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Released in 1986 and directed by Rob Reiner, Stand by Me is based on Stephen King’s novella The Body, and it proves that King’s best stories are not always about monsters or horror. Sometimes the most powerful stories are just about memory, friendship, and the painful moment when childhood starts slipping away.

The film follows four boys in the summer of 1959 who hear that the body of a missing kid has been found out near the train tracks. Instead of telling the adults, they decide to go find it themselves, partly out of curiosity and partly because they want to be part of something bigger than their small town lives.

Wil Wheaton plays Gordie Lachance, the emotional center of the story and the one telling it through memory. Gordie is dealing with grief, loneliness, and the feeling that even his own parents barely see him after the death of his older brother. Wheaton gives the role a quiet honesty that makes the whole film work.

River Phoenix is outstanding as Chris Chambers, easily one of the strongest performances in the movie. Chris is the smart kid trapped inside the reputation of a “bad family,” and Phoenix gives him maturity and sadness far beyond his age. His friendship with Gordie is the heart of the story.

Corey Feldman as Teddy Duchamp and Jerry O’Connell as Vern Tessio complete the group perfectly. Teddy is loud, reckless, and carrying his own damage, while Vern brings nervous humor and innocence. Together, the four boys feel like real friends instead of movie versions of friendship.

Kiefer Sutherland appears as Ace Merrill, the older neighborhood bully who represents the darker edge of growing up. He is not in the film constantly, but his presence matters because he reminds you that childhood innocence does not last forever.

Rob Reiner directs the film with incredible restraint. He does not force sentimentality. He lets the boys talk, joke, fight, and wander, and through those simple moments the story becomes powerful. It feels less like watching a plot and more like remembering your own life.

The plot is simple on purpose. Walking to find a dead body sounds like a strange adventure, but the body itself is almost secondary. The real journey is emotional. It is about these boys facing fear, learning loyalty, and realizing the world is bigger and harsher than they thought.

Some scenes are funny, some are tense, and some are surprisingly heartbreaking. The campfire conversations and the quiet talks between Gordie and Chris carry just as much weight as the more dramatic moments. That balance is what makes the film timeless.

Yes, parts of it are a little corny, especially with the nostalgic voiceover and some of that very eighties emotional framing, but honestly that is part of why it works. Memory itself is a little corny. People remember life with emotion, not perfect realism.

The famous line about never having friends later in life like the ones you had when you were twelve hits hard because it is true for so many people. That is the power of the film. It reaches into something personal and universal at the same time.

The soundtrack also helps shape that feeling, especially Ben E. King’s title song “Stand by Me,” which became inseparable from the movie. It adds to that bittersweet feeling of looking backward while knowing you cannot go back.

What makes the film such a classic is that it respects childhood instead of treating it like something silly or disposable. These boys’ problems matter because to them, they are everything. The movie never talks down to that.

Over the years, Stand by Me has remained one of the most beloved films of its kind because it captures something honest. Everyone has moments that seemed small at the time but ended up defining who they became.

In the end, it is still a classic to me because it is warm, funny, sad, and deeply human. It may be a little corny around the edges, but sometimes that sincerity is exactly what gives a film its lasting power.

It is not just about four kids walking down train tracks. It is about friendship, growing up, and realizing that some summers never really leave you.

Hace pocos días, por puro azar, me encontré con un mediometraje particularmente interesante, catalogado entre los de LGTB. No me gustan las clasificaciones y menos en el arte; de modo que eso no me interesa.

Ya desde su título en inglés es llamativo, el cual podría traducirse literalmente como “Dos personas intercambiando saliva”. No sé si lo habrán visto. Debo reconocer que me impactó, tanto por sus imágenes como por la historia y tratamiento que nos presenta. Intentaré desarrollar estas consideraciones.

Este filme es de 2024, pero fue reconocido con premios en el 2025, entre ellos, el Óscar a mejor cortometraje de ficción, e igualmente en el Premio Cesar.

Se trata de una realización de coproducción Francia – Estados Unidos, y dirigida por una pareja singular: Natalie Musteata y Alexandre Singh, un dúo de cineastas jóvenes residenciados en USA; ella, rumano-estadounidense, escritora y doctora en arte; él, franco-indio, artista visual, con exposiciones en el MOMA, por ejemplo.

¿Qué nos presenta este filme turbador? Una sociedad futura, distópica, donde está prohibido besarse y expresar las emociones afectivas, como el deseo y el gusto por las sensaciones agradables (perfumes, buen aliento), y en la cual los que cometen esas “culpas” son eliminados.

Intentando no incurrir en espóiler, puedo indicar que muestra la descripción de esa aterradora sociedad, a través de la historia de una chica empleada de una tienda de artículos de moda y su intento de relación con una dama poderosa compradora en dicho almacén.

Aprecio varias cualidades destacables en el mediometraje.

En primer lugar, ya atreverse a abordar un asunto que, pese a todo el supuesto “avance” socio-cultural de nuestra actual modernidad, sigue teniendo un cierto estigma social.

En segundo lugar, la narrativa usada, que, por el uso de eficaces elipsis y un ritmo ralentizado y repetitivo, nos cautiva con su extrañeza.

En tercer lugar, resaltaría la concepción de los tres personajes principales, cuyos nombres ya están cargados de mucha significación, incluso irónica: “Malaise”: malestar, inquietud, desasosiego, desazón; “Angine”: agallas – valentía; “Petulante”: caprichosa, impetuosa. Personajes caracterizados por las impresionantes actuaciones de tres actrices quizás poco conocidas: Luàna Bajrami, Zar Amir-Ebrahimi y Aurélie Boquien.

En cuarto lugar, una estética con mucho de retro; si bien es una sociedad futura, no es casual que haya sido presentada en blanco y negro. Posee excelentes planos (panorámicos, de conjunto, primeros y close-up), así como un juego de cámara, que, sin ser extraordinario, es muy efectivo.

Finalmente, valoro la fuerza significativa de este filme, no sé si para las sociedades del presente; pero, sin duda, para aquellos países en los que la conducta de las mujeres sigue siendo censurada y castigada. Lamentablemente, todavía existen.

Referencias: https://es.wikipedia.org/wiki/Two_People_Exchanging_Saliva https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Two_People_Exchanging_Saliva https://www.filmaffinity.com/es/film538157.html Pueden acceder al filme completo en este enlace: https://www.filmaffinity.com/es/evideos.php?movie_id=538157

(English versión](/h4>

A View of the Film “Two People Exchanging Saliva”

A few days ago, quite by chance, I came across a particularly interesting short film, categorized as LGBTQ+. I don't like classifications, especially in art; so that doesn't interest me.

Even its English title is striking, which could be literally translated as “Two People Exchanging Saliva.” I don't know if you're familiar with it. I must admit that it impacted me both visually and through the story and its treatment. I will try to elaborate on these points.

This film is from 2024, but it received awards in 2025, including the Oscar for Best Live Action Short Film, and also a César Award.

It is a French-American co-production, directed by a unique pair: Natalie Musteata and Alexandre Singh, a duo of young filmmakers based in the USA; she, a Romanian-American writer with a PhD in art; He, a French-Indian visual artist, has exhibited at MoMA, for example.

What does this unsettling film present? A dystopian, future society where kissing and the expression of affection, such as desire and the enjoyment of pleasant sensations (perfume, fresh breath), are forbidden, and where those who commit these "crimes" are eliminated.

Trying to avoid spoilers, I can say that it depicts this terrifying society through the story of a young woman who works in a fashion boutique and her attempted relationship with a powerful female customer.

I appreciate several noteworthy qualities in this short film.

First, its daring approach to a subject that, despite all the supposed socio-cultural "progress" of our modern world, still carries a certain social stigma.

Second, the narrative style, which, through the use of effective ellipses and a slow, repetitive rhythm, captivates us with its strangeness. Thirdly, I would highlight the conception of the three main characters, whose names are already laden with meaning, even ironic: “Malaise”: unease, restlessness, disquiet, disquiet; “Angine”: courage – bravery; “Petulant”: capricious, impetuous. These characters are brought to life by the impressive performances of three perhaps lesser-known actresses: Luàna Bajrami, Zar Amir-Ebrahimi, and Aurélie Boquien.

Fourthly, the film boasts a distinctly retro aesthetic, despite being set in a futuristic society; it is no coincidence that it was presented in black and white. It boasts excellent shots (panoramic, group, close-up, and close-up), as well as camerawork that, while not extraordinary, is very effective.

Finally, I value the significant power of this film, perhaps not for contemporary societies, but certainly for those countries where women's behavior continues to be censored and punished. Sadly, such countries still exist.

Gracias por su lectura | Thank you for reading.

Translated Google Translator

_{Gif diseñado por @equipodelta}

Wars to Come (S5x01)

Airdate: 12 April 2015

Written by: David Benioff & D.B. Weiss Directed by: Michael Slovis

Running Time: 52 minutes

Season 5 of Game of Thrones arrived with considerable expectation, yet its inaugural episode, Wars to Come, offered a curiously subdued and uneventful commencement. Functioning primarily as a narrative mop-up operation, the episode diligently tidied the sprawling aftermath of Season 4’s explosive finale—the death of Tywin Lannister, Tyrion’s flight, Jon Snow’s ascendance—but showed little urgency in propelling new stories forward. It was a table-setting hour, methodical to a fault, which prioritised repositioning pieces over generating palpable momentum. This slow burn, while arguably necessary, rendered the episode a somewhat languid re-entry into the world of Westeros and beyond.

Nevertheless, Wars to Come opens with a genuine novelty: a prologue. Departing from the series’ established format, the cold start depicts two young girls venturing into a wood to visit the hut of a witch named Maggy (Jodhi May). The blonde, imperious child (Nell Williams) declares her father owns all the land and demands her fortune. Maggy’s blood magic yields a chilling prophecy: the girl will marry a king, not a prince; be replaced by a younger, more beautiful queen; and witness all her children die before her. The revelation that this is a young Cersei Lannister retrospectively casts a long, ominous shadow over the entire series. This flashback technique, previously avoided by showrunners David Benioff and D. B. Weiss for fear of overcomplicating an already dense plot, proves a compelling addition. It provides crucial psychological underpinning for Cersei’s paranoia and ruthlessness, and Nell Williams adeptly mimics the signature hauteur and coiled menace of Lena Headey’s performance.

Back in the present, the episode’s central event is Tywin Lannister’s funeral at the Great Sept of Baelor. Here, the consequences of his death begin to crystallise. Cersei and Jaime, united in grief yet fundamentally adrift, are confronted by their cousin Lancel (Eugene Simon), now a gaunt, sober acolyte of the Sparrows. This fundamentalist movement, based on the Faith of the Seven, had been barred from King’s Landing by Tywin. His removal creates a power vacuum the Sparrows eagerly fill, their rise signalling a significant new threat to the decadent Lannister regime. The episode, however, stumbles in its handling of this faction. While George R. R. Martin’s novels root the Sparrows’ popularity in widespread popular disgust with the nobility’s war-driven famine and violence, the show offers little exposition. Their sudden prominence and ability to convert even Lannister kin like Lancel feels unearned, an abrupt narrative insertion rather than an organic societal shift. Cersei’s dismissive reaction to Lancel’s calls for repentance perfectly captures her arrogance, but it also highlights the show’s tendency to tell, not show, this new dynamic.

The episode’s most promising thread lies in Essos. Tyrion Lannister, vomit-stained and despondent, is unveiled in Pentos at the manse of Illyrio Mopatis. In a grand display of quiet intrigue from Conleth Hill, Varys outlines his grand design: the Seven Kingdoms need a new ruler. Tommen is weak, Stannis too rigid, leaving Daenerys Targaryen as the optimal candidate. Peter Dinklage portrays Tyrion’s profound nihilism with weary brilliance, his desire to “drink myself to death” a logical endpoint for the character. His eventual, reluctant agreement to travel east with Varys promises a fascinating intellectual pairing, though this segment feels like pure set-up, a promise of adventures to come rather than an adventure itself.

In Meereen, Daenerys’s rule faces its first serious internal threat. Her removal of the ancient Harpy statues has inflamed traditionalist sentiment, spawning the Sons of the Harpy, a secret society of masked assassins targeting isolated Unsullied. This plot effectively establishes the insoluble dilemma of the conqueror attempting to reform a foreign culture. Meanwhile, Hizdahr zo Loraq and Daario Naharis return from Yunkai. Hizdahr’s plea to reopen the fighting pits—albeit with free men volunteering—is a pragmatic suggestion to win hearts and minds, but Daenerys’s instinctive revulsion is palpable. Daario, revealing his own past as a slave pit-fighter, offers a more nuanced perspective, creating a nascent policy rift. Emilia Clarke conveys Daenerys’s growing isolation and anxiety well, particularly in a potent scene where she visits her chained dragons, Viserion and Rhaegal. Her loss of control over them in the catacombs is a terrifying metaphor for her slipping grip on the city itself.

Elsewhere, the narrative is thinner. Lord Baelish smuggles Sansa Stark out of the Vale, misleading Lord Royce about their destination. This mysterious westward journey feels like a placeholder, a transition between safe houses. Concurrently, Brienne and Podrick have a petty squabble about his suitability as a squire, a scene whose sole dramatic function seems to be placing them on the same road as Sansa’s carriage—a contrivance that highlights the season’s sometimes clumsy plotting.

The episode’s most powerful sequence unfolds at the Wall. Stannis Baratheon, encamped at Castle Black, reveals his intent to reclaim the North from Roose Bolton. He needs the wildlings as recruits, but their allegiance hinges on their King-Beyond-the-Wall, Mance Rayder. Ciaran Hinds and Stephen Dillane excel in a tense standoff: Stannis, egged on by the fervent Melisandre, offers Mance a final chance to bend the knee. Mance’s refusal is steadfast, his dignity intact. His ironic blessing to Stannis for the “wars to come” provides the episode its title and a moment of profound tragic resonance. The subsequent burning is harrowing, a spectacle of zealous cruelty that discomforts all onlookers save the fanatical Queen Selyse. Jon Snow’s merciful arrow, defying Stannis’s authority, is a defining act of compassion and rebellion, perfectly setting the stage for his own fraught leadership challenges. This storyline alone delivers the moral complexity and emotional weight the episode elsewhere sometimes lacks.

Ironically, Wars to Come achieved the series’ highest viewing figures at that time, a record later broken in the same season. This popularity underscores a paradox: while it delivered the expected ingredients—political manoeuvring, moral dilemmas, spectacle—it remained a relatively uneventful instalment. Its pacing was deliberate, often slow, and much of its runtime was devoted to exposition and character repositioning.

The episode also continued HBO’s trademark “sexposition,” signalling that despite its mainstream ascent, Game of Thrones would not abandon its spicy content. Two scenes are notable. The first, an initially perplexing visit by an Unsullied officer to a brothel, is clarified when the prostitute Vala (Meera Rayan) provides a non-sexual service of cuddling and comfort—a poignant detail lifted directly from Martin’s texts that humanises the famously disciplined warriors. The second, depicting Loras Tyrell frolicking with the male prostitute Olyvar, serves a less noble purpose. Devoid of significant narrative function, it feels like gratuitous fan service, reducing a principal character to a simplistic stereotype for titillation.

Wars to Come is a competent but unspectacular season opener. Its strengths lie in its potent prologue, the compelling Wall storyline, and the promising alliance of Varys and Tyrion. Its weaknesses are equally apparent: the undercooked introduction of the Sparrows, some contrived plotting, and a general lack of forward thrust. It performed the essential groundwork, clearing the debris of the past so that the wars to come—both literal and political—could commence. Yet, one cannot shake the feeling that for an episode bearing such a portentous title, it spent rather too much time looking backward and not enough charging ahead.

RATING: 6/10 (++)

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The Children (S4x10)

Airdate: 15 June 2014

Written by: David Benioff & D.B. Weiss Directed by: Alex Graves

Running Time: 66 minutes

When Season 4 of Game of Thrones drew to a close in June 2014, none of its millions of viewers—and, one suspects, not even the showrunners David Benioff and D. B. Weiss—fully appreciated that the series had reached its narrative midpoint. With two more seasons originally planned and then two abbreviated final seasons to follow, the story of Westeros was in fact already tipping over the crest of its arc. Yet at that moment, the show appeared to be in remarkably good health. True, there had been hiccups: the messy teleportation of characters across the continent, the awkward handling of certain subplots, and the first faint stirrings of the showrunners’ questionable decision-making that would later cripple the final seasons. Nevertheless, the series had just delivered The Watchers on the Wall, arguably its finest episode to that date—a taut, brutal, and emotionally resonant siege that placed Jon Snow and the Night’s Watch at the centre of the action. The Children, the season finale that followed, had a great deal to live up to, and in many respects it succeeded admirably, delivering a dense, ambitious, and emotionally punishing piece of television that set the stage for the chaos to come.

The episode opens by resolving the cliffhanger left by the previous instalment. Jon Snow, having survived the wildling assault on Castle Black, knows that the only thing holding the disparate tribal army together is the leadership of Mance Rayder. In a desperate gambit, Jon rides out to the wildling camp under the pretence of parley, intending to assassinate their king. What follows is a surprisingly civil and reasonable discussion between the two men, during which Mance offers Jon a pragmatic deal: let his people pass through the Wall’s tunnel, and the Night’s Watch will be left alone to enjoy the protection of the Wall against the true horrors that lie beyond. It is a moment of rare intellectual honesty between enemies. Yet Mance soon perceives Jon’s true intent, and before he can act, the wildling camp is engulfed by what can only be described as the mother of all deus ex machinae: Stannis Baratheon’s armoured cavalry, launching a perfectly coordinated two-pronged assault. Though Stannis’s army is minuscule by the standards of the Seven Kingdoms, the wildlings—unarmoured, undisciplined, and exhausted—are no match for steel, training, and tactics. Mance, realising the futility of further slaughter, throws down his sword and surrenders. He is brought to Castle Black, where Melisandre spots Jon and takes an evident interest in him. After a brief exchange with the captured Tormund, Jon heads north to burn Ygritte’s body beneath a sacred heart tree, a sombre and elegiac close to his arc this season.

Far beyond the Wall, Bran, Hodor, and the Reeds are nearing the end of their endurance when they finally glimpse the object of their quest: a heart tree identical to the one in Bran’s visions. As they approach, skeletal wights burst from a frozen lake and attack. The ensuing fight is desperate, with Bran warging into Hodor to defend the party, but Jojen is mortally wounded. Just as all seems lost, a mysterious girl (Octavia Alexandru) appears, hurling fireballs at the wights, burning Jojen’s body, and leading the survivors to the safety of a cave. She identifies herself as a “Child of the Forest,” one of the mythical beings who preceded the First Men. Inside the cave, Bran finds the Three-Eyed Raven, embodied as an ancient man played by Struan Rodgers, who tells him that he will never walk again, but that he will fly. This sequence, while short, is among the most visually striking and tonally distinct in the episode, blending horror with mythic wonder.

In Meereen, Daenerys is confronted with yet another unpleasant aspect of rule. An elderly former slave named Fennesz (Trevor Allan Davies), petitions her, lamenting that he preferred the safe, predictable life of slavery in a wealthy household to the chaos and poverty of freedom. Worse, a man whose young daughter was burned to death by Drogon—Daenerys’s missing dragon—demands justice. Faced with the reality that her “children” are uncontrollable, she makes the heartbreaking decision to chain Rhaegal and Viserion in a sealed crypt. It is a moment that crystallises the central tension of her arc: the gulf between her ideals and the brutal compromises required to sustain power.

Meanwhile, in the Vale near the Bloody Gate, Brienne and Podrick finally encounter Arya, accompanied by the Hound. Brienne insists that Arya come with her as the sworn protector of the Starks, but the will of both Arya and the Hound is not so easily bent. What follows is an extremely brutal and bloody duel between two very different knights. The Hound fights with raw, savage strength; Brienne with discipline and honed technique. The fight ends with the Hound falling from a cliff, gravely wounded. Yet Arya refuses to join Brienne and hides. Later, she finds the Hound dying. Begging for a clean death, he asks her to finish him off. She refuses, taking only his bag of money and leaving him to his fate—a decision that speaks volumes about her hardening character and her refusal to grant the Hound the mercy of a quick end.

In King’s Landing, two major developments unfold as consequences of the vicious trial by combat between the Mountain and Prince Oberyn. The Mountain has won, but is so grievously injured that Cersei authorises the disgraced former maester Qyburn to use his banned experimental knowledge to save his life. Qyburn warns Cersei that her champion, when he recovers, “won’t be the same.” The implication of necromancy and the creation of Gregor Clegane’s monstrous undead form hangs over this scene, foreshadowing the horror to come.

Even more momentous is the night before Tyrion’s execution. Jaime frees him from the Black Cells, explaining that he has arranged his escape via ship to the Free Cities, with Varys’s help. As they move through the Red Keep, Tyrion notices a secret passage leading to the Tower of the Hand. He cannot resist. Infiltrating his father’s private chamber, he is aghast to find Shae in Tywin’s bed. Partly to silence her, partly consumed by rage, he strangles her. Then, knowing Tywin is in his privy, he takes a crossbow and bolts. Tywin, seated on the privy, dismissively refers to Shae as a “whore,” and Tyrion, in a fury, kills him. He later meets Varys, who immediately suspects that something violent has occurred and hides Tyrion in a crate on a departing ship. When the bells toll the death of the Hand of the King, Varys knows his career as Master of Whispers is likely finished. He decides to join Tyrion in exile—a decision that propels both characters into entirely new trajectories.

The episode ends with Arya arriving at Saltpants, a small coastal village with a single docked ship. She meets the captain (Gary Oliver), and tries to charter a voyage north to rejoin Jon Snow. When the captain explains that he is Braavosi and his ship is homeward bound, she remembers Jaqen H’ghar’s iron coin and speaks the words “Valar morghulis.” The captain accepts, and Arya sails east, setting off to train with the Faceless Men. It is a quietly powerful ending, opening a new chapter for both the character and the series.

As a grand finale written by Benioff and Weiss and directed by Alex Graves, The Children earns its title in more ways than one. The episode’s title resonates symbolically and literally: Arya struggles not to be treated as a child; Daenerys chains her “children”; Tyrion kills his father—a profoundly Freudian act—and the episode introduces the Children of the Forest, previously only a myth. The episode is, at 66 minutes, the longest of the series to that point, continuing the established practice of using season finales to wrap up storylines and establish cliffhangers.

In doing so, The Children reconfigures the geopolitical landscape of Westeros in two major ways. First, Stannis’s timely and nearly miraculous rescue transforms him from a loser who suffered apocalyptic defeat at the Battle of the Blackwater into a heroic leader who did the right thing, saving the realm from the wildling horde. Yet the pragmatic alliance between Stannis’s diminished faction and the remnants of the Night’s Watch, observed by Melisandre and her sinister magical agenda, bears the hallmarks of alliances in Game of Thrones that rarely last.

Second, Tyrion’s patricide not only decapitates the most powerful faction in Westeros—the Lannister regime is now a headless beast—but also burns Tyrion’s bridges with whatever remained of his family. This event, resembling Jacobean tragedy in its violence and melodramatic detail, reshuffles the balance of power. King’s Landing is left in the hands of an increasingly bitter Cersei, who now has only Jaime to rely upon. The political vacuum will have consequences that echo through the remaining seasons.

The final killings in the Tower of the Hand are less emotional and visceral than they might have been. HBO, departing from its trademark insistence on nudity, allows Sibel Kekilli’s Shae to wear a nightgown, unlike the book version where she wears only a necklace. In the literary version, Shae begs for mercy and is killed by Tyrion in cold blood. Here, she tries to kill him with a knife. This change was clearly an attempt to make Tyrion—one of the series’ most beloved characters—less morally compromised. Despite this bowdlerisation, the scene still works, carrying genuine dramatic weight.

Alex Graves directs competently, providing two great combat scenes—the supernatural horror of the wights and the naturalistic, brutal duel between Brienne and the Hound. The episode’s visual endings are also strong, though some scenes are more effective than others. For the author of this review, who grew up in Split, Croatia, the catacombs scene is less immersive because the cellars of Diocletian’s Palace are too readily recognisable. The final scene, with Arya sailing eastwards with Arya, is much more powerful, opening a new horizon.

None of this means the episode is perfect. Due to time constraints, it is never properly explained how Stannis’s army arrived just in time or how it managed to surprise skilled wildling scouts. The books mention Stannis landing near Eastwatch and using that fort’s tunnel to approach from the east, but the episode never bothers with such detail, leaving a plot development that feels too convenient. It is a flaw that would become endemic in later seasons: a willingness to sacrifice logical coherence for dramatic impact. Still, “The Children” stands as a strong finale, one that closed Season 4 on a note of transition and uncertainty, reminding us that in Westeros, the price of power is always paid in flesh and blood.

RATING: 7/10 (+++)

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Past Prologue (S01E03)

Airdate: 9 January 1993

Written by: Katharyn Powers Directed by: Winrich Kolbe

Running Time: 46 minutes

Following the ambitious, feature-length premiere Emissary, which introduced the unique setting of a former Cardassian ore-processing station and the mystifying Bajoran wormhole, Deep Space Nine faced the considerable challenge of its first “regular” episode. Past Prologue, which aired in January 1993, had to demonstrate whether the series could sustain the narrative and thematic complexity promised by its pilot on a weekly basis. Where The Next Generation’s first post-pilot episode, The Naked Now, famously stumbled into derivative farce and is now largely remembered as an embarrassing misstep, Past Prologue confidently established the gritty, politically nuanced tone that would come to define Deep Space Nine. It proved that this new series was not merely a pale imitation of its predecessors but a bold evolution of the Star Trek ethos.

The plot begins with the Deep Space Nine crew rescuing the sole occupant of a Bajoran vessel being ruthlessly pursued by a Cardassian warship. Beamed aboard just moments before his ship is destroyed, the survivor is revealed to be Tahna Los (Jeffrey Nordling), a known Bajoran militant activist. He immediately demands political asylum. Major Kira Nerys, recognising him from their shared history in the Bajoran Resistance, appeals to Commander Benjamin Sisko to grant his request. Sisko, exhibiting the cautious pragmatism that characterises his command, initially hesitates but ultimately concedes, influenced by Kira’s impassioned advocacy and the station’s delicate political position vis-à-vis Bajor.

This decision sets in motion the episode’s central conflict. It soon transpires that Kira and Tahna possess profoundly divergent visions for Bajor’s future. Kira, though a former militant herself, has come to see the practical benefits of cooperation with the Federation, viewing it as Bajor’s best chance for stability and protection. Tahna, however, remains hardened by Cardassian torture and atrocities. Still associated with the extremist Kohn-Ma faction, he desires a Bajor wholly independent of all external powers, be they Cardassian or Federation. This ideological rift between former comrades forms the emotional core of the story, testing Kira’s loyalties and her evolving sense of duty.

Simultaneously, the arrival of two Klingon women – the duplicitous Duras sisters, Lursa (Barbara March) and B’Etor (Gwynyth Walsh) – attracts the suspicions of Constable Odo. Their presence signals the kind of shady dealings that thrive in the station’s murky commercial corridors. More significant, however, is the introduction of another figure: Garak (Andrew J. Robinson), a Cardassian tailor who pointedly attempts to befriend the naïve Dr. Julian Bashir. Garak almost doesn’t bother to hide that he is a Cardassian intelligence operative, a fact he confirms by attempting to negotiate a deal with the Duras sisters for information. In just a few scenes, Robinson crafts one of the series’ most enigmatic and formidable recurring characters, a master of obfuscation whose very existence underscores the station’s atmosphere of pervasive intrigue.

The narrative threads converge when Odo discovers that Tahna’s business on the station is far from benign. Although the Bajoran initially claims to have abandoned Kohn-Ma extremism and seems willing to accept amnesty from the provisional government, his real plan is to assemble a powerful bomb using components smuggled aboard by the Duras sisters. Learning this, Sisko authorises a risky, complicated sting operation to catch Tahna in the act. In a tense climax aboard the runabout Yangtzee Kiang, Tahna reveals his true, catastrophic objective: not to destroy DS9, but to collapse the nearby wormhole itself. By rendering Bajor strategically irrelevant, he believes he can secure his planet’s independence. Kira, forced to choose definitively between her past and her future, thwarts the plan by steering the bomb through the wormhole, allowing it to detonate harmlessly in the Gamma Quadrant. Tahna is subsequently arrested, his fanaticism ultimately defeated by the very pragmatism he despised.

Written by Katharyn Powers and deftly directed by TNG veteran Winrich Kolbe, Past Prologue successfully establishes the major thematic preoccupations of the series, born directly from its stationary setting. This is a world far more diverse and morally complex than the sanitised corridors of the USS Enterprise. Uniform allegiance to the Federation is replaced by a tangled web of competing agendas and divided loyalties. This is best exemplified in Kira’s agonising conflict, torn between solidarity with an old friend from her resistance days and her present duty as Bajoran liaison to Starfleet. Her ultimate choice in favour of the latter is predictable from a narrative standpoint, but the episode earns this moment by honestly portraying her struggle, setting a template for her character’s nuanced development.

Yet, the moral landscape is deliberately muddied. Shifting loyalties necessitate unprincipled alliances, a theme starkly illustrated when Sisko must rely on intelligence from, and actively cooperate with, the Cardassians—represented by the calculating Gul Danar (Vaughn Armstrong)—to prevent planetary catastrophe. Past Prologue signals Deep Space Nine’s wholesale abandonment of the strict black-and-white moral alignments typical of earlier Trek. Instead, it proposes a more nuanced, adult approach based on shades of grey. The thin, often blurred line between a noble freedom fighter and a ruthless terrorist is one of the episode’s most potent and obvious examples, a theme it would explore relentlessly in later seasons.

The visual and tonal setting reinforces this complexity. DS9 is literally darker and dirtier than the gleaming Enterprise; its Promenade is a bustling, chaotic bazaar where commerce and conspiracy intermingle. This grittiness is matched by inventive direction, notably in a scene impressive for early-1990s television effects, where Odo morphs into a rat to spy on Tahna and the Duras sisters—a perfect metaphor for the covert, unsavoury work required to maintain order in such an environment.

Beyond its core plot, the episode is notable for several key introductions. Garak’s debut, as mentioned, is a triumph of subtle characterisation. For actor Andrew J. Robinson, long plagued by typecasting after his role as the psychotic Scorpio in Dirty Harry, this was a triumphant opportunity for reinvention, albeit ironically under heavy prosthetic makeup. The appearance of the Duras sisters, familiar villains from TNG who would later feature in Star Trek: Generations, was a clear signal that Deep Space Nine, while forging its own distinct path, would maintain tangible links to the broader Star Trek universe. In a smaller but notable cameo, Susan Bay (wife of Leonard Nimoy) appears briefly as Admiral Rollman, the Starfleet superior whom Kira unsuccessfully petitions behind Sisko’s back, adding another layer to the episode’s exploration of chain-of-command and political manoeuvring.

Past Prologue is a remarkably well-executed and confident early episode. It deftly avoids the pitfalls that marred The Next Generation’s inaugural season. Where The Naked Now was widely derided as an unoriginal, crass, and logically flawed copy of a classic Original Series episode, Past Prologue immediately establishes its own unique identity. It promises the viewer a series unafraid of moral ambiguity, political intrigue, and complex character dynamics. It suggests a future of sustained narrative depth and challenging themes. For viewers in 1993, it offered a far more compelling and assured promise of great things to come than its TNG counterpart ever did, firmly setting Deep Space Nine on its course to become the most sophisticated and critically acclaimed chapter of the Star Trek franchise.

RATING: 7/10 (+++)

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It is a well-worn adage in cinema that the third film in a series is often the one that breaks it. This curse of the trilogy, familiar from blockbuster franchises, proves equally applicable to more rarefied arthouse fare, as demonstrated by celebrated Canadian auteur Denys Arcand’s concluding chapter to his loosely connected thematic triptych. Three decades after the incisive, talkative The Decline of the American Empire (1986) and its Oscar-winning, emotionally potent sequel The Barbarian Invasions (2003), Arcand delivered L’Âge des ténèbres in 2007. Translated as “The Age of Darkness” or “The Dark Age”, it was marketed in English-speaking territories as Days of Darkness—a title that caused minor confusion with an unrelated American zombie film released the same year—and sometimes as The Age of Ignorance. Whatever its name, the film is a profound disappointment, a muddled and misanthropic coda that squanders the intellectual legacy and human insight of its illustrious predecessors.

The film functions as a sequel largely through a threadbare connective tissue: the brief reappearance of Pierre (Pierre Curzi), the university professor from the earlier films, who now appears only to lament his financial ruin due to divorce. His listener is the new protagonist, Jean-Marc Leblanc (Marc Labrèche), a junior functionary in the Quebec provincial government. Jean-Marc is a man besieged by modern futility. Professionally, he is powerless to help the citizens who approach his office, while being perpetually bullied by his superior, Carole Bigras-Bourque (Caroline Néron). Domestically, he is adrift: his wife Sylvie (Sylvie Léonard) has left for Toronto to pursue a real estate career, leaving him to manage their two daughters, the eldest of whom is caught performing fellatio on neighbourhood boys. The terminal illness of his mother (Françoise Graton) compounds his despair. In response, Jean-Marc retreats into an elaborate fantasy life, populated by beautiful women including a film star played by Diane Kruger. This premise, blending mundane tragedy with Walter Mitty-esque escape, seems fertile ground for Arcand’s brand of satirical observation. Yet, the execution falters from the outset.

A signature of Arcand’s trilogy has been the ironic juxtaposition of grand historical epochs with the banal lives of contemporary Quebecois. The Decline of the American Empire framed its characters’ sexual preoccupations within a thesis of civilisational decay, while The Barbarian Invasions used the post-9/11 “clash of civilisations” as a backdrop for an intimate story of death and reconciliation. The historical titles were a clever transposition of banal, pretentious middle-class academic chatter onto the grand chapters of history. In Days of Darkness, this conceit collapses. There is no compelling connection between Jean-Marc’s petty bureaucratic miseries and the concept of a societal “Dark Age.” Arcand’s script gestures weakly at pseudohistorical parallels, most notably in scenes where characters don face masks during a SARS outbreak—a detail that seems chillingly prophetic post-COVID but feels like a isolated, opportunistic visual rather than a integrated thematic device. The reference to the 6th-century Plague of Justinian is an intellectual footnote, not a sustaining metaphor. The title thus becomes an empty, pretentious label, lacking the resonant critique that animated the earlier films.

Instead of a coherent historical analogy, Arcand offers a scattershot array of satirical targets and tonal shifts that result in a film utterly lacking in focus. The most glaring example is an extended, costly sequence depicting a medieval jousting tournament in which Jean-Marc participates. This spectacle, the film’s largest set piece, feels bizarrely disconnected from the narrative, a whimsical detour that serves no clear purpose beyond showcasing production design. It epitomises the film’s structural failure. The narrative is further fragmented by Jean-Marc’s fantasy vignettes, which range from mildly amusing to tiresomely self-indulgent, and by Arcand’s broadside satirical jabs. These targets are myriad: the nightmarish inefficiency of modern bureaucracy, Orwellian “political correctness” in speech codes, the absurdity of speed dating, the lingering spectre of Quebec separatism, and the vacuous cult of celebrity. The latter is ironically underscored by cameos from real-life celebrities like Donald Sutherland playing themselves. While Arcand’s earlier work succeeded by weaving its critiques into the characters’ conversations and lives, here the satire feels tacked-on and desperate, a checklist of grievances rather than a unified vision.

Compounding this lack of focus is a profoundly misanthropic outlook that alienates the audience. Jean-Marc is not merely hapless; he is portrayed as a bad husband, a neglectful father, and an incompetent civil servant. There is little attempt to generate empathy for his plight. The people surrounding him are equally shallow and unsympathetic, caricatures of bureaucratic pettiness, familial discord, or urban alienation. The sole exception is Jean-Marc’s dying mother, whose hospitalisation and death provide the film’s only moment of genuine pathos and facilitate a clumsy shift from light comedy to serious drama—a structural echo of the emotional turns in The Decline and The Barbarian Invasions. Her passing prompts Jean-Marc’s eventual rejection of his old life; he abandons his job and home, finding rustic solace in a lakeside cabin where he supports himself as a gardener. This conclusion aims for redemption but feels unearned, a sentimental cop-out after nearly two hours of relentless cynicism.

Technically, Arcand’s direction is not without merit. He handles some sequences with skill, particularly those that blur the lines between Jean-Marc’s drab reality and his vivid fantasies, creating a Felliniesque mix of the mundane and the surreal. The visual concept of the provincial bureaucracy commandeering the vast, decaying venues of the 1976 Montreal Olympics is a brilliantly absurd image that captures a specific Quebecois institutional malaise. However, these flashes of inspiration are undermined by episodes of extreme self-indulgence. The film opens with a protracted sequence featuring Canadian musician Rufus Wainwright performing an aria from Zémire et Azor, 18th Century opera by André Grétry, during which he briefly morphs into Jean-Marc. It is a conceptually heavy-handed and alienating opening. This is followed by a fantasy scene with a nude Diane Kruger that includes a meta-commentary on American puritanical censorship—a moment that, while arguably the film’s high point in terms of audacity, also highlights the subsequent creative decline. The score, much like the intrusive and overly melodramatic music criticised in The Decline of the American Empire, often works against the film’s tone.

Unsurprisingly, this confused and bitter film was met with dismissive reviews upon its premiere at the Cannes Film Festival, a far cry from the triumphant reception of The Barbarian Invasions at the same venue years prior. Arcand was compelled to recut the film into multiple versions for subsequent distribution, a tell-tale sign of a project without a confident core. The recut version found only modest commercial success in Quebec, largely attributable to lead actor Marc Labrèche’s popularity on television, not to the film’s inherent qualities.

Days of Darkness is the unfortunate proof of the trilogy curse. It lacks the sharp, ensemble-driven dialogue and sexual politics of The Decline, and utterly misses the profound emotional resonance and generational insight of The Barbarian Invasions. Where those films used their historical frameworks to illuminate the human condition, Days of Darkness offers only a disconnected series of skits and grievances, wrapped in a misanthropic glaze. It is a film that feels like the work of an artist who has exhausted his sympathy for his subjects, resulting in a tedious and ultimately forgettable conclusion to a once-distinguished series.

RATING: 4/10 (+)

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Released in 1975 and directed by Sidney Lumet, Dog Day Afternoon takes what could have been a standard bank robbery movie and turns it into something far more human and unforgettable. Based loosely on a true story, the film follows a robbery that goes wrong almost immediately, but the real story is not the crime itself. It is the people trapped inside it.

Al Pacino stars as Sonny Wortzik, and this is one of the strongest performances of his career. Pacino gives Sonny nervous energy, desperation, and vulnerability all at once. He is not a cool professional criminal. He is a man making bad decisions under pressure, and that makes him far more interesting.

John Cazale plays Sal, Sonny’s partner in the robbery, and as always Cazale brings a quiet intensity that makes every scene better. Sal says less, but his presence matters. He feels dangerous because he feels unpredictable, and that tension hangs over the entire film.

The plot begins with Sonny, Sal, and a third partner attempting to rob a Brooklyn bank. The problem is they are terrible at it. The money is mostly gone, the police surround the building almost immediately, and what should have been a quick crime turns into an all day hostage standoff under the full attention of the media.

Charles Durning is excellent as Detective Moretti, the negotiator trying to keep the situation from getting worse. His scenes with Pacino are some of the best in the film because neither man fully trusts the other, but both understand they are stuck in the same impossible situation.

Chris Sarandon also deserves praise as Leon, Sonny’s partner, whose presence reveals the emotional reason behind the robbery. That revelation adds depth and complexity to Sonny’s character and makes the audience see him as more than just a criminal trying to escape.

Sidney Lumet directs the film with a raw realism that makes everything feel immediate. There is very little flashy filmmaking here. He lets the performances and the tension do the work, and that restraint is exactly why the movie feels so authentic.

The film also captures the heat and frustration of New York in the seventies perfectly. You can almost feel the sweat and exhaustion coming off the screen. The city becomes part of the pressure, with the crowd outside turning the robbery into a strange public performance.

One of the reasons the movie still works so well is that it constantly shifts tone. It is tense, but also funny in unexpected ways. Sonny yelling “Attica!” to the crowd became iconic because it shows how bizarre the entire situation becomes. It is part hostage drama, part media circus.

Some people might call parts of it a little corny now because of the very seventies style and some of the chaotic public scenes, but honestly I think that adds to the charm. It feels real because real life is often awkward and messy, not perfectly polished.

What makes Dog Day Afternoon a classic is that it refuses easy moral judgment. Sonny is flawed, selfish, and reckless, but he is also human. The film never asks you to fully excuse him, but it does ask you to understand him.

That complexity is what separates it from a standard crime thriller. This is not about whether the robbery succeeds. It is about desperation, identity, and how quickly life can spiral when people are cornered by money, fear, and bad choices.

The ending works because it does not chase some dramatic Hollywood fantasy. It feels inevitable, sad, and honest. Lumet understood that tragedy often arrives quietly, not with some giant cinematic explosion.

Over time, Dog Day Afternoon has only grown stronger in reputation because the performances are timeless and the themes still hit. Media obsession, public spectacle, and people becoming symbols overnight all feel just as relevant now.

In the end, it remains a classic to me because it is smart, emotional, and never loses sight of the people inside the chaos. It may have a little seventies corniness around the edges, but that only makes it feel more alive.

It is not just a great crime film. It is one of the best character driven dramas ever made, and that is exactly why it still holds up.

Hello, cinema fans. Today I’m bringing you the penultimate Harry Potter film, which kicked off one of the most famous finales in the world of fantasy cinema. The beginning of the end of a great story that captivated an entire generation forever. Based on the first half of the final book in J.K. Rowling’s eponymous novel series, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part 1 was directed by David Yates. The film stars Daniel Radcliffe, Rupert Grint, and Emma Watson. Discover the second Harry Potter movie with the most action in the entire saga.

Hola, fanáticos del cine. Hoy les traigo la penúltima película de Harry Potter, la cual dió inicio a uno de los finales más famosos del mundo del cine de fantasía. El inicio del cierre de una gran historia que llevó a toda una generación consigo para siempre. Basada en la primera mitad del último libro de la serie de novelas homónimas de J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part 1 fue dirigida por David Yates. La película cuenta con el protagonismo de Daniel Radcliffe, Rupert Grint y Emma Watson. Conoce la segunda película de Harry Potter con más acción de toda la saga.

Source: FilmAffinity.

Plot

The film opens with the new Minister of Magic, Rufus Scrimgeour, delivering a rousing speech to the public about the “great threat” looming on the horizon and promising to protect them from all danger. Meanwhile, we see the dynamic trio—Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and Hermione Granger—each preparing for what’s to come. The Dursley family moves away, leaving Harry home alone. Meanwhile, we see Hermione casting a spell on her parents, who proceed to forget her completely, just as we see her disappear from the photos they have in their home. A long and difficult mission awaits them.

Trama

La película inicia mostrándonos al nuevo Ministro de Magia Rufus Scrimgeour haciendo un discurso motivador ante el público sobre la “gran amenaza” que se avecina y promete que los defenderán de todo peligro. Mientras tanto, vemos al trío dinámico; Harry Potter, Ron Weasley y Hermione Granger preparándose cada uno para lo que se viene. La familia Dursley se mudan, dejando a Harry solo en casa, por otro lado vemos a Hermione haciendo un encantamiento a sus padres quienes proceden a olvidarla por completo, al igual que vemos desaparecer en las fotos que tienen en su casa. Una larga y dura misión les espera.

Trailer & Review

Here is the movie trailer:

By: Warner Bros. Entertainment.

All the best.

By: Nattosheru.

Posted Using INLEO

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Pixar makes the best animated movies for kids. Beyond staying with you as beautiful memories, they do something really amazing that I’ve only started appreciating now: they aren’t “safe.” In the sense that their endings usually have something bittersweet about them instead of being purely happy endings. Also, every Pixar movie leaves you thinking about something, which is probably easier to notice when you rewatch them as an adult. The other day I rewatched one of my favorite childhood movies, Monsters, Inc., and I realized a few really interesting things.

Let’s think about what the protagonist’s job actually is: he enters the bedrooms of small children and scares them in the middle of the night. If you imagine that happening in real life, it’s extremely cruel and traumatic. But none of us think about it that way. Right from the start, the movie presents Sully as this lovable furry giant and Mike Wazowski as his funny best friend. Even the whole idea of monsters going in and out of doors to scare children is treated like a fun little montage, and you never stop to think about how horrifying what they’re doing actually is. And even if the concept had stayed that way until the end, nobody would’ve started writing think pieces accusing the movie of normalizing child abuse, simply because it’s a children’s movie. And yet, the movie itself refuses to let that issue slide. And it does it through one very specific scene: the moment when Sully demonstrates his scaring skills in the simulation room and accidentally terrifies Boo.

When I first saw that scene as a kid, I thought, “Aw, poor little Boo, Sully scared her by accident.” But the scene isn’t really about Boo. For the first time, we actually see what the scarers’ job looks like from the children’s point of view. Up until then, we had never really seen the kids’ POV in this system. Sure, we had seen Boo unable to sleep because she was afraid Randall would come out of the closet. But Randall had already been framed in our minds as the villain of the movie. And if the film had only focused on Boo being afraid of Randall, then he would’ve just been another cartoonish bad guy. But in the scene where Boo gets scared, it’s Sully making the roar. The hero of the story. The lovable teddy bear we’ve been following the entire movie. He tries to comfort Boo by telling her what he did wasn’t real. But when he sees the terror on her face, he can’t say it. Because yes, technically it was fake since it was only a demonstration. But when he entered children’s rooms for work, he did the exact same thing for real, with passion. And he was the best at it.

Since I mentioned Randall, the movie also does something very clever with his character: it creates a misleading villain arc. Randall wants to introduce a company policy where they kidnap children and extract their screams using the scream extractor machine. So naturally, we assume that this will be the main evil of the story and that our heroes will try to stop it. But if the movie had stopped there, it would basically have promoted the logic of “the lesser evil,” as if to say, “Well, frightening children in their bedrooms is better than kidnapping them.” But the movie doesn’t stop there. The heroes don’t just fight the extreme version of evil. They challenge the entire system itself, and by the end, laughter becomes the new energy source.

It’s also interesting how the media in Monstropolis portrays children: supposedly, kids aren’t as scared as they used to be anymore, and that has caused the energy crisis. Which is probably a lie, considering we literally hear children screaming behind the doors and see Boo terrified in the simulation room. It’s just a very clever way to desensitize monsters toward children so they won’t develop moral objections to their jobs. And that desensitization is reinforced even more through the community’s false belief that children are toxic contaminants to monsters. An entire society justifies the abuse of a vulnerable group by repeating a narrative along the lines of “they’re dangerous and we’re the victims.” Hmm… wonder what that reminds me of.

Finally, I want to talk about the ending, which feels very… Pixar. Boo returns to her room and says goodbye to Sully. As kids, we probably wanted them to stay together forever, but Pixar would never do that. And honestly, that’s a good thing. Boo is happy to go back to her room and her toys, especially Jessie, which everyone noticed. And that makes perfect sense because she has her family, she has a life outside Monstropolis. She doesn’t cling to Sully. She understands that she doesn’t belong in that world. And the lovable giant leaves. And the moment when Boo opens the closet and sees only her clothes hanging there is… heartbreaking.

And of course, we all remember the final moment of the movie, when Sully gets to see Boo again after such a long time. But we don’t see her. As a kid, that frustrated me because I wanted us to see her one last time too. But honestly, it’s so much better this way. Boo had probably grown up by then, and the movie didn’t want to break the magic.