mariosbenjamin's reviews

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.

Of the Koker Trilogy, this was the one I connected with the least. From the beginning, I struggled to find the thread-I felt confused, unsure what was going on or what Kiarostami was trying to tell me. It took until the middle of the film for things to settle down, for the story to feel clear and stable.

Having watched the previous two films, I couldn't help but question what was real and what was fiction. Was I watching a film about the filming of a film about a film? Or did something real happen during the making of Life and Nothing More...? The deliberate layering felt like a cinematic hall of mirrors, and it left me in a strange place-curious, but also a little lost.

That disorientation especially marked the first half of the film. I didn't know what the director wanted to say. But in the second half-when we step more into the behind-the-scenes world-I started to feel more grounded, more "safe" within the film's logic.

My experience watching Through the Olive Trees was similar to the other two films in tone, but this time, I felt more annoyed than moved. I found myself sharing the same frustration Hossein feels-especially toward Tahereh. She was silent to the point of being emotionally unreadable. I kept asking myself: does she truly have a heart of stone, or is her silence heavy with cultural pressure, class tension, or something unspoken? Kiarostami usually invites us to fill in the gaps-but here, I couldn't fill them properly. The silence didn't open up meaning for me; it just left me uncertain.

And yet, the final long shot changed everything. It's quiet, stretched out, and unresolved-but it speaks volumes about emotional risk and the courage to hope, even when you might be ignored. That final moment gave the film its power.

In the end, Through the Olive Trees asks for a lot of patience. It's not emotionally direct like Where Is the Friend's House?, but it's intellectually rich and thought-provoking. Still, I'm not sure if it completes the trilogy-or if it's just a film that could have been made in another cinematic world.

After watching Where Is My Friend's House?, I was curious to see what came next - and And Life Goes On was definitely different. The movie feels like a greeting, or even a tribute, from the director to the villages and people where he filmed Where Is My Friend's House?. I really appreciated that - he didn't forget them.

By putting himself as a character in the film, Kiarostami makes the experience feel personal. The idea behind the film is interesting: a director (a stand-in for Kiarostami himself) returns to the village after the real 1990 earthquake to look for the child actors from his earlier movie. I respect that the film blurs the line between fiction and documentary, following the director and his son on this journey through devastation.

It gives you the same quiet, intimate vibes as the first movie. Minimalist storytelling, long takes, real locations, and non-professional actors create a raw, meditative tone. But this time, we see how Kiarostami has learned something from Ahmad in the first film - that same determination and discipline. Just as Ahmad searched for his friend's house with complete dedication, here the director searches for the child actor with the same energy. It's like Kiarostami is now embodying the moral of his previous film.

That said, while the subject of this film is heavier and more tragic, it didn't move me as much emotionally. Kiarostami captures how ordinary people confront unimaginable loss - and still smile, rebuild, and live. Without sensationalizing anything. But although the conversations felt natural and the scenes real, they didn't always pull me in. I wasn't bored, but I didn't feel fully connected either. It's more about the atmosphere and message than a traditional story, and while that has value, it didn't hit me as hard as I hoped.

There were definitely touching moments, and I appreciate what the film stands for. But as a whole, it didn't leave a deep emotional impact on me. I'd say it's a thoughtful and respectful film - just not one I'd personally return to.

This film is innocent and warm at its core, yet it leaves you with a quiet chill. Ahmad's quiet determination, loyalty, discipline, and guilt stand taller than the rigid, inherited logic of the adults around him-adults bound by outdated traditions and cold indifference. His sense of duty isn't taught; it comes from something deeper, something real.

I was moved by the minimalist style of the film. It's a masterclass in simplicity-from the storytelling to the visuals. Through a child-centered lens, Kiarostami subtly critiques the social structures around us. Within Ahmad's innocent soul lies a quiet rebellion: a gentle yet powerful meditation on responsibility, empathy, and the stubborn logic of the adult world.

Ahmad is the true hero here. Against the backdrop of passive, rule-obsessed adults, he stands out as a figure of integrity and perseverance. While they cling to routine and authority, he is driven by something purer: friendship, and the simple need to do what's right.

Kiarostami's artistic eye and mind shine in every frame. His use of real locations and non-professional actors blurs the line between fiction and reality, grounding Ahmad's emotional journey in authenticity.

The cinematography is patient, even meditative. The rural landscapes are allowed to breathe. Every dusty path, every narrow doorway, becomes part of Ahmad's inner world. There's no score-just footsteps, silence, and the sounds of life-which makes the journey feel even more intimate.

In the end, this child's quiet journey asks a universal question: What does it mean to do the right thing when no one else seems to care?

I genuinely admire the concept and core idea behind Excuse My French. The synopsis alone is striking-a smart, brave, and heartfelt attempt to tackle one of the most sensitive and often-ignored issues in the Middle East: the experience of religious minorities, especially Christians. The film doesn't shy away from revealing the disgusting and ugly truth about sectarian bias and casual prejudice. In that sense, it's a rare film in Arab cinema-critical, bold, and told with subtle irony. It manages to feel intimate while exposing a deeply rooted societal illness, all without ever becoming overtly didactic.

That said, while the film's message is powerful, its execution is sadly underwhelming. Technically, there's little to praise. The direction is weak, the cinematography uninspired, and the editing clunky. Even the acting, apart from a few natural moments from the child lead, fails to leave a lasting impression. Everything feels amateurish.

Structurally, the film often comes off like a series of loosely connected sketches and jokes rather than a coherent narrative. The storytelling lacks cohesion and emotional build-up. It's as if the director focused more on making a point than telling a story.

Still, what gives the film its value is the mirror it holds up to society. It doesn't give answers or offer solutions-it simply forces you to sit with the discomfort of a child forced to hide who he is just to survive. That alone makes it worth watching.

Exterritorial presents itself with a calculated cleanliness. The directing, cinematography, and camera movement are precise-sharp, deliberate, and restrained. Everything is in its place, nothing feels excessive. But this precision, while admirable on the surface, also creates a certain distance. It's all so controlled that it rarely breathes.

Jeanne Goursaud is the film's beating heart. Her performance is intense, but her character's journey is difficult to believe. That disbelief creates a certain distance-you're not drawn into her world as much as you're watching her act through it. It feels like a movie, not a lived experience.

The film isn't trying to reinvent the genre, and that's fine. What it offers instead is tone, precision, and atmosphere. It is a thriller, yes-but one that hangs on a weak foundation. The setup is familiar: a missing child, a mother no one believes, a buried past. And while this structure has worked before, here it feels staged rather than natural, calculated rather than compelling.

The script leans too heavily into these clichés, especially as it approaches the climax. It starts strong but gradually exposes its artificial edges. Still, the ending manages to be satisfying-and maybe it needed to be. A darker or more ambiguous resolution might've only highlighted the story's implausibility.

In the end, Exterritorial impresses with its control, but struggles to convince with its core.

The Two Popes is a film so pure in tone and intent. It's a warm, deeply human story about two very different men navigating faith, failure, and forgiveness at the highest level of spiritual power.

What makes the film resonate is its refusal to paint either figure as a villain or a saint. Instead, it offers something rare: a spiritual drama grounded in character, not doctrine. Through their dialogue, we witness the Church's internal tension - between tradition and progress, silence and accountability.

Jonathan Pryce and Anthony Hopkins deliver outstanding performances, perfectly embodying the charisma and depth of their characters. Their chemistry is the heartbeat of the film - sharp, thoughtful, and at times unexpectedly funny.

The use of handheld cinematography gives their scenes a documentary-like feel, almost as if we're eavesdropping on unfiltered, deeply personal conversations. It's a style that fits the story's exploration of human contradictions within divine institutions.

The film is often quiet - and that quiet is powerful. It trusts the silence between the lines, allowing the performances and words to breathe. When music enters, it feels earned, not manipulative.

The conversation scene in the Sistine Chapel, especially with the extended flashback, felt a bit too long for me. But aside from that, nearly all the other conversations were beautifully written and performed, filled with grace and emotional weight.

The Two Popes may seem like a dialogue-heavy drama, but it's full of subtle visual storytelling. Every gesture, glance, and pause carries meaning.

I was genuinely moved by this film. It touched me emotionally - not just because of what was said, but because of how it was felt.

What I appreciated most about Conclave was how it opened a door behind the Vatican's closed walls, showing us the hidden atmosphere during the election of a new pope. The film captures the silence, the tension, and the sacred weight of the conclave - all wrapped in an atmosphere that felt both reverent and suffocating.

Under Edward Berger's direction, what could have easily been a stiff drama about old men debating in a room becomes a taut chamber thriller, full of doubt, secrecy, and shifting allegiances. It's the kind of storytelling that keeps you leaning forward, not with action, but with glances, whispers, and silent power plays.

Ralph Fiennes gives a quietly powerful performance as Cardinal Lawrence. What I liked about his portrayal is how he manages to seem reserved and composed, while clearly carrying deep anger and frustration just under the surface. He's shown as perhaps the least spiritually convinced among them, yet he becomes the one most concerned with ensuring the Church ends up in good hands. That contradiction makes him compelling to watch. His sharp observations, the way he scans the room, absorbs the atmosphere, and reacts with controlled tension - it was all incredibly well done.

Visually, the film is beautiful. The cinematography is flawless, with white space in compositions, thoughtful lighting, and a clear visual language that creates a feeling of isolation - like we too are locked in with them, cut off from the outside world. Still, I found myself wishing for just one or two moments from an external perspective. I understand the choice to keep us "inside," but I missed the contrast that could've provided.

On the technical side, I felt the use of thriller music was sometimes unnecessary. The soundtrack pushed for suspense or breathlessness in scenes that didn't naturally call for it - the drama was already subtle and contained, and the music ended up feeling forced. Similarly, the production design, though large in scale and visually impressive, often felt more like decoration than artistic expression. Like the music, it seemed to dress the film rather than deepen it. The sets looked authentic, yes, but they sometimes lacked emotional or symbolic depth - as if they were built to impress, not to serve the story.

Overall, the film is technically good and absorbing for most of its 2-hour runtime. However, I felt the story began to slip near the end, especially in tone. The final act veers into melodrama, with emotional exaggeration and a twist that felt unrealistic and a bit forced. Beneath all the elegance and visual beauty, the film delivered a critical message about the Vatican and the Church - one that felt subtly negative, especially when everything is revealed.

In Pope Francis: A Man of His Word, director Wim Wenders offers more than a documentary - he creates a contemplative space where the Pope speaks directly to the viewer. The film avoids traditional biographical storytelling and instead focuses on Pope Francis's values, ideas, and spiritual guidance. It's not about who he is, but what he stands for.

One of the film's most striking choices is to let Pope Francis speak straight into the camera, as though he's in a one-on-one conversation with the audience. This direct address feels personal and unfiltered, lending an unusual intimacy to a film about one of the world's most public figures. His words - about poverty, the environment, consumerism, migration, and peace - are calm, thoughtful, and grounded in his deep moral convictions.

Visually, the film blends archival footage with poetic, softly lit shots of the Pope traveling or interacting with people from all walks of life. The mood is gentle and reflective. Wenders avoids sensationalism, instead crafting a tone that mirrors the Pope's humility and clarity.

However, the film's strength is also its limitation. It reveres Pope Francis so much that it rarely challenges him or the institution he leads. Controversial topics within the Church - from abuse scandals to internal opposition - are acknowledged but never deeply examined. In that sense, the documentary may feel more like a curated sermon than an investigative portrait.

Easy A is a light and entertaining film with a strong sense of fun. It's smart and funny without ever needing to rely on cheap humor, which is rare in teen comedies. The film has a clever script, a playful structure, and enough emotional depth to keep it from feeling shallow.

Emma Stone is amazing in the lead role. Her performance as Olive Penderghast is filled with wit, charm, and honesty. It felt almost predictable that she would go on to win an Oscar later in her career-she has pure talent, and here she carries the film effortlessly. Her delivery of sarcastic one-liners and emotional moments feels natural, not forced.

The movie stands out with its playful tone-breaking the fourth wall, quick and clever dialogue, and an upbeat soundtrack. One of its strongest aspects is the relationship between Olive and her parents, which is refreshingly warm and supportive, breaking the usual "clueless parent" stereotype seen in teen films.

Still, Easy A isn't flawless. Some of the side characters feel exaggerated or flat, and the moral message at the end wraps up a bit too neatly. But these are small issues in a movie that handles the teen genre with confidence and a fresh perspective.

One Missed Call is simply a dumb movie with a ridiculous idea, terrible characters, and an even worse plot filled with unnecessary jump scares.

The atmosphere feels cheap, relying only on loud noises instead of building real fear or tension. The characters are completely forgettable, and the acting is somewhere between terrible and just bad with weak script that doesn't do anything to make you care about who lives or dies.

Visually, the movie looks polished, but there's no real personality behind the shots. It's just dark hallways, creepy children, and sudden noises - all thrown together without any soul or creativity. Even the deaths, which could have been shocking or scary, end up feeling silly, random, and sometimes even laughable.

Overall, One Missed Call is an empty, boring horror movie that delivers nothing but frustration.

The Ward plays with familiar tropes: the haunted institution, the mysterious ghost, and the final twist meant to reframe everything. But rather than building suspense, it often leans into predictability.

Amber Heard leads the cast with a decent performance, though the characters around her feel thin and underdeveloped. The scares rely heavily on jump tactics rather than atmospheric dread. The cinematography is clean but uninspired, and the pacing struggles to maintain interest through the middle act.

But the twist ending does spark some discussion, it feels like it's trying to be clever, but ends up rehashing ideas we've seen done more effectively elsewhere. Once revealed, it casts a shadow over the entire plot, but not in a way that invites a second watch.

Ultimately, The Ward isn't a disaster, but it's disappointingly safe for a director known for shaking things up.

The Substance is a bold, bloody, and brutal dive into the insane side of beauty and identity - and how these standards can twist the mind into madness.

Demi Moore delivers a fearless performance that feels like the total opposite of who she is in real life. In this film, she throws all of that out the window. There are no limits to how far she goes, and that contrast makes her performance even more powerful.

Margaret Qualley is stunning as the youthful doppelgänger. The two performances - Moore's quiet rage and Qualley's chaotic energy - are the film's beating heart... The transformation scenes are grotesque, mesmerizing, and a little sarcastic - like watching a weird dream rot from the inside.

The real horror in The Substance isn't the gore - it's the psychological pressure women face around age, beauty, and self-worth. The film explores how reaching a certain age or no longer fitting the mold can make someone feel invisible, discarded, or even replaceable by someone younger and more "marketable" version of themselves. That's where the true terror lives - not in blood, but in the mirror.

What's also impressive is how the director uses cinematic language inspired by music videos and advertisements. Maybe it was exaggerated or overused at times, but honestly? I couldn't even stop to notice. I was too caught up in what was happening on screen. It was just that well-made.

The Substance is a nightmare and one of the most fearless horror films in years.

I really liked the story and the concept of Sheikh Jackson. It's a daring film with a bold approach, exploring the tension between deep religious faith and personal identity. That kind of theme is not something you often see in cinema from this region, and it made the film stand out for me.

What's remarkable is how the film treats this inner conflict with empathy. It doesn't mock religion, nor does it glamorize rebellion. Instead, it presents a deeply human experience - the struggle of reconciling who we once were with who we are expected to become.

I think Ahmed El-Fishawy gave a really strong performance. You can feel his confusion, guilt, and longing without him needing to say much. That internal conflict inside him was powerful and believable.

But here's where things started to fall apart for me - the way the film tried to balance realism with surreal, dreamlike moments didn't quite work. The hallucinations of Michael Jackson, which were supposed to show how haunted the character is by his past, felt a bit cheap and awkward. Instead of adding depth, those moments broke the immersion.

Another issue I had was with the way the story developed, especially toward the end. It felt like there were missing justifications, excuses, or reasons - the viewer is almost forced to fill in those gaps, rather than being shown naturally through the story.

So for me, the biggest weakness was in the directing - the translation of what was written into visuals and scenes didn't always land. The emotional core was strong, but the way it was presented on screen didn't fully support it.

Still, I admire the film for what it tried to do. It was brave.

Joe Dirt 2 wasn't supposed to be made. It didn't add anything, it was useless, bad, and not funny at all. Honestly, I would call it a complete waste of time.

A lot of scenes could have been summarized or even removed because they were just so boring. The jokes are very repetitive - even ones from the first Joe Dirt are recycled, but they don't feel genuine anymore. They come off so badly, both for the ear and the eye. Some parts were actually disgusting. I didn't enjoy it at all.

The story - if it even exists - is terrible. The humor is stale, the pacing is messy, and most of the jokes feel stuck in 2001... and not in a good nostalgic way. This sequel doesn't bring anything new to the table. It feels forced, lazy, and completely unnecessary.

Visually, it looks cheap. Everything about this movie screams low effort.

Joe Dirt is the definition of "bad but fun." It's dumb - as dumb as the characters in it - full of disgusting jokes, random scenes, and over-the-top moments that make no sense. And yet... somehow, it's watchable.

The movie doesn't offer much to praise. The story is weak, the humor is immature, and visually it's nothing special. But there's this odd nostalgic feeling to it - like flipping through TV channels late at night and landing on something so ridiculous, you just keep watching.

Joe Dirt isn't smart, deep, or impressive in any way. But if you're in the mood for something light, silly, and totally brainless, it might hit the spot.

Some films are boring. Others are confusing. But Where the Wild Things Are manages to be both - and tasteless. This movie left me feeling nothing but frustrated. It's the kind of film that thinks it's deep, but it's really just a mess wearing a crown.

From the very beginning, I was bored. I kept waiting for something to happen, some turning point that would make it worth watching - but no. Even the last frame felt as empty as the first. I didn't read the book, and after watching this, I have zero interest in finding out more. If the story was supposed to say something about childhood, it could've done it in five minutes, not nearly two hours.

The story? Dumb. Max's journey makes no sense. The writing has no rules, no structure, no emotional logic. The Wild Things - what even are they? What do they stand for? It's like the film expects me to guess everything, but doesn't bother giving me a reason to care. The characters are lame, unlikable, and even disgusting. Nothing about them connects to Max in a way that feels clear or meaningful. And somehow, this was marketed as a film for children? That's actually unbelievable.

Visually, the film is just as lifeless. The color palette is dull and depressing. The costumes - instead of being magical or creative - just feel heavy, awkward, and ugly. The cinematography is flat, the acting forgettable, the direction aimless. It almost feels like the movie was daring me to stay awake.

Maybe - and I'm saying maybe - if this was an animated film, it could've been more tolerable. But even then, the core story is so badly written that not even animation could save it. Every minute felt like a chore. There's nothing here to take with you. No emotion, no message, no reason to care.

This is a movie best forgotten. One of the dullest experiences I've had in a long time.

Phone Booth is not a good film. It feels incomplete - especially when it comes to the sniper's motive. That part was frustrating. The movie deliberately keeps his intentions vague, presenting him more as a symbol than a real person. He's like a mysterious judge, forcing people to face their sins. I get that they wanted to build him as some kind of moral force, but I didn't like that we never really find out who he is or why he's doing this. That lack of explanation left me unsatisfied.

The film plays out more like a tense morality play. It's bold in its concept and does a good job of keeping you hooked throughout. But the script leans a bit too hard into moral preaching, and sometimes it stretches believability - especially in how the story is clearly set up just to create this moral dilemma. That makes the plot feel weaker.

At the climax, I felt the tension rise - but it disappeared so fast. The ending wasn't satisfying. It left me wanting more, not in a good way, but because it felt like something was missing.

How to Make Millions Before Grandma Dies is tender, bittersweet, warm, and slow. It feels incredibly real.

At first, the setup seems like it's heading toward a satirical story about greed, but the film quickly reveals its ending, which I found a bit predictable. Still, what stands out is how grounded everything feels-the grandmother's quiet presence, M's slow realization of what truly matters, and the simmering tensions between family members who all carry their own emotional burdens.

The direction is intimate, and the cinematography makes excellent use of confined spaces. The family home feels both comforting and suffocating at the same time, reflecting M's internal struggles. The film leans into Thai cultural nuances about family, duty, and wealth, but its themes are universal.

Usha Seamkhum gives a standout performance as Mengju. She hardly speaks, yet every look and gesture feels loaded with years of unspoken emotion.

I didn't connect much with some of the side characters, who felt underdeveloped. I wish they were used more effectively within the timeline because, at times, the film felt a bit too long for what it ultimately delivered.

I also struggled to fully reach the emotional highs, especially in the third act. When the story shifts from being about inheritance to being about saying goodbye the right way, I couldn't fully feel the intended weight-maybe because of language barriers. The director couldn't easily move me to tears, and strangely, I found myself hoping for a bit more melodrama to help elevate those moments.

The Animal is a light and silly film that mixes humor with some dumb moments. It's not a bad movie to watch if you're looking for something easy and mindless, but you should definitely keep your expectations low. It's harmless fun, nothing more.

The movie carries some nostalgic charm, especially if you grew up watching early 2000s comedies. One thing I did enjoy was how the concept of Marvin acting like different animals was used in Rob Schneider's physical performance-it added some entertaining moments.

However, beyond that, there isn't much else to praise. The story is simple, the jokes are hit-or-miss, and the film doesn't stand out compared to other comedies from that time.

Dot the I left me feeling underwhelmed and confused. The film's plot is weak and lacks convincing narrative depth, making it hard to invest in the story. The characters feel unnatural, with their motivations unclear and difficult to relate to, which only adds to the overall sense of disconnection.

The directing, despite some moments of brilliance, feels uneven. There are certain transitions and camera movements that stood out, showcasing a level of creativity that, surprisingly, elevates the film. It's clear that the low-budget production limited their resources, especially with the poor camera quality they had to work with. However, despite these constraints, the filmmakers managed to use these elements in a way that felt purposeful and, at times, quite effective.

James D'Arcy's performance stands out as the best among the cast. His portrayal brings a level of depth and intrigue to his character that the others, unfortunately, lack. His performance added some much-needed substance to a film otherwise riddled with weak and unconvincing portrayals.

By the end of the film, I was left unsatisfied and with more questions than answers. The narrative's lack of clarity and emotional complexity left me struggling to understand the characters. They were never fully revealed or comprehended, neither by the audience nor by each other. This ambiguity made it difficult to care about what happened to them, as the film failed to make me emotionally invested in the story or its characters.

In conclusion, Dot the I offers some interesting camera work and a strong performance from D'Arcy, but it ultimately falters due to its weak plot, confusing narrative, and underdeveloped characters. The film's attempt at psychological depth falls flat, leaving me feeling indifferent and disconnected by its conclusion.

The Menu had an interesting concept but ultimately failed to deliver a compelling story. The film presents itself as a mix of satire, suspense, and dark comedy, but none of these elements come together in a satisfying way. Instead, it feels like an overcooked attempt at blending ideas without a clear direction.

One of the biggest issues with The Menu is that its concept couldn't support the weight of the story. The characters feel hollow, existing only as symbols to serve the film's message rather than as engaging, believable individuals. Their exaggerated personalities make them dull and uninteresting to watch, stripping away any emotional investment in their fates. Perhaps this was intentional, but it results in a film that lacks depth and resonance.

The film carries the spirit of an Agatha Christie mystery, aiming to build suspense, but it falls short. The tension never fully develops, and the supposed twists are either predictable or underwhelming. Even the comedic elements fail to land effectively, making the film feel like it's reaching for humour without actually earning it.

Ultimately, The Menu feels like a director's indulgent experiment rather than a well-thought-out film. It seems as though Mark Mylod was more focused on combining various themes and concepts than on telling a cohesive story. The luxurious island setting and high-end restaurant aesthetic seem to blind the film from its own weaknesses. Even the performances, despite the strong cast, feel lost at sea before they can reach the island. The result is a film that tries to be clever but ends up feeling empty and directionless.

Burnt is a stylish take on fine dining, excelling in its visuals, sharp editing, and immersive kitchen sequences. The fast cuts and seamless transitions effectively capture the tension of the restaurant industry.

The sound design heightens the urgency, pulling the audience into Adam's world of perfectionism and pressure. The clatter of tools and sizzling ingredients hitting the pan enhance the realism.

While the plot is structured well, it feels amateurish and lacks emotional depth. Some lines could be cut without effecting the overall narrative, and supporting characters remain underdeveloped, serving more as obstacles or moral guides than layered individuals.

The emotional beats feel rushed, making Adam's transformation less impactful. Though engaging at times, the story lacks the weight needed to feel truly earned. The film sets up compelling conflicts but doesn't always give them enough time to breathe, making some moments feel more superficial than impactful.

Bradley Cooper delivers a solid performance, convincingly portraying Adam's obsessive perfectionism.

Despite its technical strengths, Burnt is a visually polished but narratively thin experience.