mariosbenjamin

The 15:17 to Paris is an admirable tribute to real-life heroism, but it's more compelling in concept than in execution. What makes it unique is that the real-life heroes-Spencer Stone, Alek Skarlatos, and Anthony Sadler-play themselves. I didn't know that until the end, but I felt it.

This choice is both the film's strength and its downfall. While their presence adds authenticity to the climactic train sequence, much of the film leading up to it feels flat and awkward. The acting lacks polish, the pacing drags through mundane dialogue and backstory, and the direction often feels like it's stretching thin material just to reach the inevitable moment on the train.

There's genuine sincerity in Eastwood's intention, but the execution is clumsy. The casting of the real heroes gives the film sincerity, but not dramatic weight. The final act is intense and moving, but getting there requires patience through a slow, awkward buildup.

The film works best as a tribute to courage, but it struggles as cinema. As a cinematic experience, it feels more like a re-enactment than a fully realized film. A riveting 5-minute real-life event is wrapped in 85 minutes of underwhelming build-up.

An inspiring story told with honesty, but let down by poor pacing, weak performances, and a lack of dramatic drive. If you watch it, watch it for what it represents-not for how it's made.

Flow is a rare cinematic experience-a strange and beautiful work of animation with no dialogue, no exposition, and no human characters, yet it says more than most films ever do. It's pure visual poetry.

The animation style is minimalist but majestic. Every frame feels hand-crafted, filled with soft lighting, muted colors, and a dreamlike sense of space and silence. It's as if the entire film was created in a flow of imagination and emotion. These long, quiet moments build a deeply meditative atmosphere that invites you to feel rather than follow.

What makes Flow exceptional is how it uses movement and sound instead of language. It's a slow, reflective journey meant for viewers who see storytelling as mood and metaphor, not plot.

The score is delicate and haunting. It shapes your emotions without ever forcing them. And with no dialogue to guide you, the film demands your full attention-not to understand the story, but to interpret it, to project yourself into it. Flow doesn't speak-it listens.

Tony is a film about aimlessness. It follows a man no one sees, and more importantly, no one wants to see-a forgotten figure drifting through society's cracks. Tony isn't a monster created in isolation; he's the result of social decay. The film doesn't give him a backstory, a goal, or even a real conflict. He exists. And that's enough to unsettle.

Peter Ferdinando is brilliantly hollow as Tony-a loner drifting through the gray, indifferent streets of East London. He kills as casual as throwing out the trash. He's not a charming psychopath; he's invisible. There's no glamour, no action-just awkward silences, decaying walls, and a disturbing sense of realism.

The film's tone is suffocatingly quiet. There's no score to guide your emotions, no dramatic build-up. Just silence, awkward pauses, cheap lighting, and damp wallpaper. It plays like a social realist documentary, and that's its strength-and its limitation. Some scenes drag. Some interactions feel aimless. But maybe that's the point: Tony's life is aimless.