie’s direction is the secret weapon. He leans into the glamorous, high-fashion aesthetic of the era with gorgeous production design, impeccable costumes, and a rich color palette that makes every frame feel like a vintage magazine spread come to life. The action sequences are kinetic yet clear, blending inventive choreography with a light touch that never takes itself too seriously. Set pieces—whether high-speed chases, tense infiltrations, or clever heists—are executed with wit and visual inventiveness, keeping the energy buoyant throughout. The soundtrack, packed with period-perfect tracks and a score that swings between sleek sophistication and pulsing excitement, further immerses you in the world.

What makes The Man from U.N.C.L.E. especially delightful is its tone. It balances espionage thrills with genuine humor and old-school movie-star magnetism without ever tipping into parody or cynicism. The script (co-written by Ritchie and Lionel Wigram) keeps the plot moving at a brisk, entertaining clip while giving the characters room to spark off one another. There is a genuine sense of fun running through every scene—the kind of confident, crowd-pleasing craftsmanship that makes you lean forward in your seat and smile.

At a lean and satisfying runtime, the film never overstays its welcome. It knows exactly what it wants to be: a stylish, crowd-pleasing spy adventure that prioritizes entertainment, chemistry, and visual pleasure. In an era of darker, more self-serious blockbusters, The Man from U.N.C.L.E. stands out as a refreshing reminder of how enjoyable a well-made, stylish genre film can be.If you love classic spy movies, sharp dialogue, beautiful production values, and leads who look like they stepped out of a 1960s fashion spread, this one is an absolute treat. It gets four stars from me.

Big Chicken: A Fast Food Conspiracy Review

Interior of a poultry farm with rows of white chickens and yellow feeders

I watched an interesting documentary yesterday. Beware, though; it might put you off your chicken for good.

Big Chicken: A Fast Food Conspiracy is an engaging, thought-provoking, and highly watchable Netflix documentary that smartly blends personal experiment, cultural insight, and industry investigation. Released in 2026 and directed by Liana Stewart (produced by Mindhouse), the film follows British comedian and BAFTA winner Mo Gilligan as he embarks on a bold 28-day challenge: eating nothing but fast-food fried chicken for breakfast, lunch, and dinner—84 meals in total—while traveling from South London to key spots across the United States. What begins as a playful, self-aware love letter to his favorite comfort food evolves into a compelling examination of the historical roots of fried chicken, the massive industrial forces behind its global popularity, and the real impacts on health, communities, the environment, and culture.

Gilligan is an inspired and charismatic host. His warmth, humor, and genuine curiosity make the material accessible and relatable rather than preachy. As a Black British comedian with a clear personal connection to chicken-shop culture, he brings authenticity and emotional honesty—openly sharing both his enthusiasm at the start and the physical and mental toll the experiment takes (weight gain, sluggishness, mood changes, and digestive issues). You can see him physically deteriorate on camera over the course of the show. This personal stake grounds the bigger themes and helps the film speak effectively to a broad audience, including younger viewers who might not otherwise seek out food-industry documentaries. It feels like a fresh, Gen-Z-friendly update to the Super Size Me formula, infused with Gilligan’s likable energy and comic timing.

The documentary covers substantial ground effectively. It traces fried chicken’s origins and cultural significance (including confronting racist stereotypes and examining marketing and appropriation), explores how modern industrial breeding prioritizes rapid growth over flavor and welfare, highlights the role of ultra-processed foods and additives, and looks at broader societal effects such as food deserts, targeted marketing in lower-income communities, labor conditions in processing, and environmental consequences of large-scale poultry farming. Journeys through places like Houston, New Orleans, Chicago, and Arkansas, along with conversations with experts, activists, and others, keep the pacing dynamic and the revelations impactful without overwhelming the narrative.

At roughly 96 minutes, the film is tightly assembled and slickly produced. It balances the gonzo personal experiment with travelogue elements and investigative threads, using Gilligan’s reactions and vulnerability to humanize statistics and systemic issues. It successfully sparks curiosity about food origins and encourages more informed choices without demanding absolute purity or lecturing viewers. Many will leave thinking differently about their next takeaway order while still appreciating the cultural joy and social role the food holds for many people. Overall, Big Chicken: A Fast Food Conspiracy succeeds as entertaining, enlightening viewing. Gilligan’s charm carries the personal story, the scope of the investigation is ambitious and relevant, and the result is a documentary that informs, challenges assumptions, and remains enjoyable throughout.

Four stars out of five from me. Not to be watched before dinner.

Kevin Hart Shines in 72 Hours Comedy

People dancing and celebrating at a rooftop party with city skyline and sunset in the background

Netflix recommended this film after the Kevin Hart. I was in the mood for a laugh so happy days!

72 Hours is a high-energy, laugh-out-loud ride that perfectly captures the chaos of generational culture clash while delivering pure escapist fun. Directed by Tim Story and led by Kevin Hart as Joe, a 40-year-old advertising executive whose career is on the ropes, the film starts with a brilliantly simple and relatable premise: Joe is accidentally added to a group chat of twenty-somethings planning a wild Miami bachelor party.

Seeing a golden opportunity to reconnect with youth culture (and save his job with a vodka campaign pitch), he impulsively joins the strangers for 72 hours of pure mayhem.What follows is a nonstop whirlwind of parties, misunderstandings, escalating stakes, and genuine heart.

Hart is in peak form—energetic, self-deprecating, and endlessly watchable as the older guy desperately trying to keep up with the younger crew. His physical comedy and rapid-fire delivery shine, especially in the escalating situations that force him way outside his comfort zone.

The younger cast, including Marcello Hernández, Mason Gooding, Kam Patterson, and Ben Marshall, bring fresh, sharp energy and excellent chemistry. Their interactions with Hart crackle with authentic generational friction that’s played for both big laughs and surprising warmth.

The Miami setting is vibrant and sun-soaked, full of colorful locations, yacht parties, nightlife, and the kind of larger-than-life set pieces that make this feel like a modern hangover-style adventure with its own distinct personality. The script (from writers including Jon Hurwitz and Hayden Schlossberg) balances broad, raunchy comedy with moments of real insight about ambition, relationships, commitment, and what it means to stay relevant without losing yourself.

Supporting turns from Teyana Taylor and others ground the story emotionally, while cameos and side characters add extra layers of hilarity.Story keeps the pacing tight and the tone breezy. Even when the plot piles on complications (gangsters, mistaken identities, and wild party hijinks), it never loses the sense of fun or the central character journey. Joe’s arc feels earned—his desperate attempts to “get” Gen Z ultimately force him to confront his own life choices, and the payoff is both satisfying and genuinely funny.

At its best, 72 Hours is pure crowd-pleasing entertainment: loud, colorful, frequently hilarious, and surprisingly touching. It’s the kind of movie you watch with friends, quote afterward, and immediately want to rewatch for the best bits. Kevin Hart and the ensemble make the most of every chaotic second, delivering a feel-good comedy that understands both the absurdity of midlife panic and the joy of letting loose.

If you’re looking for a breezy, high-spirited Netflix comedy that celebrates the messiness of life across generations, this one delivers in spades. Highly recommended for anyone who wants to laugh, escape, and maybe reflect a little while having a great time. Four stars from me.

Fukushima: Heroic Stories from the Nuclear Disaster

Control room with numerous monitors and panels showing nuclear reactor status and data

My dear readers, if you are someone who suffers from anxiety, then best to give this a miss. On the other hand if you love learning about disasters, then this is a show for you.

Fukushima: A Nuclear Nightmare is a gripping, meticulously crafted HBO documentary that stands as one of the most compelling and human accounts of the 2011 triple disaster in Japan.

Directed by James Jones (known for Chernobyl: The Lost Tapes) and co-directed by Megumi Inman, this 90-minute film reconstructs the nine harrowing days after the March 11, 2011 magnitude-9.0 earthquake and tsunami disabled the cooling systems at the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear power plant.

It centers the extraordinary courage of the plant workers—later known as the “Fukushima 50” (there were more than 50) — who stayed behind on what many understood could be a suicide mission to prevent a total meltdown that threatened to force the evacuation of Tokyo and potentially endanger the entire country. There was a fear that half the country would be rendered uninhabitable at one point.

What makes the documentary exceptional is its forensic, real-time approach. It weaves powerful archival footage of the earthquake’s chaos, the towering tsunami that erased coastal towns, and the subsequent hydrogen explosions at the plant with candid, first-hand testimonies from control-room engineers, government advisors, TEPCO officials, emergency workers, consultants, and journalists. It is shocking to see the huge waves crashing into the coast causing utter devastation. These interviews convey the mounting pressure, isolation, fear, and resolve inside the darkened, radiation-filled facility.

Viewers feel the tension as systems failed one after another and leaders confronted the unthinkable. The personal accounts—especially from mid-level engineers and the workers who entered the reactors—lend an intimacy and emotional weight that elevate the film far beyond a standard disaster recap.

The filmmaking is taut and respectful. Jones and Inman avoid sensationalism while never soft-pedaling the scale of the crisis or the very real possibility of catastrophe. The editing keeps the narrative propulsive, the archival material is used with precision, and the focus on ordinary people rising to extraordinary circumstances gives the story its heart.

Moments of quiet reflection from the participants underscore both the human cost and the quiet heroism that averted an even greater tragedy.Fifteen years after the events, Fukushima: A Nuclear Nightmare feels urgent and necessary.

It honors the resilience and sacrifice of those who stayed when others could not, while offering a clear-eyed reminder of both the power of nature and the critical importance of preparedness and human resolve. It is essential viewing—tense, moving, and ultimately inspiring. Five stars out of five from me.