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Oh, where to even begin with this thing?

I sat down to watch "All's Fair" with... well, let's call it "morbid curiosity." The buzz was huge, the cast list was baffling. Kim Kardashian and the Glenn Close? In a Ryan Murphy legal drama? What kind of chaotic-neutral energy was this?

Well, the results are in. "All's Fair" isn't just a show. It's a crime scene. It is, without a single shred of hyperbole, one of the most fascinatingly, existentially terrible pieces of television I have ever been forced to witness.

You called it a dumpster fire. That's an insult to dumpsters.

The Black Hole at the Center Let's just get the obvious out of the way. We have to talk about Kim Kardashian.

I was willing-I wanted, even-to be surprised. Her turn in American Horror Story was... fine. It was camp. She played a sassy publicist, which is basically her playing herself with a different name. But leading a high-stakes legal drama? That requires... what's the word? Oh, right. Acting.

Her performance as Allura Grant, a high-powered divorce attorney, is stiff. It's affectless. It's a void. She delivers lines about devastating legal battles and emotional collapse with the same flat, vacant energy of someone ordering a salad. There is no charisma, no screen presence. It's not just that she's wooden; she's petrified wood.

There's a scene in the pilot where she's supposed to be confronting a cheating husband (played by Matthew Noszka, who seems equally lost). She looks at him with an expression that I can only describe as "mildly inconvenienced," as if her driver was five minutes late. I've seen mannequins at Target show more human emotion.

She is an anchor, and she is dragging every single person, every single scene, down to the bottom of the ocean with her.

Will Someone Please Save Glenn Close?

This brings me to the real tragedy of "All's Fair." The part that just feels... cruel.

Glenn Close.

What on earth is she doing here? What kompromat does Ryan Murphy have on this eight-time Oscar nominee?

Watching Glenn Close try to act opposite Kim Kardashian is one of the most painful things I've ever seen. Close is, as always, a master. She's giving you gravitas. She's chewing the scenery (what little of it the script provides). She's trying to play 4D chess, and her scene partner is just... blinking.

You can see the light go out of her eyes. She'll deliver a blistering, powerhouse monologue, a masterpiece of subtle rage and legal menace. The camera then cuts to Kardashian, who just kind of... stands there. And replies, "...Okay." It kills the scene. It kills the momentum. It's like watching a Formula 1 driver get stuck behind a broken-down golf cart. She can't save this show. The show is actively drowning her. The same goes for the rest of the actual talent-Naomi Watts, Niecy Nash, Sarah Paulson-all of them looking around, baffled, wondering how they got trapped in the world's most expensive, badly written TikTok skit.

The Rest of the Fire Even without the casting black hole, the show is a disaster. The writing is dismal. It's a "feminist fable" that sounds like it was written by a 14-year-old boy who just discovered "girlboss" memes. The dialogue is a stream of tacky, nonsensical slogans that would feel outdated 30 years ago.

It's glossy, it's expensive, and it's completely hollow.

"All's Fair" is an unmitigated catastrophe, and frankly, Hulu owes us all an apology. Especially Glenn.

They don't make sequels like The Wrath of Khan anymore. In fact, they barely make science fiction like this anymore, full of Shakespearean rage, aging starship captains, and a villain who seems to have been sculpted entirely out of charisma and chest muscles.

Ricardo Montalbán's Khan doesn't just chew scenery; he marinates in it. Every line he delivers sounds like it was forged in the fires of vengeance and hair conditioner. He's the kind of villain who makes you want to start quoting literature just to keep up. William Shatner, meanwhile, gives one of his best performances as Captain Kirk, a man who suddenly realizes that time has a price and that price includes bifocals. The film's real genius isn't the space battles, it's the meditation on mortality. You come for the photon torpedoes, you stay for the midlife crisis in zero gravity. The special effects show their age, but that's part of the charm. Models, matte paintings, and practical explosions always beat a wall of digital mush. James Horner's score deserves its own standing ovation, it's all brass, drama, and cosmic thunder. It's not a perfect film. There are moments where it leans into melodrama hard enough to leave a dent. But that's also why it works. The Wrath of Khan feels alive, earnest, and oddly profound for a movie where people yell "KHAAAAAN!" into the void. If you've ever wondered what it looks like when science fiction grows a soul and a sense of humor about aging, this is it. Nine stars out of ten. One star deducted for permanent emotional damage during Spock's death scene.

Sinners is the kind of movie that makes you sit back when the credits roll and ask yourself, "What the hell did I just watch, and why did I kinda love it?"

Imagine if From Dusk Till Dawn and The Color Purple met at a roadside church revival, made intense eye contact, and decided to trauma-bond through a hallucinogenic road trip across the Bible Belt. That's Sinners in a nutshell: sweaty, soulful, and completely unhinged.

The film opens like a Southern gothic family drama, roots-deep in generational pain, oppression, and redemption, but somewhere along the way it takes a left turn into straight-up horror territory. One minute you're witnessing a heartfelt monologue about faith and forgiveness, the next there's a demon in a choir robe speaking in tongues and vomiting blood onto a crucifix. It's jarring, it's messy, and somehow it almost works.

The performances are the lifeline here. The lead actress (who deserves a better script, honestly) carries the film with the kind of raw, aching intensity that makes you think she could have held her own in an A24 feature. There's a scene where she baptizes her own mother in a bathtub full of snake venom while gospel music blares, and damn it, it shouldn't be beautiful, but it is.

Visually, the movie is stunning in that gritty, sun-bleached way, think stained glass shadows on sweat-slick skin. But for all its aesthetic power, the plot can't seem to decide what it wants to be. Is this a feminist revenge tale? A critique of religious trauma? A demon-slaying spaghetti western? Maybe all three. Maybe none. The tone swings harder than a preacher at a tent revival, and not all of it lands.

By the time the third act hits, you're either fully converted to the chaos or begging for exorcism. Personally, I found myself somewhere in the pews, respecting the ambition, side-eyeing the execution.

Final Verdict: Sinners is bold, genre-bending, and occasionally brilliant, but also wildly uneven, narratively overcooked, and tonally confused. It's a 6/10 from me, but it earns that six with blood, sweat, and pure cinematic audacity.