dierregi

Take Memento, lobotomize it, marinate it in a wokefest, and cast Russell Crowe - the gladiator turned walking PSA for bad habits -who now seems to be auditioning for the role of "man most determined to make decrepitude look like an art form."

The film trots out Ray, an ex-cop with Alzheimer's, who's miraculously lucid enough to "investigate" when a death-row inmate begs him to intervene. Haven't we all been here before? The wrongly accused. The clock ticking. And of course, the inmate is Black, a convert, practically haloed with the aura of Malcolm X. Could he be guilty? Please, this script would rather strangle itself with clichés than risk moral ambiguity.

So Ray fumbles down memory lane, with his old partner Jimmy tagging along like a sad retriever. Between plot holes big enough to drive a hearse through, they "uncover truths" that land like wet sponges. By the time the ending limps across the finish line, you're left wondering whether the filmmakers forgot the difference between poignant and plain stupid.

The cherry on this collapsed sundae is that AI wrote the most glowing review here. Even the bots are being conned now.

Carlo Lizzani's Mussolini: Ultimo Atto isn't much of a "movie", it has all the cinematic flair of a TV docudrama, with stiff dialogue and zero visual imagination. But where it succeeds is in tearing down the Fascist myth.

Instead of the blustering Duce of propaganda, we get the real Mussolini: a pathetic, dithering coward stumbling through his final days, hiding, lying, and clinging to scraps of dignity he never had.

History books tell you how it ended; this film shows you why it was inevitable.

Not fun, not stylish, but effective in its grim way. And honestly, seeing Mussolini reduced to a whimper instead of a roar feels like the only satisfying ending he deserved.

I've never been seduced by Some Like It Hot. I've watched it more than once, always hoping the magic would strike, but it never has. The problem is that Billy Wilder was far too cynical to make a truly warm comedy. He's brilliant with wit and mechanics, yes, but warmth? Not his native language.

Tony Curtis plays one of the cheapest phonies ever to be sold as a "romantic lead." He's just a smarmy opportunist. Jack Lemmon, meanwhile, is genuinely funny, easily the liveliest thing in the film, but his character's baffling loyalty to Curtis makes no sense. He spends two hours bending over backwards so his "friend" can seduce Marilyn Monroe, and for what?

And Marilyn... I've never been a devotee of the "blonde bombshell" cult, but here she's not even a character, just an exquisitely lit, barely dressed daydream. Wilder's camera doesn't flirt with her; it practically undresses her. That yacht scene? It's not suggestive; it's a sprinkle of sequins over a naked body, with the plot politely pretending it's still a comedy.

As for the famous drag conceit... please. My suspension of disbelief has limits, and the idea that anyone could genuinely mistake Lemmon and Curtis for women is beyond them. They look like men in wigs, and not even especially committed ones. The "love story" between Curtis and Monroe is equally hollow; I never believed for a moment he was in love with Sugar. He's in love with the idea of winning.

Yes, it's fast, it's clever, it broke a few taboos, but for all the frantic fun, it's as cold as the Chicago winter it opens with. Some like it hot. I like it... not frozen, but definitely room temperature.