The Big Sick
Squid Game
Inconstant Love
The Shack
Menem: The President Show
Zombies 4: Dawn of the Vampires
Reacher
The Cleaning Lady
Grown Ups 2
Jurassic World: Rebirth
Fran Casillas
Demiurge | Cinematographer | Storyteller 🧠Philosopher of the fucked 🏝️ Born of saltwater and static
I think, therefore I am offered René Descartes a rock on which to build a metaphysics. Superman 2025 was supposed to give James Gunn an equally unshakable cornerstone for a fresh DC universe. Instead, the film looks around for a footing, finds none, and sinks beneath the silt of its own ambitions. From the first scene it is clear that Gunn wants relevance more than resonance. The script darts after every modern anxiety, social media pile-ons, algorithmic propaganda, proxy wars, yet never lingers
The flowers on my windowsill are already wilting in Chicago’s July heat, yet I still feel the kinetic pollen storm of Spring 2025 buzzing in my skull. Before the Summer simulcasts overrun my queue, here is a reckoning with the season we just buried, and with the two titles that kept me wide eyed long after the credits. Season's Top Dog To Be Hero X Everything about Studio BeDream’s Sino-Japanese anthology chimera felt knowingly extra, from its kaleidoscopic mash of 2D and 3D to its weekly cliffh
For maximum immersion, please play the above as you read Childhood ends many times. A first heartbreak, a first rebellion, a first funeral: each one snaps another vertebra in the cartoon spine of youth. Cinema usually drops the checkered flag on adolescence at eighteen. Win the championship, kiss your sweetheart, roll credits. F1: The Movie rips that myth from the asphalt. Director Joseph Kosinski parks the viewer in the cockpit beside veteran racer Sonny Hayes (Brad Pitt) and demands a question
I arrived at AMC’s hush hush Screen Unseen event with no clue about the reel that would roar awake in front of me. When the title card for Jurassic World Rebirth flashed its enamelled glyphs across the screen and the auditorium erupted in applause, I felt the old Hammond park electricity crackling through the rows.It was an electricity the previous Chris Pratt trilogy tried to bottle but never quite harnessed. That run mistook bombast for wonder, trading Spielbergian awe for loud gadgetry. By co
marvelousmars: I'm not a fan of the genre, let alone the series (the biggest shock of this article for me was reading that there was a new installment lol), but I'm not surprised by anything in your review. I think you're so right when you write that "Blockbuster cinema long ago became a simulation chamber where we pay to flirt with annihilation without bruising the skin". It's not just Jurassic Park, it's everything major studios are putting out. Nothing can be new or daring because what if someone finds it uncomfortable? God forbid.The greatest tragedy of it all is that the resulting movies are just entertaining enough to keep drawing people in, so the studios have no reason to change their tune anyway. Mediocrity and safe choices seem to be a win, at least for now.
Pompo the Cinéphile is a profound act of cinematic communion, an animated film that doesn't merely tell a story but offers itself as a mirror, inviting creators, dreamers, and solitary wanderers of imagination to recognize themselves within its frames. To say I'm biased would be stating the obvious, it's impossible for someone who breathes film, who sees life as footage to be edited, stories waiting patiently for capture, to remain neutral. But perhaps neutrality isn't the point here; perhaps re
This film is the cinematic equivalent of ordering a cocktail and getting a lukewarm can of LaCroix with a Band-Aid floating inside. So here's what happened. I woke up, threw on my pants with the kind of optimism that should be illegal after thirty, and decided to go to the movies at 10am on a Saturday. I wanted noise. I wanted spectacle. I wanted to laugh, maybe groan, maybe roll my eyes in pleasure pain. Ten minutes later I was designing an exit strategy, wondering if the projection booth doubl
Danny Boyle returns like a fever dream with 28 Years Later, the unexpected but violently thrilling third installment of his once cult, now classic zombie saga. Forget the grainy, 480p Blair Witch esque desperation of 2002; Boyle armed now with razor sharp visuals and daring digital trickery, delivers an experience as polished as it is savage. The grit remains, the grime echoes through CRT filtered nostalgia, but now every drop of blood feels deliciously intentional, each scream razor cut clean.
Matthew Alan Schmidt: I'd say at least three of the infected scenes in this film deserve a spot in the All-Time Zombie Movie Top 10
To dwell within the anxious nightmare of Danny Boyle's 28 Days Later is to plunge headlong into an inferno where civilization’s fragile veneer shatters, scattering shards of humanity’s grotesque truths across the screen. Released in the deceptively distant year of 2002, this film remains brutally relevant, its lo‑fi aesthetic and ferocious realism not only enduring but thriving in the age of pandemics, television ubiquity, and post The Last of Us fatigue. From the onset, Boyle orchestrates tensi
Wes Anderson doesn't direct films so much as he curates living dioramas—immaculately arranged, tonally wry, symmetrical tableaus of whimsy and rot. The Phoenician Scheme, his latest, currently in theaters, is no exception. It’s a velvet-covered dagger, a pastel riot of familial betrayal, capitalism's gloss, and the soft revolution of choosing kindness over empire. If you've ever cracked open a dollhouse and caught the dolls mid-scheme, this film is your fever dream. Everything here is so Wes. De
Lucas.: A cera comeback implies a cera falloff... but i admit that he is wonderful in this movie
Some characters steal scenes. Marty Anderson stole the entire cosmos. You walk into The Life of Chuck expecting Tom Hiddleston. The trailers promised charm, dance, and emotional poignancy dressed in quirky trailer polish. Instead, the world ends with a monologue. A classroom. A chalkboard. A teacher. And Chiwetel Ejiofor, in one of the most disarmingly harrowing performances of the year, detonates the narrative in the opening act by doing something quietly catastrophic: he explains the universe.
There is an unsettling magnetism in the cinema of violence—a grim allure that Dangerous Animals deftly harnesses and interrogates. This film, which surfaced prominently at Cannes and currently unsettles audiences in theaters, artfully navigates the tightrope of narrative coherence, steering clear of the trap of disjointed storytelling and gratuitous sensationalism. For most of its runtime, the movie is impressively adept at crafting logical, inevitable consequences rather than random, forced hap
Dan Da Dan: Evil Eye is a collective exorcism in a dark room where the laughter turns nervous, and the color palette begins to rot. Let’s make one thing clear right out of the cursed, dripping gate: If you haven’t seen Season 1, do not watch this. The so-called “recap” is a jagged, barely coherent Rorschach test of madness—less a narrative, more a PTSD flashback stitched together by yokai-fueled panic. It’s not for newcomers. It’s not for explanation. It’s a fevered reminder to the initiated. An
Prelude in Powder and Flame There are movies you watch. And then there are movies you feel—movies that detonate inside your ribcage like a cluster grenade. Ballerina, the feral and fabulous spin-kick out of the John Wick Cinematic Universe, is the latter. I caught it in Dolby, which is to say: inside a cathedral carved from sound. And every bullet, every bone snap, every krrrack of a shattering neck or blade against femur resounded like a mass held for the gods of ultraviolence. If you’re watchi
At some point during Karate Kid Legends, right after Jackie Chan channels grief through a steaming teacup and just before the film turns into a TikTok AMV with kung fu, I realized something. I wasn’t watching a movie—I was watching a product. A legacy-branded content block wrapped in nostalgia gauze and corporate aspirations, a Sony-flavored parfait of identity politics, moralism, and IP reclamation. It wants so badly to matter, but can’t stop checking itself in the mirror to see if it looks lik
In My Hero Academia: Vigilantes, beneath the genre polish of a superhero spin-off lies a textured meditation on dignity, justice, and the gravity of becoming. The narrative centers on a triptych of characters: a shy, grounded young man; a buoyant, rebellious girl; and a grizzled veteran who looms with the aura of past battles. But it’s in the literal biomechanics of their powers — the choreography of how they move through the world — that the story sketches its most potent philosophy. Koichi — o
The Film Collector
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Recovering film school student | Peliplat Content Creator
Tell me you love Coke then we are friends. | Always watch a movie with popcorn | I'm not really a smart person, I just refuse to be a fool.
Filmmaker and VHS fiend. The Svengoolie of Montreal. Keep up with me on Instagram @joeylopezisdead
Depressed queer socialist... and cinephile!
marvelousmars: I'm not a fan of the genre, let alone the series (the biggest shock of this article for me was reading that there was a new installment lol), but I'm not surprised by anything in your review. I think you're so right when you write that "Blockbuster cinema long ago became a simulation chamber where we pay to flirt with annihilation without bruising the skin". It's not just Jurassic Park, it's everything major studios are putting out. Nothing can be new or daring because what if someone finds it uncomfortable? God forbid.The greatest tragedy of it all is that the resulting movies are just entertaining enough to keep drawing people in, so the studios have no reason to change their tune anyway. Mediocrity and safe choices seem to be a win, at least for now.