Marty Supreme plays an engrossing and chaotic game only director Josh Safdie could realize

Marty Mauser (Timothée Chalamet) wants to win. Badly. This 23-year-old makes his income as a shoe salesman in New York, harbors a secret relationship with married lady Rachel Mizler (Odessa A'zion), and dedicates himself to the ping-pong world. This is 1953. Most in America haven't even heard of the game. But Mauser is convinced he's the American legend this game needs. So deep is his conviction that he'll do anything to make it in the global ping-pong championships, including taking some money he's "owed" from his uncle and (playfully) holding people at gunpoint.

Mauser speaks a mile a minute, exudes immense confidence, and is always selling something (namely himself). He's also got no money, and the consequences of his short-sighted actions tend to come back and bite him tenfold. In other words, he's the kind of hapless, sweaty, and frantic protagonist that's defined so much of writer/director Josh Safide's work (see also: Good Time, Daddy Longlegs, Uncut Gems). Mauser fully believes he's destined for the big time. He'll do anything to get there. He's got his eyes on the ball, but actually striking that ball is a whole other story.

In 2002, country music legends Brooks & Dunn posited that "You can take the girl out of the honky tonk But you can't take the honky tonk /take the honky tonk out of the girl." Marty Supreme similarly proves you can take Josh Safdie out of scrappy indie fare, but you can't take the scrappy indie fare out of Josh Safdie. This $70 million budgeted has a far bigger scope than The Pleasure of Being Robbed, but Safdie's gift for captivatingly intense chaos hasn’t been lost in the process. More dollar bills hasn’t resulted in a feature any less armrest-clenching than Howard Ratner's exploits across New York City's Diamond District.

Happily, that unpredictability is filtered heavily through often hysterical dark comedy. Much like fellow 2025 cinema winner Weapons was an uber-refined campfire yarn, Marty Supreme is often an extra grimy take on a screwball comedy. One thing after another goes wrong for Marty Mauser as his various transgressions and mishaps pile on top of each other. No betrayal or act of thievery goes unchecked here. Everything gets either a payoff or amusing escalation. In his own unique way, Josh Safdie keeps the spirit of Bringing Up Baby and Design for Living alive and well.

Channeling those motion pictures ensures Marty Supreme is a riot for its entire runtime. It’s all go-go-go disorder constantly serving up outsized laughs and tremendously memorable performances. Those turns hail from an incredibly eclectic cast* that includes everyone from Gwyneth Paltrow to Phillippe Petit to Géza Röhrig to even Mitchell Wenig, one of the twins from Uncut Gems. Beyond just delivering electric acting, the wide array of Marty Supreme performers amusingly reflects just how obsessive Marty Mauser is. He’ll go anywhere and talk to anyone to turn his ambitions into tangible reality. How else to explain his exploits including encounters with characters played by Tyler the Creator and Abel Ferrara?

As the camera follows Mauser encountering these various colorful characters, I was reminded how glorious the lived-in aesthetic of Safdie’s work is. One of Mauser’s go-to New York spots I a dingy pool hall full of ping-pong players. One look at this place and you can discern decades of wear and tear in every inch of these walls. I could suddenly feel the textures of those rickety ping-pong tables or taste the cigarette smoke clouding up the air. Populating these domiciles with transfixing non-professional actors amplifies their realism.

Much like Good Time and Uncut Gems, Marty Supreme chronicles realms so fascinatingly exuding reality. It feels like audiences are flies on the wall watching all this stressful turmoil play out in real time. Chalk this quality also up to Darius Khondji’s 35mm cinematography. Shooting on film lends Marty Supreme an incredibly riveting look. Colors pop off the screen, and the occasional flickers of film-based imperfections perfectly complement both Supreme’s 1953 setting and the ramshackle world Marty Mauser is concocting. Plus, this style of shooting harkens back to vintage Big Apple indie movies (like Ferrara's most famous works). Marty Supreme successfully channels Ms. 45 in its visual aesthetic rather than contemporary digital drivel.  

For many reading this review, though, Khondji’s cinematography or the excellent Daniel Lopatin score aren't what you want to know. Marty Supreme is being marketed as the Timothée Chalamet and it's his performance that everyone's eagerly awaiting word on.

I technically saw Chalamet for the first time in a movie in Interstellar, but the first time he left a major impression was playing conspiratorial fuckboi Kyle Scheible in Lady Bird. Here, Chalamet was so cringingly in touch with reality, portraying an aloof guy obsessed with "secret" government schemes and much less privy to the feelings of the film's titular lead. His comic timing and willingness to play someone so jaggedly imperfect were impressive. Those qualities materialize yet again with Marty Supreme. Here, Chalamet is playing a guy so consumed with intense energy that it’s a wonder Marty Mauser doesn’t pop a blood vessel.

Chalamet proves a natural with Safdie and Ronald Bronstein’s trademark style of motormouth dialogue. He’s also so smooth at playing Mauser’s in salesman mode. There are moments where it’s totally clear why this 23-year-old keeps winning people over thanks to Chalamet’s charms. He can get viewers temporarily invested in Mauser’s hairbrained schemes even when the character’s flaws and downfall are evident. Part huckster, part humorous loser, part insufferable dreamer (complimentary), plus a pinch of an engaging underdog protagonist, Chalamet’s performance has got it all. Unlike in last year’s A Complete Unknown, where he was just doing a cover of Bob Dylan’s mannerisms, Marty Supreme lets Chalamet deliver a freshly singular performance.

Odessa A'zion is the other major standout in Supreme’s sprawling cast, particularly with her ability to exude a consistently tangible personality in scenes where she’s playing opposite Chalamet. This leading man is going for it, but A’zion can 100% keep step with him. Meanwhile, Luke Manley and Tyler Konma are incredibly engaging in supporting turns as tragically supportive figures to Mauser that get caught in his toxic gravitational pull.

Just as magnetic as any Marty Supreme actor is the film’s editing, courtesy of Bronstein and Safdie. The duo makes any ping pong-heavy sequence extraordinarily absorbing. It's always a thrill when sports movies get me on the edge of my seat for athletic displays I don't care about in real life. So it is with Marty Supreme, which had me clutching my fists and quietly murmuring "oooo" as uncertainty consumed the screen. Marty Mauser is far from a surefire winner in his escapades. All that dynamite editing, though, encapsulates how Marty Supreme is downright triumphant as a cinematic experience.

* I do have to dock some points, though, for casting right-wing doofuses like David Mamet and Kevin O'Leary in this. Platforming and normalizing these guys is the wrong kind of gag-inducing. Please give these gigs to folks who aren't cheering on fascism. 

Five Best Lesbian Moments In Wicked: For Good

MASSIVE SPOILERS FOR WICKED: FOR GOOD AHEAD 

Now that the final song has been sung, wizard dethroned, and bubble popped, the Wicked duology has come to a close. In its wake, these two Jon M. Chu directorial efforts have left plenty of memorable musical numbers, performances, and costumes that people won't forget anytime soon. Also unlikely to slip from people's radar? The underlying queerness simmering under every scene Elphaba and Glinda share. The first film's version of "Popular" had so much extra queer tension in its blocking (they're always sooooo close to kissing), and Wicked: For Good didn't do anything to shake off the idea that these two were more than "roommates."

Now that these films are finished, I thought it'd be fun to break down the best lesbian-coded scenes in Wicked: For Good. They might not register as gay to the general public, but lemme tell you, us lesbians in the theater, we saw it all. Grab your silver/ruby slippers and let's break down the best lesbian-coded moments from Wicked: For Good.

Elphaba and Glinda's First Date...at a Craft Store

The very first Wicked: For Good scene is a flashback to Elphaba and Glinda going on their first date in the Emerald City before that whole "Defying Gravity" business. In this set piece, the pair head into a craft store that, because this is the mystical land of Oz, doesn't just sell cardboard paper and crayons. There's an abundance of oddball items in here with names that will sound familiar to anyone from the lesbian community. Glinda reaches out for a hole-puncher that's called a "carpet muncher" in this realm. Meanwhile, Elphaba is enamored with a vibrating item (supposedly to help stamp objects) the "clam smacker." During their visit, Glinda also refers to herself as a "pillow princess" because she likes to do crafts in bed while wearing her princess get-up.

To most, this is just a cute bonding experience. For lesbian viewers? C'mon, dykes are always going into craft stores on first dates. These lewd object names just seal the lesbian atmosphere, particularly whenever the two keep returning to how important it is to grab "scissors" while they're in this hot spot. 

Elphaba's New Wicked Witch Attire

When Elphaba takes on the "Wicked Witch of the West" mantle, she dons all-black garb that will look familiar to anyone who's seen a certain 1939 Victor Fleming directorial effort. However, the other way she solidifies via her wardrobe that she's a new person? Elphaba's now rocking a carabiner on her waist. This item now dangling from her belt is an obvious sign that Elphaba is a friend of Dorothy (how ironic!). She even shows off the various keys and tools she's carrying on the carabiner to Glinda before this plucky witch's wedding day. How can this be read as anything but a decidedly lesbian moment?

Elphaba and Glinda's Awkward Conversation With The Wizard

Jeff Goldblum's Wizard of Oz is a very bad man on multiple levels, there can be no denying. However, what really solidifies his villainy isn't that he's keeping a bunch of animals locked up or his proclivity for lying. It's his dialogue in the "Wonderful" musical number where he tries to lure Elphaba over to his side (Glinda is also involved in this coercion). The Wizard interrupts his crooning to start asking some very odd questions to Elphaba and Glinda like, "Which one of you is the boy in the relationship? Which one is the girl?" He also, for some reason, believes all queer women know who Tracy Chapman is, as seen by his insistently asking Elphaba for her phone number over and over again. Most cis-het moviegoers will only see The Wizard's duplicitiousness regarding Oz's animals as the reason he's a bad man. However, lesbian audiences will immediately know that The Wizard's tone-deaf questions to these two women really solidify his treachery.

Elphaba And Glinda's Big Gay Musical Number

"For Good" might be the most memorable Elphaba/Glinda musical number in Wicked: For Good, sure. But how could anyone give a cold shoulder to their other big duet, when they harmonize a cover of Avril Lavigne's "Girlfriend" together? This is one sequence I've been shocked to hear cis-het audiences declare has no gay annotation. For one thing, they're singing lyrics like "Hey, hey, you, you, I could be your girlfriend" directly into each other's eyes before smooching. For another, Elphaba's explicitly topping and eating out Glinda (all on-screen) for a portion of this musical number, in what's clearly a homage to the mixture of sexual intercourse and singing in the "We Love Each Other Very Much" set piece in 2021's Annette. We also learn that the duo's safe word in rougher sex is "clocktick," while the phrase "mommy" is heard constantly throughout the scene. Juggling all these elements (the sexual imagery, the looks into Elphaba and Glinda's sexual preferences, and the elaborate dance numbers) in a "Girlfriend" cover is an incredible balancing act in addition to being such a dynamite depiction of graphic lesbian passion. "For Good" is the Elphaba/Glinda tune that gets people crying. This graphically sexual "Girlfriend" sequence, meanwhile, also had lesbians crying...tears of joy. 

That Ending

Glinda and Elphaba inevitably have to part ways at the end of Wicked: For Good.  However, the script does see them reunite years later (kind of) in a direct recreation of Portrait of a Lady on Fire's bittersweet conclusion. This explicit homage might be cloying or derivative in other contexts. However, mimicking every inch of Fire's finale (particularly in the camerawork) provides an appropriately bittersweet wrap-up to Elphaba and Glinda's journey. The ones we love and romances that change our lives forever, none of it goes on forever. Nor do these dynamics end how we'd want them to. We must cherish the connections we have in the moment and appreciate how they changed us (for good) once they're over. Just like in Portrait of a Lady on Fire's unforgettable ending, the profound impact two queer women had on each other (even when they can't hold each other's hands again) is astonishingly tangible.

Plus, this direct homage further entrenches Wicked: For Good in lesbian culture. Its ceaseless deluge of references to cornerstones of lesbian history (Tracy Chapman, Celine Sciamma, Marsha P. Johnson, etc) intertwine formative modern-day dyke media with the individuals who made our community possible. This is the artistic prowess of the unabashedly queer Wicked: For Good and its five best lesbian moments that totally happened. I swear. 

Why and When Did Animated Disney Movies Start Dominating Thanksgiving Weekend?

Zootopia 2's arrival on November 26, 2025 marks the latest in a long line of films in the Walt Disney Animation Studios canon to open in wide release over Thanksgiving weekend. While the original Zootopia debuted in March 2016, this furry sequel is dropping in a timeframe that the Mouse House's animated offerings have ruled for eons. The eight biggest Thanksgiving opening weekends in history belong to animated Disney fare, while even live-action Mouse House films like 1996's 101 Dalmations or 2007's Enchanted have often debuted over this timeframe hoping to get in on this box office action.

But why do Walt Disney Animation Studios movies open over Thanksgiving? When did this holiday become the de facto launchpad for Disney's homegrown animated projects (plus a handful of Pixar movies)?

One thing to remember is that, before the 1970s, the way films were released was drastically different. As  Tom Brueggemann helpfully notes in his March 2022 IndieWire piece "‘The Godfather’ Helped Invent the Blockbuster, Even Before ‘Jaws’ and ‘Star Wars’"...

"The standard M.O. for an anticipated hit was to open in one or two theaters each in New York and Los Angeles, on the same day or close together (usually Wednesday), and add more in the weeks to come. It might take a month or more for the top 200 markets to get a title, and even longer to reach outlying theaters."

The Godfather and especially Jaws forever changed theatrical release patterns by immediately launching into hundreds of theaters across the country.

For the purposes of this piece, it's important to remember this when considering when and where Disney released its earliest animated movies. These titles were expected to make bank long-term, not just over six or eight weeks. Thus, some (by modern standards) odd release dates were chosen for the very first Walt Disney Animation Studios titles. Pinocchio dropped in early February 1940, while Dumbo launched in late October 1941. Interestingly, Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs debuted four days before Christmas 1937. Here was the first example in history of Disney Animation and the holidays being bedfellows.

Only one of the pre-1970 Disney Animation Studios titles (Fantasia) dropped in November, a month that this outfit would later dominate.. Summertime and February were instead the go-to launchpads for the studio in the 1950s. The Jungle Book began rolling out to the public in December 1967, where it quickly garnered record-shattering grosses for an animated Disney film. This may have been one of the earliest signs of how well Disney Animation Studios titles could do in the final weeks of the year. 

In the pre-VHS days, Disney also constantly re-released its animated movies into theaters, usually every seven or eight years. Could this have been where the Mouse House got the idea for Thanksgiving as a lucrative launchpad for animated movie releases? Concrete data on exact release dates for all of these reissues is sometimes hard to track down in the modern world. However, Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs doesn't appear to have had a big pre-1987 Thanksgiving reissue (it was largely re-released in February or November). Fantasia's various reissues weren't centered on Thanksgiving either, ditto Dumbo.

Even after The Godfather and Jaws changed how movies were released theatrically, Disney kept releasing titles like The Rescuers and The Fox and the Hound in June or July. It wasn't until Oliver & Company opened over the pre-Thanksgiving weekend in 1988 that a new release date norm was established for Disney Animation Studios releases. Six years earlier, animated feature The Last Unicorn opened in the pre-Thanksgiving slot and got run over financially by E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial (then six months into its run). It was 1986's An American Tail, though, that really proved the Thanksgiving timeframe could be lucrative for animated family fare.

This Don Bluth directorial effort (produced by Steven Spielberg) racked up big numbers in a domestic run that not only thrived over Thanksgiving but also end of December holidays one month later. If a family movie took off at Thanksgiving, it could make money over multiple lucrative holidays. Disney re-released Cinderella over Thanksgiving 1987, while also launching Touchstone Pictures comedy Three Men and a Baby over the same holiday frame. Not only did Cinderella gross $34 million over this domestic relaunch, but Three Men and a Baby became the biggest movie of 1987 in North America.

An American Tail was no fluke. Animated cinema could really thrive over Thanksgiving weekend. Three Men and a Baby, meanwhile, showed how high the lifetime grosses could be for Turkey Day blockbusters. Oliver & Company launched over Thanksgiving 1988, while The Little Mermaid flourished over the same holiday in 1989. The next three Disney Animation Studios releases would debut over Thanksgiving to increasingly massive numbers. 1994's The Lion King would start a new trend of annual Disney Animation Studios titles debuting in June, however, 1995's Toy Story kept the tradition of animated Disney Thanksgiving releases alive and well. A Bug's Life and Toy Story 2 would open over this frame to massive numbers before the end of the 20th century.

In 2008, Bolt marked only the second Disney Animation Studios release (following Treasure Planet) to open either over or directly before the Thanksgiving frame. Two years later, Tangled expanded into wide release on Wednesday, November 24, the day before Thanksgiving. Fittingly, the first fully-animated Disney fairy tale musical to open over Thanksgiving since 1992's Aladdin was also the feature to resurrect Disney Animation Studios as a box office powerhouse. Frozen, Moana, and Pixar release Coco further solidified Disney's dominance over the Thanksgiving frame.

What's extra fascinating about Disney's continued success in this realm is how Thanksgiving weekend is often not ideal for movies to launch in. If a movie don't immediately take off over this holiday frame, it quickly gets pushed out of theaters by the deluge of new December movies. It's feast or famine in this holiday zone. To wit, only five non-Disney features (Creed II, Four Christmases, Creed, Back to the Future: Part II, and Knives Out) have had $26+ million three-day weekend debuts over Thanksgiving. Disney, meanwhile, can attest to how dangerous this release spot can be. The Good Dinosaur, Wish, and Strange World all bombed over this holiday weekend and then quickly vanished from theaters.

So entrenched is the studio's output in this timeframe that it's hard to believe that this release date tradition is less than 40 years old. One would think that Thanksgiving and new animated Disney family movies have been hand-in-hand since Floyd Norman first walked into the Disney studio. However, this release date strategy is still comparatively new in the 100+ year history of the Mouse House. It's also a standard inspired by an immigrant mouse and Tom Selleck (so many things in show business are). With Disney already scheduling Hexed and Frozen 3 for the next two Thanksgiving weekends, the Mouse House won't be abandoning this weekend anytime soon. 

That's despite this being the place where poor Treasure Planet perished so dramatically at the box office. Poor Jim Hawkins and Morph, y'all deserved better.

This Is Not For You

Boy, do I ever relate to Isabel Sandoval's weariness in this image from the excellent movie Lingua Franca.

Darkness has fallen on Dallas

And I'm exhausted.

Two screenings in a day

Will wipe anyone out.

I saunter into my apartment's elevator

Wearing a black-and-white dress

Oh, the fabric's so soft and fun to touch

And it's even got pockets! How divine!

Heaving a tired sigh, I continue gazing at my phone

I barely notice the man in front of me

Who lugged a bike into this cramped space

A rubber wheel now inches from my shoes.

I'm standing in the back corner

The bike in front of me

This strange man standing next to this two-wheeler

Suddenly, the man murmurs something

At first, I assume he's talking to himself

As I'm also wont to do.

But no, he stares at me,

This 60-ish year old man, grins and speaks again.

"Beg pardon?" I blurt out.

"I said, you look sexy," he declares

And suddenly, the optics of this tiny space

Are entirely different

Prviously, the bike in front of me

It was just a random object.

Now, it's a barrier. I'm trapped.

The elevator door feels miles away

"It's just a compliment," the man remarks

"You look sexy," he repeats as the doors open

Always a good sign when you have to clarify

That what you said totally wasn't creepy.

He moves his bike an inch, and I zoom away

An already stressful night now extra draining.

Only once I'm inside my apartment

Do I exhale.

Safe. Temporarily safe.

Two nights later, I'm alone at the local lesbian bar.

A week of toiling away at my laptop

And not being around gay people

Has left me counting down the seconds until this rendezvous 

Time for some karaoke and maybe 

A little bit of flirting with other lesbians.

While I'm sitting, reading, waiting for the karaoke to start,

A tall, 30-something man approaches, grinning

He's towering over me, inches away from my body.

"Hey!" he calls out. I burrow myself deeper in the book

I feign a yawn

Anything to indicate I'm busy.

He won't leave. He's circling me, occasionally

Calling out once more "hey!"

After a minute of this, I look into his eyes

And I see sickening desire

He thinks he's smooth. 

Any word out of his mouth

And women will drop their panties for him.

Anyone who doesn't is a cunt he can rant about on Reddit.

He leans down and asks me "what's you name?"

There will be no names exchanged between us.

I only looked up to say, "I don't want to talk to people."

A simple "ah" escapes his lips and he walks away

Probably to send incendiary texts to his buddies

About "the rude bitch at the bar, I was just being nice!"

Two hours later, I'm on the dance floor 

Shaking my legs and arms to Megan Thee Stallion and Doja Cat

I'm oh so white and have motor skills issues

Stemming from my autism

I know I can't dance

But it's fun to move the body to powerful music

And imagine these glorious women are including you

In their lyrics about "sexy women" on the dance floor

Since the dance floor's largely empty

I'm incorporating some kicks and 

Outsized hand movements in my dances

One guy on this dance floor didn't like that

Seemingly appearing out of the ether was this random man

Who stood right in front of me and wagged his finger, "no."

Even with the loud music, I could tell he then declared,

"Let me show you how to dance."

Thank God a man has appeared to instruct me how to dance.

I humor for one second, 

This guy who looks like Temu DJ Khaled

But he immediately grows visibly agitated 

Over my inability to follow his visual instructions

Sorry, random asshole, 

Dance floors aren't good teaching spaces

With this guy standing over me and now obsessed 

With molding me into a "proper" dance

I decide to call it a night

I bolt from the dance floor

It's time to go home

And be safe. Temporarily safe.

This is not for you.

This dress I wear?

My body?

My glittery makeup?

It's not for you, cis-het men.

Not just because I'm a lesbian

(That too, though, ewwwww, men)

But also because women 

Aren't your fucking property.

No woman deserves this harassment.

Who the fuck do you think you are?

Telling me how to dance?

Asking me, "do you date?"

When I'm walking to my apartment?

Why the fuck would you ask me

"Does watching trans porn make me gay?"

While you're driving me in an Uber?

Why would you put your arms around me

As if I'm some object to hold

And not a human being recoiling at your palms.

Nothing about my wardrobe, personality,

Or life is meant for your eyes or pleasure.

I do not want your compliments.

I crave not your teachings.

My nights aren't spent thinking

"Won't some man circle me,

Like a vulture hovering over a perishing critter,

And constantly pester me? That'd be a dream!"

I want to scream.

I want to cry

I want to just bellow from a rooftop

"THIS IS NOT FOR YOU!"

I wear my dresses, makeup, and glitter

To make myself smile when I look in the mirror

And feel a little more comfortable in my own skin

It's not an invitation for male hands, words, and eyes.

Misogyny and male toxicity are relentless.

I know this will happen again.

There will be further men seeing me

As just an item, they can possess

But they're not gonna stop me

The world is pain. Existence is often suffering.

Leaving the house means possibly encountering

The worst people and unexpected dysphoria.

It also means

Possibly encountering a non-binary comrade

Who loves my friendship bracelets.

Or another lesbian

Who is also bamboozled the DJ's playing

This random P!nk song in a dyke bar.

Or finding a fellow film fan

In the DVD section at Half Price Books. 

Or meeting a lovely, gender reaffirming 

Waffle House server who adores my makeup.

"This is not for you."

That's true of my body

And gender presentation.

It also applies to my experiences

Venturing alone into the outside world.

Those voyages are for meeting longtime friends

And encountering other lovely people

These experiences are not for impromptu

Dance floor instructors

Or creepy elevator guys with bikes.

I spent the day after my nightmare

Lesbian bar experiences an exhausted shell.

But I won't let these men keep me down.

I'll keep wearing my dresses and makeup.

I won't just stay "temporarily safe".

My body is not for you, toxic men.

My clothes are not for you.

And my life is certainly not yours to control.

Fuck off, you menacing bastards.

"This is not for you" and it never will be.

What Do Movie Theaters Need Now? (Hint: It's Not Recliners)

 

I don't think we need recliners in movie theaters.

No, put away the pitchforks and torches. I am not a "luddite" adverse to any technological innovations in a movie theater beyond what was available in 1920. I enjoy a good comfy recliner as much as the next gal, especially the ones at Cinemark locations or the elaborate recliners Gold Class Cinemas (now known as iPic Fairview) had when they first opened in 2010. Man, those Gold Class recliners were so big, you could get lost in them! 

However, walking through an AMC Northpark Dolby auditorium last night, I was struck by how I'd be fine losing that domicile's recliner seating. All those extra doodads with modern cinemagoing, such as food delivered to your seat, I don't think that's necessary or essential to theatrical movies. This is no dig nat the everyday Alamo Drafthouse/Studio Movie Grill/any other theater employees working tirelessly to bring people their food during movies. Y'all have to juggle so much stuff while waltzing around in dark, crowded spaces. Your miracle workers!

No, the problem I have with these concepts is more in the macro sense. A recliner is fine, I suppose. It can be occasionally fun to have popcorn brought right to you. But what I really want in a movie theater is quality picture and sound. I'd trade all the recliners away right this instant to have crisper, consistent projection or more 35mm film projectors at major multiplexes. Ditto sublime sound systems. Giving people a great experience specific to the movie they came to see is essential above all else. All the other external things are just stripes on an automobile. Pretty, but they're not as important as the engines and brakes operating properly. 

Yet the movie theater industry and major studios are always gung-ho about stupid innovations supposedly "changing" the film industry that only amount to a lot of bells and whistles and hollow press releases. Remember the Barco Escape phenomenon, which promised viewers movies that would wrap around an auditorium and project images on the walls? That's just what I wanted when I was viewing Casablanca or Drive My Car on the big screen. Then there was that CinemacCon 2015 panel where movie theater owners began talking about possibly allowing patrons to use their cell phones during screenings. Don't forget about 20th Century Fox's Choose Your Own Adventure movie, which would've allowed audiences to "control" the film's narrative nor the whole digital 3D craze that gripped the film industry.

When the dust settles, Barco Escape ended up shut down in 2018. Digital 3D glasses are gathering dust in North American theaters (the format remains more popular in several international territories). Titles like Knives Out, Everything Everywhere All at Once, and Sinners enthrall moviegoers without forcing people to look at the walls or their phones. Only the IMAX format endures as a constantly popular "new" theatrical exhibition experience, though even Barbie and Jurassic World Rebirth found plenty of box office success without those screens. 

Even IMAX, though, in its own way, reaffirms how the theatrical experience at its core doesn't need drastic alterations. IMAX screens offer bigger picture and more immersive sound, but you're still sitting and watching a film playing out on one screen. The prospect of simultaneously eating dinner or having the story play out on surrounding walls isn't the driving factor behind why people seek out IMAX showings. I saw One Battle After Another twice in IMAX (once in IMAX 70mm) and never once did my mind go "I could go for a recliner right now." I was just captivated by the storytelling.

Make no mistake, though. I'm not saying everything about movie theaters is perfect and should never change. However, multiplexes and studios alike need to realize gimmicks aren't enough to suddenly generate a robust box office haul. Instead, let's make the glorious cinematic experience more accessible for everyone. How about creating more discount ticket days that offer more people opportunities to experience the big screen? Instead of spending money on bowling alleys or recliners, how about incorporating more disabled-friendly seating in auditoriums or sensory-friendly screenings.  Scheduling more specific screenings to meet a local community's demands could also make movie theaters extra valuable to the local populace. 

Putting money into more film projectors, meanwhile, could ensure audiences get a quality theatrical moviegoing experience when they shell out for a ticket. Rich colors and powerful imagery that come from 35mm/70mm showings can't be easily replicated at home, no matter your home video setup. That would be far more interesting than having your swirling chair give you a headache while watching Avatar: Fire and Ash.

We overcomplicate things as human beings. Trust me, I'm speaking from experience. I make mountains out of molehills every day of my life. However, that doesn't mean we have to continue that cycle, including how we approach improving the theatrical experience. There's a notion that some extravagant technological enhancement is the magic bullet that'll make movie theaters as popular in 2025 as they were in 1925. Barco Escape! Digital 3D! Recliners! Food! "Just tell me what you want me to fuck!" as a wise MacGruber said. However, emphasizing proper projection of must-see films (not to mention making screenings more accessible to a wider portion of the population) is what's truly essential. 

People show up to theaters to see Wicked, not necessarily to cuddle up in a specific recliner. Measures should be taken to make sure Wicked is displayed as pristinely as possible rather than emphasizing external elements. You can put in as many recliner seats or fancy dinner menus as possible in theaters. It won't change that the movies themselves are the most essential ingredient at play. Recliners or a costly burger won't make a bad movie great, nor will they compensate for lousy projection. For the future of theatrical exhibition, let's look to more enhancements benefiting the theatrical experience rather than gimmicks so far removed from the films themselves.

Big Screen Lesbians Make The World Go Round

An image from Saving Face, courtesy of Sony Pictures Classics

You know what the best "trope" (oh, I dread using that word) is in all of cinema?

That moment in the finale of a lesbian movie where the queer lady protagonist finally gets a moment with her crush. So much chaos has unfolded. So much personal growth has transpired. Yet here these two are. Once again staring into each other's pupils. The protagonist tries talking and unfurling all those feelings she's had contained inside her. Then, her crush says some phrase like "I can't" or "There's no way I could kiss you", oh! The pain! The devastation! Will this be one of those films depriving audiences of catharsis? But then that crush quickly follows it up with "...because there's no music playing!" or "...in this dance hall!" Something cutesy that reveals those preceding words were a misdirect. 

Then, they smooch. The camera revels in their passionate connection. Awkwardness, fleeting devastation, has turned into romantic ecstasy.

Bottoms and Saving Face are the only two movies I can immediately recall doing this exact "trope" in their respective climaxes. Angela Robinson's exquisite D.E.B.S. also has a sequence akin to this, where leading lady Amy is giving a formal acceptnace speech where she notes her crush (and intended rival) Lucy Diamond personifies "evil in this world...if there is indecency to be found, she is the root" before pulling the rug out from the audience and declaring "the times I spent Lucy Diamond were the happiest days of my life." That excellent cheer-worthy segment brings it up to three. Is that enough to make something a "trope"? 

I'm gonna call it one and not in a derogatory fashion (I even cringe at most uses of that "trope" word, to be honest). It's a microcosm of the crowdpleaser joys only lesbian cinema can provide.

I've written on several occasions before about the glories of women kissing in cinema, but it really can't be said enough: lesbian cinema is a triumph. A wonder to behold. So often, queer women in the real world are erased, reduced as "spectacle" for cis-het male eyes, or enduring any number of further injustices. Lesbian cinema, meanwhile, allows this strain of queer existence to manifest in countless forms. The offbeat comedy stylings of Jamie Babit or Angela Robinson. The painterly beauty of Celine Sciamma's works. Don't forget about the unhinged horror permeating Julia Ducournau's work. It's all so excitingly and endlessly varied, much like the innate form of cinematic expression or the lesbian community 

Those are all such amazing realities to consider. You know what's less amazing? How scarce such lesbian cinema joys have been in 2025! I watch a movie every day and have rarely been handed more scenes of queer gals being cute and/or unhinged with each other. I have, however, seen movies with gratuitous Burger King product placement, ugly new iPhone models, and snarky Ryan Reynolds wannabes filling up the screen. This is now what cinema was made for. After all, the very first kiss in cinema was history was beween two gals. Know your history, people!

I want lesbians everywhere. Someone put out a decree that every week will bring a new motion picture featuring smooching ladies. For every one new American feature wallowing in 80s nostalgia, there needs to be three lesbian movies. None of this off-screen romance in Mickey17 or other mainstream American movies shuffling same-sex intimacy to the deleted scenes sections. As Britney Spears once said, "gimmee gimme gimme more." Get ladies of all body types, nationalities, and backgrounds smooching.  And make them messy and stupid! Those are always the best kinds of characters in storytelling! It'd be great to see more titles like Nia DaCosta's Hedda centering on tracherous lesbians, for instance.

The future of lesbian cinema can excitingly build on its past. Hopefully, those subsequent exploits aren't afraid to alienate cis-het people. Assimilation is boring. Gimme those lesbian movies that make straight people squirm in their seats, sweat dripping down their foreheads as they confront the messy, jagged side of queer women's existence that doesn't fit into the "You Need to Calm Down" music video or a Postmates Pride Month ad. Meanwhile, the gay folks in the room are hooting and hollering over the chaos unfolding on-screen. You're not going to get those cinematic experiences just remaking a '90s rom-com and having the gay best friend be a sporadically present lesbian.

Enough complaining about representation and what the future of lesbian cinema looks like. Let's go back to fawning over the joys of seminal on-screen dykes. 95 years later, Marlene Dietrich smooching a lady in Josef von Sternberg's Morocco still registers as salacious, hot, and amazing. The aching yearning and empathetic filmmaking of 1931's Mädchen in Uniform, meanwhile, is still so powerful. Throw out all the reverent cinema history writing about D.W. Griffith, replace them with passages waxing poetic on the artistry of Uniform director Lontin Sagan. Watching 1933's Queen Christina for the first time two months ago, I kept squealing over Greta Garbo smooching ladies. Let's go, Garbo!

Allegedly, classic cinema performers like Garbo and Janet Gaynor were queer. They never got to live in a world where the term "queer cinema" existed or civil rights were even possible for LGBTQIA+ folks in America. I wish they could've lived to see the joy they brought to people or the roads they paved for other queer artists. When I watch them flicker on the screen now, being such outsized presences, I see queer women existence defiantly bubbling to the surface of a medium that would often (in the Hayes Code era) reinforce heteronormativity. Without them, we don't get Portrait of a Lady on Fire, Bottoms, Lingua Franca, Kokomo City, Carol, and other outstanding entries in the LGBTQIA+ women cinema canon. 

It would be divine if they could've lived to see these and so many other movies. They, like those gals sharing the first-ever on-screen smooch, established that lesbianism and quality cinema are intrinsically intertwined. How tragic, then, that they could never be open about their identities in their lives, let alone see how the likes of Cheryl Dunye and Dee Rees would take lesbian cinema to new heights. 

In a way, though, they do live on. Their various movies keep their artistic contributions and vibrant humanity alive permanently. Meanwhile, anyone still making unabashedly queer women cinema in 2025 is carrying on the legacy of Dorothy Arzner, Katharine Hepburn, and other vintage artists. 

In the queer community, we're often carving out existences for tomorrow. The world is imperfect and cruel. Living is often about trying to make it a little better and more unorthodox so that the next generation of LGBTQIA+ souls have it a bit easier. They have more resources to access. More examples to follow and improve on. More instances of activism to emulate. And also produce queer art, enriching souls for eons to come. Those big-screen lesbians do mean something in illustrating (among many other concepts) to nascent gays the endless ways lesbian existence can materialize and that the status quo can be shattered. Even just providing fleeting entertainment from a hostile, unaccepting world is enough.

Maybe seeing those third-act moments in Bottoms and Saving Face, where two women finally embrace in the cutest fashion possible, urges a lesbian of any age to keep going. My fellow dykes, keep on creating lesbian-filled art. Plaster lesbians everywhere. Make them messy. Make them real. Make lesbian stories only you could create, warts and all. You never know who they might impact today and tomorrow. Plus, selfishly, I'd love to see even more art reveling in my favorite "trope", gimme more of those adorable romantic lesbian finales!

A Week of Unexpectedly Reassuring Modern Filmmaking

I've been in a not ideal mental state for the last week. Granted, 2025 hasn't been a rose garden psychologically, but harrowing chaos during my Austin trip (taken from October 23 through the 26th) and the lingering aftermath of all that madness have made the last week especially challenging to endure. In these arduous segments of existence, it's important to cling to whatever makes your soul feel full. "Any port in a storm," as they say.

Naturally, for me, that often comes in the form of cinema-based joys. Right now, when I'm getting overwhelmed or exhaustion feels like it's enveloping my body, I'm closing my eyes and looking back on one reality: over the last week, I've been privy to some superb 2025 cinema. Not only that, but these features demonstrated talented directors excelling in their greatest thematic and visual proclivities. Watching masters so deftly weaving movie magic that might as well serve as thesis statements for their filmographies, that's enough to give my mind some rest.

Directors are, like any human being, complicated. The internet enjoys boiling down Steven Spielberg to "family trauma" or Martin Scorsese to "gangster movies", but they and other directors are far more complicated in what themes fascinate them. Still, there are often molds or ideas that filmmakers do return to throughout their works, whether consciously or subconsciously. In the last week, I've witnessed several 2025 movies brought to life by directors clearly reveling in their greatest artistic passions...and it's been glorious. 

This whole phenomenon started last Friday with me partaking in a screening of Mary Bronstein's If I Had Legs I'd Kick You. Bronstein's only helmed one other movie, 2008's mumblecore cringefest (complimentary) Yeast. Across just two movies, though, Bronstein's demonstrated remarkable visual and thematic conviction. She delivers claustrophobic works trapping her characters and viewers in uncomfortable material profoundly rooted in reality. 

The messy, rude, and jagged interactions dominating daily existence often don't make it onto the silver screen. Bronstein's works, meanwhile, point a camera at those exchanges. Armed with a slightly bigger budget than Yeast's pricetag, If I Had Legs I'd Kick You shows Bronstein operating in a more polished but no less aching mode. Her depiction of the ceaseless turmoil greeting mother/therapist Linda (Rose Byrne) as she takes care of her ill daughter had my toes curled, teeth clenched, and my attention fully captured. This whole enterprise is also a phenomenal showcase for Byrne's talents. This comedic performer totally disappears into a role so believably realistic that it would make Gena Rowlands proud. She's a perfect anchor for something so specific and boldly willing to confront the turmoil of just being alive. 

Next up was No Other Choice and Hamnet, a pair of Austin Film Festival screenings that I'll be reviewing in full for The Spool. I'll save my full thoughts for those pieces, but needless to say, they're both extraordinary works. Director Park Chan-wook's trademark style of audacious "WTF is happening?" madness and precise visual sensibilities are on total display in No Other Choice. Chloé Zhao, meanwhile, once again reduced me to tears with her visually and thematically beautifully exploration of lost souls.  Though Hamnet is set in 17th-century Britain, it radiates intimate, naturalistic impulses of her prior American-bound work. Extraordinary to witness such confident pathos-driven creativity that makes well-trodden material like Hamlet feel fresh again.

Once I returned to Dallas, it was time for two press screenings, one on Monday, the 27th, the other on Tuesday, the 28th. On the former, I saw Nia DaCosta's Hedda, twisty-turny take on the Henrik Ibsen play. DaCosta's work here is much more grimly comical than her excellent debut feature Little Woods, but a similar emphasis on "what would you do to maintain your life?" does run through her interpretation of Ibsen's text. Freed from the franchise obligations of Candyman and The Marvels, DaCosta is fully alive with Hedda. She's having an infectious ball letting all this rich people chaos and treachery constantly escalate into increasing levels of madness. 

Tessa Thompson and Nina Hoss are unspeakably absorbing and hot in the lead roles. They exude chaotic queer girly energy you can't look away from. It's such a privilege to live in the age of Thompson star vehicles. Also shout out to composer Hildur Guðnadóttir. This reliably talented musician delivers a great score here that sounds like a compelling mixture of Jonny Greenwood's jazz-infused Spencer score and Jóhann Jóhannsson's most ominous compositions. What a great way to sonically reflect the interior world of Thompson's Hedda Gabbler, a woman externally conveying a bougie lady air while battling suicidal impulses and scheming treachery inside.

24 hours after Hedda, I finally got to see the new Yorgos Lanthimos movie, Bugonia. Though a remake of a 2003 South Korean film (Save the Green Planet), it's a saga about two distinctly toxic archetypes (girlboss CEO's who maintain toxic workplace status quos and white boy conspiracy theorists) utterly wrecking modern American society. Neither Lanthimos nor screenwriter Will Tracey flinches from chronicling the darkest possibilities of this premise, which makes for a gripping viewing experience. The gusto performances (Aidan Delbis is a remarkable find as one of the two kidnappers) and fantastic blocking informed by the unorthodox 1.50:1 aspect ratio sseal Bugonia as another Lanthimos winner.

Then, on October 29, I checked out Richard Linklater's Blue Moon. When I was 17 and expanding my cinematic palette, Linklater's Before Midnight knocked my socks off and totally recalibrated my brain on how a "successful" movie functions. Motion pictures could just be low-key dialogue...still captivate the viewer! 12 years later, that Linklater magic is still alive. The hangout cinema king has come back, this time for Blue Moon, a movie following lyricist Lorenz Hart (Ethan Hawke) over a single night in 1943 in the bar at Sardi's. His former creative partner, Richard Rodgers (Andrew Scott), has just debuted his new show, Oklahoma!, and eventually, an opening night party will gather to celebrate the program's kick-off. For now, though, Hart is happy to blabber away to anyone who will listen about his perspectives on life, love, and infatuation with 20-year-old Elizabeth Weiland (Margaret Qualley).

Linklater's script and Hawke's magnetic performance lure viewers with Hart's unblinking cattiness. No matter the protests of the people around him, here is a man willing to blurt the word "cocksucker" out loud or openly declare that his sexuality is fluid. There's so much fun dialogue here as this lyricist chastises his least favorite parts of Oklahoma! (I was dying at his breakdown of why "corn stalks as high as an elephant's eye" is a terrible lyric) and gets lost in his own anecdotes. However, what really makes Blue Moon captivating is its aching soulfulness. 

Early Linklater hangout movies like Dazed & Confused and Before Sunrise were about youthful possibilities and "l-i-v-i-n". Blue Moon, meanwhile, gradually reveals itself to be a feature-length extension of that heartbreaking Boyhood scene where Patricia Arquette quietly laments how quickly her life has flown by.

Hart maintains a confident air, but he's well aware that he's only good to many people as a way to be introduced to Richard Rodgers. Insecurity and sweaty pleading soak into his attempts to stage a "comeback" with his former partner. From the very start, it's clear that the romantic love Harts feel for Weiland is a one-sided affair. This is a tragic subtlety exercise accentuated in its impact by the low-key vibes only Linklater can realize so well. His dedication to stripped-down filmmaking that emphasizes conversations and subtle physicality above all else makes Blue Moon's melancholy atmosphere soar. Howke's also in top-notch form, vanishing into the fascinatingly complicated role of Lorenz Hart. He’s got a climactic monologue about where Hart finds beauty that left me in tears. Utterly staggering to consider that this is the same guy who headlined First Reformed.

******************************************************************************

I sometimes get asked "don't you get tired of watching/writing/talking about movies?" The honest answer is no, because there's always something new to discover. The promise of exciting, unexpected cinema being just over the horizon has provided me comfort on more challenging mental health deaths than I can count. This nearly week-long deluge of quality 2025 cinema was a reminder of how reassuring sublime cinema is.

All of these ramblings are meant to say that titles like If I Had Legs I'd Kick You or Blue Moon are terrific movies that could only come from these specific filmmakers and the artists they've assembled. These disparate motion pictures also use a filmmaker's specific fascinations to tap into emotions, fears, and anxieties we all endure. Heartbreak is everywhere. The pain of loss is unbearable. Just trying to exist from one day to the next is an arduous quest. Why must capitalism make earning a basic living such a nightmare? These are the woes that daily responsibilities often keep us from fully confronting. 

These artists making new movies in 2025, though, dare to craft compelling yarns that boldly stare such quandaries straight in the eye. They're also sticking to creative convictions in an age where feature-length storytelling is constantly under attack. "People don't want movies, they want AI/streaming slop!" so many executives say. The opportunities to get any kind of motion picture made are shrinking and shrinking. In the middle of this anguish, though, are quality 2025 movies like the ones discussed here. Against all odds, they exist. They don't adhere to algorithms or marketing pressures for what makes a "hit" movie. 

There's something inspiring in that. If the artists behind these projects could endure in the face of unspeakable challenges, I can too.After all, if I don't endure, who knows what wonderful movies I'll miss out on?

Everything Becomes Memory

 "CLINK CLINK"

So goes the ice bumping into my lips

As I guzzle down the last of this Sprite.

A soft yet slightly bumpy texture

Greets my fingers as I fiddle

With the tablecloth at this booth

In the distance, I hear

An obscure Michael Bublé song

Playing on the restaurant's speakers.

I've been eagerly awaiting

This lunchtime rendezvous with my best friend

For what seemed like ages.

Now it's here.

The noises, the music, the smells

They're all so vibrant right now.

But eventually they'll become memories.

Everything does.

You wait for it to arrive.

And then it becomes another thing to remember.

Nary a single texture, taste, or any other sensation,

No matter how pleasant or repulsive it may be

Lasts eternal.

That awkward date

Where I sat across

From a woman spewing transphobia

Was finite.

That time I was lost in Dallas,

Temporary.

Laughing with friends,

never lasts forever.

It's all fleeting,

Fodder for the psyche

To eventually obsess over.

Yet it doesn't feel like that 

In the moment.

Life's highs and lows 

Are eternal as they're happening.

Everything becomes memories

But it's so hard to remember

During the turmoil of existence.

As I type this out,

Clacking latop keys

Echo in the living room.

Snoring pugs curled in my lap

Also emit tremendous noise.

I pause writing

And look down at these snuggled critters.

My fingers greet smooth, soothing pug fur

And I know I'll never forget this.

These noises, sensations, and bonds

Will eventually become memories.

Worth cherishing.

Nothing lasts.

Yet with memories, everything is permanent....

The Decline of Media Journalism Over Two Decades Is Apparent Re-Reading 2007 Entertainment Weekly Issues

 

His Girl Friday's depiction of dedicated journalism wouldn't fly in today's Silicon Valley-dominated hellscape

I was wandering through the magazine section of my local Half Price Books yesterday when an exciting sight captured my eyeballs. There, almost entirely hidden from the views of casual observers, was an Entertainment Weekly issue from February 2007. Specifically, it was issue #922 from February 23, 2007, which provided final predictions over who would win in what categories at the 79th Academy Awards. This issue's so obscure that I can't find images of its cover on Google Images nor in Entertainment Weekly's Archive.org collection of 2007 covers. An incredibly ominous Justin Timberlake cover made the cut in the latter group, but not this Oscars-themed issue.

Full disclosure: Entertainment Weekly magazines are a key reason why I'm a pop culture journalist. These magazines amplified my love for cinema and all artistic media. Starting in 2008, I collected them religiously, meaning I now own 14 years' worth of these things. They're each a snapshot of a moment in pop culture history and encapsulate so many memories of me discovering new directors, indie movies, musicians, or TV shows.  It's always a treat to stumble onto a pre-2008 issue and add it to my collection, especially this one that's so endearingly an early 2007 time capsule. 31 pages into this issue, there's a brief profile of The Wire actor Idris Elba and his then-imminent first major film roles in 28 Weeks Later and American Gangster. "I have all these films, but there's no sense of who I am as an artist yet. So, I'm gonna go out and there and sell my soul," Elba remarks in the closing lines of this Missy Schwartz-penned piece.

There's also a new installment of The EW Pop Culture Personality Test with none other than Carrie Fisher, who delivers so many wonderful answers to questions like "who areyou most often mistaken for?" and "which talk-show host smells the best?" Fisher tragically passed away in 2016, yet her witty barbs in this issue made her as alive as ever. Then there were the intriguing looks at who the writers thought would totally win the 78th Academy Awards (oh, we were so confident Eddie Murphy in Dreamgirls had the Best Supporting Actor Oscar in the bag) and that week's edition of The Must List. The latter is a fixture dedicated to "ten things we love this week" that lets readers know about awesome artistic endeavors, ranging from Christopher Eccleston's work on Heroes to the DMZ: Volume 2 graphic novel to the outstanding German movie The Lives of Others.

It was enthralling to read this issue even beyond an undeniable dopamine rush of nostalgia. However, there was also something tragic about this experience. I can't imagine this issue existing in the modern world of entertainment journalism. The few corporations that own everything now have no room for this kind of material. 

Now, I'm not going to let my nostalgia for Entertainment Weekly cloud the very real realities of this publication. This was not Cahiers du Cinema or a public good like a local library devoid of any capitalistic intrusions. Entertainment Weekly issues, first and foremost, were meant to showcase advertisements. Flip through this February 2007 issue and you get ads for M&M's (complete with M&M versions of Joan Rivers and her sister), cars, and Verizon flip-phones that have "state of the art" music capabilities. The big news stories in this issue, meanwhile, are tied to the Academy Award broadcast as well as new Jericho episodes. They're meant to highlight new TV programs and get more eyeballs on the commercials contained within those shows.

Still, those vintage Entertainment Weekly issues packed a lot into one magazine. Over the years (starting with July 2008's Issue #1001), the publication would keep condensing how much material was covered in an average Entertainment Weekly issue. Certain sections were dropped, text got bigger, word count for pieces got smaller. This 2007 Oscars issue, though, was vintage Entertainment Weekly in its in-depth nature. Within the pages of this text, there's not only an Oscars rundown and other central stories, but also a look at new theatrical movies, home video releases, books, music, and a Stephen King essay on the then-recently deceased Anna Nicole Smith. 

There's so much art and pop culture covered in here, rather than just what was hot on ABC that week. Everything from Flushed Away to The Lives of Others to Sidney Poitier's memoir gets a chance to shine in the spotlight. No wonder these issues tantalized my brain as a youngster. They really let one explore the full range of the pop culture landscape. The lengthier nature of the reviews, celebrity breakdowns, and personal essays, meanwhile, lets you marinate in certain thoughts or artistic endeavors. This Entertainment Weekly issue is all about inviting readers to know more about the world around them rather than jostling them off to a new webpage or section.

There's also something delightful about the concrete nature of vintage Entertainment Weekly issues (or any print publication). For one thing, so much online writing is the very definition of temporary. There are various sections of my beloved The Dissolve that are no longer accessible. Clicking on various Buzzfeed pages published in the mid-2010s will bring you to dead links or error pages. I had over 600 Collider pieces wiped from the web when that site fired me in early 2024.  Forever and ever, though, the words that these Entertainment Weekly writers expressed are stuck on paper. You can remove them from the internet, but physical proof still exists.

That concrete nature also means every Entertainment Weekly subscriber got the same issue of this publication. The only variation was if they had fun fluctuating covers (like the four covers for a Simpsons Movie issue), but even there, everything inside was the same. Social media and streaming platform algorithms are all about keeping people divorced from each other. As texts like the Laura Bates book Men Who Hate Women, we now exist in a Silicon Valley hellscape where you're fed more and more of what you already experienced. No need to venture out into new genres or strains of cinema. Meanwhile, even something as simple as the charts of the 20 biggest movies at the box office could expose people to smaller features like Pan's Labyrinth. 

Late 2000s/early 2010s Entertainment Weekly subscribers may have gotten frustrated at opening their mailboxes and seeing yet another Twilight-themed cover. However, I now crave the idea of receiving and responding to art that isn't just made for my sensibilities, rather than just social media feeds regurgitating the same trash every day.  Plus, not just modeling the issues to what individual people already know is how I first got exposed to Stephen King. This horror legend did recurring Entertainment Weekly essays, which were the first pieces of King writing I ever consumed. 

Long before I dove into Christine, Under the Dome, and It, there were those Entertainment Weekly essays where King waxed poetic on frozen Junior Mints (he was totally right, by the way, they're scrumptious). I'm eternally grateful this publication put King on my radar, which wouldn't have been possible if this outlet was only concerned with showing me what I'd already seen.

Meanwhile, the lengthy deep dives into various pop culture properties in this earlier Entertainment Weekly piece are such a refreshing balm in a modern entertainment journalism landscape. EW pieces like a 2008 breakdown of Mike Myers' career were rife with historical context, specific commentary, and bravura in not treating celebrities with kid gloves. Not everything at this publication was hard-hitting journalism, God knows. However, the emphasis on higher word counts and denser essays opened up the door for recurring bursts of interesting journalism. 

Wouldn't we all love to have some of that again now that so many publications are owned by one corporation (like Penske Media) and deliver pieces about celebrities/pop culture news that are nothing but fluff? I grew up on Entertainment Weekly pieces unafraid to say "there's something wrong with the blockbuster movie landscape", snarky A.V. Club news reports, and Jim Hill Media breakdowns about Pixar that were dubious about the studio. The idea of publishing pieces about entertainment that expressed uncertainty or even hostility to the "powers-that-be" was normal to me. Now, major media outlets salivate to bolster the image of Sora AI or write pieces hostile to politically active women of color. 

We have fewer options than ever for entertainment editorials, and what does exist are often short pieces designed to stroke the egos of CEOs. Again, I'm not trying to paint a hagiographic portrait of Entertainment Weekly that paints this outlet's writers as being crusaders of the truth on par with the journalists seen in Collective. Instead, we should all realize that media journalism has declined so sharply in the last two decades that the once decidedly mainstream Entertainment Weekly feels revolutionary. Customary journalism for the masses in 2007 is a drop of water in a harrowing desert in 2025.

To be sure, quality pop culture journalism still exists today. The problem isn't that nobody can write today, but rather that unchecked corporate consolidation has left the mainstream, easily accessible entertainment outlets husks of their former selves. Just look at how Entertainment Weekly shifted to a monthly release in 2019 before shuttering its print version in 2022. It was the end of an era...but it doesn't have to be the end of quality journalism.

I still believe there's a voracious hunger for the kind of writing contained within the pages of this Entertainment Weekly issue. Entertainment writing that exposes readers to new artists and emphasizes the distinctly human in our art. There are tons of people providing that kind of material today, so I know I'm not alone in this urge. For those looking to support modern quality entertainment writing, here are some great places to check out:

Willow Catelyn Maclay's Patreon
Rendy Reviews
Angelica Jade Bastién's work on Vulture (and anywhere else she writes) 
Anything from Siddhant Adlakha 
Sam Adams on Slate
Kristen Lopez's The Film Maven
Marya E. Gates on Substack
Michelle Kisner on Substack
Carlos Aguilar

It's important to look back on what we've lost in entertainment journalism over the last 20 years, including how Entertainment Weekly kept adversely consolidating the size of its issues and stories in the years since that fateful 78th Academy Awards issue. But I refuse to lose out hope for the future. Especially when there are both great pop culture writers working today and the joy of those vintage Entertainment Weekly pieces still endures today. 18 years after its publication, I can hold in my hands the hard work, research, and passion that went into this 2007 magazine. The advertisements are amusingly out of date, but good writing endures. Never let corporate consolidation and incessant clickbait tell you otherwise.

With that, allow me to ensure Stephen King, from his Issue #922 essay A Modern Fairy Tale, has the final word here: "Story time's over, kids. You've all been good. So go ahead. Eat your dessert."

Do Not Succumb To Your Dreams

Do Not Succumb To Your Dreams

Do not succumb to your dreams

Do not get lost in fantasy

That's what my brain tells me every day

"Be productive! Do that task!"

"You're seconds away from losing your apartment!"

"Focus on how you're a failure!"

"Linger on how you're dysphoric!"

"Harp on these failures before anyone else notices them!"

So it is in my brain. Over and over and over and over again

Usually, I listen to it

Better to be productive and earn money

What's the use in dreaming about the impossible?

It's not practical

But sometimes, when I'm trying to go to sleep,

Or had an especially trying day,

I close my eyes and succumb to those dreams

Specifically, one fantasy I keep returning to

It's an Autumn afternoon, clouds dotting a blue sky

The temperature is 63 degrees, you can taste the crispness in the air

I'm standing next to a walking trail in one of my pink princess dresses

Rivers of colorful makeup patterns dot my face

Green and blue hues adorn the top and bottom of my lips

As I hum a John Denver tune, I see her

The woman I'm seeing...romantically

She strolls up in a flannel top 

Tight shorts covered in red and white stripes

And one or two strands of her short hair slightly fluttering in the wind

A wry smile comes over her face as she approaches me

"Guess who gave me a hard time at work today?" she asks

"It was David again, right?" I respond

She emits a mighty groan

The kind a beast would emit when caught in a trap

It's also her way of saying "yes"

"He's always riding my dick and saying the worst shit," she recounts

As we begin walking down the trail

Finally, with me, she can vent about all the workplace shit she endures

As we saunter from one woodland tableau to the next

Eventually, she sighs

"I hate that place," she murmurs with her head tilted down

She didn't want a solution

I gave her instead a hand squeeze

She looked up and smiled

"But I'm off for the weekend," she remarked, a grin returning to her face

"Yes!" I exclaim, "We can finally go see 100 gecs like you wanted"

With that, we began chanting the chorus of  the 100 gecs tune "Hollywood Baby"

Much to the befuddlement of any passing walkers

We also eventually chatted about all her favorite subjects

Machines, gears, engines, things I never thought twice about before

But I was enraptured when she info dump'd about them

Periodically, I'd propose a question about this interest

Probing her to keep talking about these matters that brought her joy

She was alive once again

Being heard rejuvenates the soul like nothing else

Eventually, we emerged from the foliage

And came upon a pier leading out to a beach

"Beaches are kind of gross," she glibly observed.

Me, always being the optimist to her practical demeanor,

nodded before noting "at least the water's different from all the Texas concrete!"

Suddenly, my eyes spied a funnel cake booth

I licked my chops and pointed at the stand

Her eyes widen in excitement

And we proceeded to chow down on the floury confection

She once again chuckled (as she always does when we're snacking)

Over how the "princess" she was dating scarfed down food

Like Mr. Fox in Fantastic Mr. Fox

I proceed to further chow down on the funnel cake

With extra noisy sound effects, much to her amusement

I love her laugh

It's so full of verve and boisterousness

Her laugh exudes the unabashed confidence

I've pursued my whole life

We continue ambling down the pier

With the setting sun emitting orange streaks

Across the sky and, via reflections, the ocean below

As we stared at this glorious sight

She suddenly wrapped her arm around me

And began scratching my head

Not a word was exchanged in that moment

Having each other was enough

Do not succumb to your dreams

That's what my brain always says

But I'm steadily learning to say back

"Fuck off" to that tendency

What's wrong with submerging 

Into a warm romantic fantasy

Like an inviting body of water?

Why not succumb to your dreams

When they're this intoxicating?

Why Does Kathryn Bigelow's New Movie, A House of Dynamite, Fizzle Out?

“That’s great, it starts with an earthquake, birds and snakes
An aeroplane, and Lenny Bruce is not afraid
Eye of a hurricane, listen to yourself churn
World serves its own needs, don't misserve your own needs”

Nobody knows where it came from. That’s the reality pervading all three sections of director Kathryn Bigelow’s A House of Dynamite. A nuclear missile is headed for the United States of America (specifically Chicago) and nobody knows who launched it. Each Dynamite segment follows a different U.S. government sector reacting to the news that the unthinkable is happening. First, audiences follow Captain Olivia Walker (Rebecca Ferguson) in the White House Situation Room as she and her team try tracking the ICBM and Amerca's plans to eliminate it.

Next, United States Strategic Command (STRATCOM) denizens like General Anthony Brody (Tracy Letts) and s Deputy National Security Advisor Jake Baerington (Gabriel Basso) are shown taking radically different tactics to this nuclear launch. Brody wants to fire on all foreign nuclear arsenals and ask questions later. Baerington, meanwhile, wants to negotiate and exude vulnerability with overseas leaders. Finally, there's a storyline centered on an unnamed President of the United States (Idris Elba). His day begins with shooting hoops with young kids before becoming a nightmare as he gradually realizes what's about to happen to ten million Americans.

These are the lives Bigelow and screenwriter Noah Oppenheim follow throughout A House of Dynamite. Right away, a key flaw emerges: there’s no variety in the existences chronicled here. It isn't just that 95% of the fictional individuals work in government jobs. They're also all buttoned up and professional. None of them have ragged edges or varying demeanors. Sidney Lumet's extraordinary Fail Safe, which also chronicled an impending U.S. nuclear disaster, lent vivid, wildly divergent personalities to its various characters. That included characters with high-ranking jobs in the American government.

Dynamite’s various politicians and nuclear experts, meanwhile, are excessively polished. The greatest on-screen flaw in these characters is that they munch on Doritos at their workstation when they’re not supposed to. Everyone’s loyal to their partner. Every child they pass has a smile and a cheerful wave. The worst thing about the president is he’s a harmless “narcissist,” but less so than his predecessors. Rather than having a nuclear apocalypse intrude on a recognizably real world and morally complex humans, A House of Dynamite has tragedy befall hollow automatons lifted from a U.S. Army recruitment ad.

The characters here are such a snore that not even exceedingly talented artists like Greta Lee (woefully wasted) and Jared Harris can lend much life to them. There's also the problem that every single white boy under 40 in this feature looks like a series of indistinguishable clones. Good luck discerning Gabriel Basso, Jonah Hauer-King, Kyle Allen, and other guys from each other. One of them needed to wear a hat, have blue hair, or a tattoo, something to make it clear who the hell they are. That’s a microcosm of how A House of Dynamite focuses on so many human beings yet none of them register as people.

It's also puzzling that Oppenheim’s central narrative structure doesn’t go anywhere unexpected or interesting. In the first segment, a group video call is introduced featuring subsequently important characters like the POTUS, Brady, and Baerington. It’s no surprise that these lives intersect nor are there interesting revelations nestled in shifting focus onto their storylines. Compare that to Weapons, which had fun details like a random man outside a liquor store asking beleaguered teacher Justine for bus ticket money…only for that guy to later be revealed as key character James.

Oppenheim’s script is too respectful and stuffy for elements like that. Pursuing pervasive gravitas, though, just instills A House of Dynamite with a chilly exterior. It’s impossible to latch onto these people who never register as human beings. Absolutely terrible dialogue, namely the POTUS beginning a dramatic soliloquy with the phrase “I was listening to a podcast…”, hammers home the film’s endless writing problems. This movie truly is what would happen if the screenwriter of The Maze Runner and a Divergent sequel tried his hand at writing a nuclear paranoia thriller. I Live in Fear, this is not.

“Six o'clock, TV hour, don't get caught in foreign tower
Slash and burn, return, listen to yourself churn
Lock him in uniform, book burning, blood letting
Every motive escalate, automotive cinerate
Light a candle, light a votive, step down, step down
Watch your heel crush, crushed, uh-oh, this means
No fear, cavalier renegade steer clear
A tournament, a tournament, a tournament of lies
Offer me solutions, offer me alternatives
And I decline”

With her 2009 Best Picture Oscar winning movie The Hurt Locker, Bigelow established her new go-to cinema verité filmmaking style mimicking shaky-cam documentary camerawork. This approach emulated the idea that audiences were in the Iraq War terrain right with Hurt Locker's characters, with explosions and other events "jostling" the camera. Lending that approach to A House of Dynamite already makes no sense because the film takes place in Washington D.C. and various steady military bases. There are no exploding bombs or other elements that could inspire quivering camerawork. That’s the whole point of the story…the nuclear missile hasn’t landed yet.

It's not even like the barrage of quick cuts, sudden zoom-ins, and ceaselessly quivering camerawork is supposed to convey terror at impending nuclear Armageddon. Bigelow and cinematographer Barry Ackroyd (whom Bigelow previously worked with on Locker and Detroit) capture pre-missile launch idyllic scenes like Walker playing with her kid or Cathy Rogers (Moses Ingram) cheerfully waltzing into work in the same fashion. To make matters worse, A House of Dynamite has that unmistakably bright and excessively digital sheen of typical Netflix original movies and TV shows.

Even Bigelow has succumbed to these cinematography norms. Random shots of people in cars or government offices look indistinguishable from similar images from Space Force or The Gray Man. Not only does this make House of Dynamite look off-putting, it also undercuts the entire point of that mockumentary shooting style. The cinema verité approach is supposed to make audiences feel like they’re watching reality as it unfolds. However, the Netflix lighting upends any tactility or lived-in qualities in the visuals. In Bigelow’s newest movie, you get the worst of both worlds. The lighting is bad, but it’s also realized through hyperactive editing and messy blocking. Love it or hate it, Bigelow’s ramshackle shooting style previously had purpose to it. Not here.

“The other night I dreamt of knives, continental drift divide

Mountains sit in a line, Leonard Bernstein

Leonid Brezhnev, Lenny Bruce and Lester Bangs

Birthday party, cheesecake, jelly bean, boom

You symbiotic, patriotic, slam but neck”

Speaking of thoughtless, one-size-fits-all artistry, Volker Bertelmann's House of Dynamite score is a mess. This feature's so proud of his orchestral tracks that the opening Netflix logo is even preceded by 15-ish seconds of Bertelmann's music playing against a black screen. That confidence is woefully misplaced. Much like with his repetitive All Quiet on the Western Front work, Bertelmann can only communicate ominousness through "LOUD NOISES!!" and battering audiences with one uninspired leitmotif.

Low-pitched string instruments dominate the sonic landscape and there’s no musical variety as the script jumps around from one location to the next. A Battle of Gettysburg recreation has the same score as White House Situation Room denizens reacting to unspeakably bad news. Bertelmann’s score is downright terrible, but at least it provides a useful encapsulation of why A House of Dynamite doesn’t work. It too is one uninspired note hit ceaselessly for 112 minutes.

It's shocking to remember that Bigelow’s earlier genre films like Near Dark and Point Break oozed such exciting, subversive energy. Those titles were as unpredictable as A House of Dynamite is determined to ruffle no feathers. It doesn’t present a challenging or unique vision of America under duress, while its visual and sonic sensibilities are insultingly familiar. The only way this movie really works is as an extensive advertisement for the latest iPhone models. Every single character in this universe possesses these unwieldy devices and constantly keeps their back camera (and accompanying Apple logo) proudly facing the camera. Tim Cook will be pleased. Shouldn’t a filmmaker of Bigelow’s caliber aim higher than that?

It's the end of the world as we know it (It's time I had some time alone)

It's the end of the world as we know it (It's time I had some time alone)

It's the end of the world as we know it (It's time I had some time alone)

And I feel fine (I feel fine)