Oathkeeper (S4x04)

Airdate: 27 April 2014

Written by: Bryan Cogman Directed by: Michelle MacLaren

Running Time: 55 minutes

The adaptation of George R.R. Martin’s sprawling literary saga A Song of Ice and Fire into the television phenomenon Game of Thrones was, from its inception, an exercise in necessary compromise. The book and the television series are two distinct media, with differing narrative economies and audience expectations. It was therefore impossible for the show to be a completely faithful transliteration of Martin’s dense, multi-perspective novels. Creative shortcuts were inevitable: multiple minor characters were fused into single composite figures, and elaborately explained political machinations were streamlined for the screen. However, by its fourth season, the series under showrunners David Benioff and D.B. Weiss began to move beyond mere condensation. They started to actively insert characters, plotlines, and entire scenes that had no direct precedent in the source material. This marked a subtle but significant shift from adaptation to augmentation, a process whereby what readers had consumed in the books and what viewers witnessed on screen began to diverge into two distinct narrative entities. One of the earlier and most telling examples of this new creative direction is Season 4’s fourth episode, pointedly titled Oathkeeper. Whilst functioning as a competent piece of episodic television, it serves as a crucial case study in the show’s growing willingness to fill narrative silences with invention, for better and for worse, and highlights the first faint tremors of the creative exhaustion that would later become more pronounced.

The episode continues to meticulously chart the ripple effects of King Joffrey’s murder at the Purple Wedding. A central mystery—the identity of the perpetrators—is neatly resolved through two confessional scenes. Aboard ship, the duplicitous Petyr Baelish finally reveals to Sansa Stark his role in the regicide. He explains that, despite a fruitful alliance with the Lannisters, Joffrey had become too volatile an obstacle for his “new friends.” Those friends are confirmed in King’s Landing, where the formidable Lady Olenna Tyrell calmly informs her granddaughter Margaery that she used poison concealed in Sansa’s necklace. This dual revelation is handled with typical series efficiency, though it arguably robs the event of some of the lingering ambiguity Martin favoured. With Joffrey removed, the narrative pivots to the political manoeuvring of the newly widowed Margaery. Her attempt to seduce the boy-king Tommen in his chambers shows cynical calculation. Finding him too young for overt sexual manipulation, she swiftly recalibrates, appealing instead to his sheltered sense of adventure and his poignant desire for genuine friendship. This scene is a highlight, showcasing Natalie Dormer’s ability to convey razor-sharp intelligence beneath a veneer of gentle concern, and it establishes the dynamic that will define her next political marriage.

Simultaneously, the episode delves into the moral rehabilitation of Jaime Lannister. Forced to practice one-handed swordsmanship with the mercenary Bronn, Jaime is shamed into visiting his imprisoned brother, Tyrion. Their conversation reveals Cersei’s vindictive demand for Sansa’s head and her offer of a knighthood for her return. This sparks in Jaime a memory of the oath he swore to the late Lady Catelyn Stark—to return her daughters safely. Hamstrung by his new duties as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, he cannot fulfil this vow personally. In a moment of resonant symbolism, he performs the next best thing: he entrusts his magnificent new Valyrian steel sword, forged from Ice and named “Oathkeeper,” to Brienne of Tarth. Assigning Podrick Payne as her squire, he sends this most honourable of knights on a quest to find Sansa and protect her. This sequence is emotionally potent, cementing Jaime’s complex redemption arc and providing Brienne with a purpose worthy of her formidable virtue. It is a clear example of the show successfully streamlining book material (where the sword’s bestowal and mission have different nuances) into a powerful, character-driven beat.

Across the Narrow Sea, Daenerys Targaryen continues her crusade in Slaver’s Bay. The conquest of Meereen is achieved by subterfuge and insurrection. Grey Worm infiltrates the city via its sewers, distributing arms to the slave population with the instruction to rise up. Once they do, Daenerys makes her triumphant entry. Here, the episode presents a pivotal moral test for the Mother of Dragons. Advised by Ser Barristan Selmy to be merciful, she instead chooses a brutal, eye-for-an-eye justice. Commanding that 163 Meereenese masters be crucified in retribution for the 163 slave children crucified on the road to the city, she delivers a stark lesson in the perils of absolutist rule. This moment is chillingly effective, complicating her liberator image with a thirst for vengeful violence.

However, this plot strand also contains one of the episode’s most jarring creative missteps. The graffiti daubed on the city walls, reading “Kill the Masters,” is rendered in modern English. This is a baffling failure of world-building. The characters speak in High Valyrian, a constructed language audiences hear consistently, yet they are apparently literate in contemporary English. David J. Peterson, the linguist who crafted Valyrian and Dothraki, later revealed he was prepared to develop a functional writing system, but producers demurred, believing it would alienate viewers. This decision, aimed at simplicity, severely undermines immersion. For an audience by now deeply accustomed to the textured detail and linguistic depth of Martin’s world, it feels like a lazy concession, a betrayal of the show’s own established standards for verisimilitude.

North of the Wall, the narrative introduces a subplot almost entirely of the show’s own devising, which exemplifies the new strategy of narrative invention. Jon Snow, preparing an expedition to deal with the mutineers at Craster’s Keep, notices a new recruit: the formidable Locke. Posing as a former gamekeeper who took the black to avoid losing a hand, Locke’s true mission—to find and capture Bran Stark—is known only to the viewer. This insertion of a character from the Northern storyline (where in the books he serves Roose Bolton) into the Watch is a clever, if contrived, way to raise stakes. The expedition itself heads to Craster’s, now a hellish stronghold held by the vicious Karl Tanner and his fellow mutineers. This segment exists to fill a blank space in the books. In Martin’s narrative, the fate of Craster’s Keep after the mutiny is left obscure, and Bran Stark never ventures there. The show uses it to create a tense, if gratuitous, set-piece. The mutineers are depicted engaging in rape and sexual abuse of Craster’s widowed daughters, a scene reportedly filmed with disturbing graphicness using pornographic film actresses before being toned down for broadcast. Whilst intending to portray the depths of their depravity, it risks feeling exploitative. Karl Tanner is given lengthy, self-mythologising monologues about his past as a “fookin’ legend” in Gin Alley, dialogue that feels less like natural characterisation and more like exposition hastily plastered over a thin plot contrivance. It is here that one first detects a whiff of creative exhaustion—a willingness to insert violent, sensational filler to maintain momentum and tie up loose ends, rather than trust the slower-burning political and mythological threads.

The episode’s final sequence, however, is great and that justifies much. In the frozen wastes of the Far North, a chilling figure—a White Walker later codified as the Night King, portrayed with eerie stillness by Richard Brake—receives a male infant from Craster’s sacrifices. In a silent, glacial ritual, he touches the baby’s cheek, its eyes turning a piercing, icy blue. This single, wordless image is profoundly impactful. It answers a haunting question about the Others’ origins and methods, transforming them from mere supernatural threats into a species with a perverse biology and culture. It is a stark, brilliant reminder that whilst the southern kingdoms squabble over crowns, the true existential menace is methodically building its army in the eternal winter.

Written by Bryan Cogman and deftly directed by Michelle MacLaren, Oathkeeper is, on a technical level, a generally solid piece of television. MacLaren’s direction is assured, particularly in the intimate scenes of political intrigue in King’s Landing and the haunting finale. Yet, tonally, it is an uneven and largely transitional episode. Its primary function is to connect dots and prepare the ground for future confrontations. For every successful element—the poignant conclusion of Jaime’s gift, Margaery’s cunning, the terrifying implication of the final scene—there is a corresponding misstep or compromise. The clumsy English graffiti breaks the spell of Essos, and the Craster’s Keep subplot, whilst tense, feels like a manufactured conflict designed to give Bran and Jon something to do in the absence of book material. It represents the show’s early foray into significant narrative invention, revealing both its strengths (generating iconic mythological moments) and its emerging weaknesses (a tendency towards contrived, violence-driven filler). As such, Oathkeeper is a fascinating inflection point: the moment where Game of Thrones began to consciously walk its own path, for better or worse, and where the first cracks in its meticulously built world began to subtly show.

RATING: 6/10 (++)

==

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Chain of Command, Part II (S06E11)

Airdate: 21 December 1992

Written by: Frank Abatemarco Directed by: Les Landau

Running Time: 46 minutes

In the realm of grand television series, the two-part episode structure carries an inherent peril, particularly when the instalments are helmed by different writers or directors. The first part often establishes such a high standard of tension, character depth, and narrative intrigue that the concluding segment risks feeling like an inevitable letdown, a mere mopping-up operation that fails to deliver on its predecessor's promises. Star Trek: The Next Generation deftly sidestepped this trap with its sixth-season episode Chain of Command. While the first part is a very good piece of television—setting up a compelling change of command and a covert mission gone awry—the second part is arguably even better. It transcends its bottle-episode constraints to deliver one of the most psychologically harrowing and memorably intense instalments in the entire franchise, a testament to the power of performance and writing over spectacle.

"Chain of Command, Part II" deals immediately with the consequences of Captain Picard's capture by the Cardassians. Aboard the USS Enterprise-D, the newly installed Captain Edward Jellico must deal with negotiations that have turned palpably more hostile. Gul Lemec coldly informs Jellico that Picard is in Cardassian custody and, crucially, that he will not be afforded the protections of a prisoner of war. The Cardassian rationale is brutally pragmatic: for Picard to be recognised as a POW, the Federation would have to publicly admit its covert action on Celtris III—an admission that Admiral Nechayev, embodying Starfleet's realpolitik, is utterly unwilling to make. Simultaneously, a Cardassian proposal to release Picard in exchange for a Starfleet retreat from strategic sectors goes nowhere, leaving the captain in a legal and diplomatic limbo. It is within this stifling atmosphere that Commander Riker, embodying the crew's loyalty to Picard, suggests a rescue mission. Jellico, however, overrules him with a steely, uncompromising logic that prioritises the broader strategic picture over individual life. The resulting clash is a fundamental collision of leadership philosophies, culminating in Riker being temporarily relieved of his post as first officer.

The episode's true centre of gravity, however, lies in a stark, oppressive Cardassian interrogation room. Here, Picard is subjected to a relentless and sophisticated torture regimen orchestrated by Gul Madred. The objective is not merely to punish but to extract strategic information regarding Starfleet's defensive plans for the Minos Korva sector. Picard truthfully insists he possesses no such knowledge, but Madred, a master of psychological warfare, proceeds undeterred. The physical degradation is immediate and humiliating: Picard is stripped naked, hung from the ceiling, and has a pain-inducing device surgically implanted in his chest. Madred, who pointedly allows his young daughter, Jil Orra (Helen Lauren Olson), to witness his work, employs a chilling array of psychological manipulations alongside the physical torment. His ultimate goal is to break Picard's perception of reality itself, famously demanding that the captain look at four glaring lights and confess to seeing five. Picard's repeated, defiant assertion—"There are four lights!"—becomes a mantra of resistance. Yet, the episode masterfully charts the erosion of that resolve; the physical agony and psychological isolation exact a terrible toll, making each denial feel increasingly fragile.

Aboard the Enterprise, a parallel strategic narrative unfolds with quiet ingenuity. Chief Engineer La Forge, examining the Cardassian delegation's ship, discovers microscopic traces of a rare particulate matter found only in the nearby McAllister C-5 Nebula. From this forensic clue, he deduces the presence of a hidden Cardassian invasion fleet. Jellico, demonstrating the tactical acumen that justifies his command, authorises a daring plan: using shuttlecraft, the Enterprise crew will covertly seed the nebula with antimatter mines, effectively trapping the Cardassian armada. The plan's success hinges on piloting skill of the highest order, forcing Jellico to swallow his considerable personal dislike and reinstate Riker for the mission. This narrative beat is crucial, transforming their conflict from petty squabbling into a professional respect forged under pressure. Riker executes the manoeuvre flawlessly, and the Cardassians, realising they are caught in a tactical checkmate, have no choice but to retreat and, as a bargaining chip, agree to Picard's release.

This liberation arrives at the most critical psychological moment. Madred is subjecting Picard to yet another session, demanding he acknowledge the fifth light. As Picard gathers his will for another refusal, he notices the arrival of guards. Realising his ordeal is over, he summons a final, magnificent defiance, snarling "There are four lights!" back at his tormentor. The victory is profound, but the episode refuses a simplistic triumphalism. In a deeply poignant scene back on the Enterprise—after Picard has resumed command from Jellico—he confides in Counsellor Troi. With raw, unvarnished honesty, he admits that had the torture continued, he would have been broken. He would have said he saw five lights. This admission of human fragility, from a character often portrayed as an unshakeable paragon, is the episode's most devastating and important moment.

Written by Frank Abatemarco and directed by series veteran Les Landau, Chain of Command, Part II is not an episode rich in visual pyrotechnics or action set-pieces. It compensates entirely through the sheer force of its drama. The torture sequences are intensely visceral, featuring an uncharacteristic level of nudity for 1990s network television (though strategically lit, Patrick Stewart was reportedly fully nude on the closed set). The depiction of sustained physical and psychological violence was so stark that the episode faced censorship in several international markets. Its power derives from a disturbing authenticity. Abatemarco and Stewart consulted extensively with Amnesty International, reviewing video testimonies and documentation to ground Madred's techniques in real-world interrogation practices. Furthermore, the literary shadow of George Orwell's 1984 is unmistakable, particularly the scene where O'Brien breaks Winston Smith by forcing him to betray his own sensory evidence about the number of fingers held up.

The episode also serves as vital piece of franchise world-building, providing seminal insight into Cardassian society. Madred, in a rare moment of ideological exposition, explains that his people were once enlightened pacifists, whose subsequent descent into poverty and scarcity made them embrace militarism and expansion as a means of survival. This nuanced motivation, painting the Cardassians as products of tragic history rather than cartoonish villains, provided a foundational template that Deep Space Nine—which premiered mere weeks after this episode—would explore in magnificent detail over its seven-season run.

Ultimately, the episode's greatest asset is the towering performance of David Warner. The esteemed English actor, who remarkably attended the same acting school class as Patrick Stewart yet had never before shared a screen with him, delivers a masterclass in subdued menace. Warner had previously appeared in two Star Trek films (The Final Frontier and The Undiscovered Country), but it is his portrayal of Gul Madred for which he is most remembered by Trekkies. He is neither a raving lunatic nor a sadistic monster; he is a chillingly rational, almost paternalistic figure, convinced of his cultural and personal superiority. His calm, methodical cruelty, juxtaposed with moments of apparent kindness towards his daughter, creates a villain of profound and unsettling complexity. His scenes with Stewart are nothing short of electrifying, a duel of acting titans that elevates the material into the realm of classic drama.

Chain of Command, Part II stands as a landmark not only for The Next Generation but for television sci-fi as a whole. It boldly replaces phaser battles and technobabble with an unflinching examination of torture, resilience, and the limits of the human spirit. By focusing on character and ideology, and by being anchored by two phenomenal performances, it achieves a depth and emotional resonance that few other episodes in the series can match.

RATING: 8/10 (+++)

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**

Hola amigos, buenas vibras para todos.

Hello friends, good vibes to all.

Source!

As someone who loves history, especially World War II, watching series, documentaries, and films about those dark years is always a good plan for me. After Nazi Germany fell, it was impossible for those few men, all in hiding and trying to escape, to go unpunished for all the atrocities they committed while in power. It was precisely this need for justice that gave rise to the idea of ​​a trial, one presided over by the four nations that helped bring about the end of the Third Reich. Thus, it was in Nuremberg, a symbolic place for the Nazis, that the decision was made to deliver justice to the monsters who remained, those who had not yet committed suicide.

This film focuses on three characters: Hermann Göring, Hitler's right-hand man (Russell Crowe); Douglas Kelly, a U.S. Army psychiatrist (Rami Malek); and Robert H. Jackson, the U.S. Attorney (Michael Shannon). The film essentially narrates the days leading up to the trial, specifically the moment Göring is captured. Kelly is called in to study and analyze him in order to gather information for the trial, and the role of Attorney Jackson in bringing the trial to fruition. The plot revolves around how this psychiatrist manages to gain the trust of a completely narcissistic and power-hungry individual who, even in captivity, dreamed of and longed to maintain everything Hitler had once built.

Source!

Source!

Yes, there's a lot of criticism of this film regarding its portrayal of the trials, when in reality what we're seeing is the psychiatrist's perspective and how he manages to delve into the mind, or rather, the trust, of this high-ranking Nazi official. But of course, the film is called "Nuremberg"—how could it not address the trial itself? And it does, but in a very superficial way; it lacks the depth it deserves. I understand there's another film, from a few years earlier, that's much more faithful to the events; perhaps (Judgment at Nuremberg from 1961) might be a better choice. All this doesn't mean the film is bad; personally, I enjoyed it a lot, especially because of the performances of both Crowe and Malek.

Playing a man like Göring isn't easy. Many things have been said about him, and like almost all Nazis, he had a very eccentric personality. Russell Crowe's performance is quite decent and good. In the end, beneath that defiant, seemingly tough, and flawless facade, the Nazis were profoundly cowardly and weak-minded, which explains why so many ended up committing suicide, including Göring minutes before he was to be hanged. On the other hand, we have Kelly, a psychiatrist who was quite good at what he did but got too close to the fire and ended up getting burned. He was instrumental in obtaining information that ultimately led to Göring's downfall during the trial itself. I think things would have been different without Kelly. Malek's portrayal of that character is also top-notch.

Source!

Source!

In short, the film is very good, but I think it's a very simplistic version of what those trials were really like. There are several inconsistencies in the way they portrayed certain characters, Prosecutor Jackson for example, who is a very different person from how he's shown in this film. The reality is, and I repeat, we're seeing Douglas Kelly's perspective and how he dealt with someone like Göring; hence the film's likely lack of depth. The setting, acting, and cinematography are all top-notch. I give the film a 7.5/10. It's two and a half hours long, but they really fly by. If you like history and want to see good acting, it's highly recommended. I've included the trailer below.

***

Bueno mi gente por hoy es todo, espero que les haya gustado. ¡Un abrazo a todos, nos vemos en la próxima!

Well folks, that's all for today. I hope you enjoyed it. ¡Hugs to everyone, see you next time!

Fuente

Fuente

Creador Petit Depotto, género acción, ciencia ficción, estudio de animación Domerica.

ENGLISH

Source

Source

Creator Petit Depotto, action genre, science fiction, Domerica animation studio.

Translated Using Deepl

Chain of Command, Pt I (S06E10)

Airdate: 14 December 1992

Written by: Ronald D. Moore Directed by: Robert Scheerer

Running Time: 46 minutes

At the close of 1991, one distinct era of Star Trek drew to a definitive curtain with Star Trek VI: The Undiscovered Country, the franchise’s poignant farewell to the original series and its iconic cast. Roughly a year later, another era was beginning to stir, as Star Trek: The Next Generation prepared to hand over the narrative baton to its forthcoming sibling, Deep Space Nine. It offered a symbolic prelude with a two‑part episode featuring the alien race that would serve as the principal antagonists of that new series: the Cardassians. That episode was “Chain of Command”. Its first instalment remains a solid piece of television craftsmanship, yet it suffers palpably from an artificial division mandated by production logistics and from its own over‑theatrical, somewhat hackneyed cliffhanger ending.

The episode opens with the USS Enterprise rendezvousing with the USS Cairo near the Cardassian border. Captain Jean‑Luc Picard is summoned to meet Admiral Nina Nechayev (Natalia Nogulich). In a brisk, unceremonious briefing, Nechayev informs Picard that he is to be relieved of command of the Enterprise. His replacement is Captain Edward Jellico (Ronny Cox), who arrives immediately to take the centre seat. The stated rationale is a major Cardassian military build‑up, coupled with their sudden abandonment of the Bajoran sector—circumstances that Starfleet Intelligence interprets as precursors to a possible incursion or a new war. Jellico’s remit is not merely to assess the tactical situation; owing to his prior diplomatic experience with the Cardassians, including having helped draft the treaty that ended the last conflict, he is to handle any negotiations that may arise.

Simultaneously, Picard is chosen to lead a top‑secret covert mission into Cardassian territory itself. The objective: to infiltrate the planet Celtris III and verify the existence of a suspected Cardassian metagenic‑weapon research facility, where scientists are reportedly developing a new delivery system based on theta‑band subspace emissions. Picard is accompanied by Dr. Crusher, to provide essential medical expertise, and Lieutenant Worf, for security. The trio undergo extensive, immersive training in the holodeck, rehearsing every conceivable contingency.

Jellico’s assumption of command does not sit well with the Enterprise crew. He is immediately portrayed as more formal, more rigidly by‑the‑book, and conspicuously lacking in the collegial warmth that defined Picard’s tenure. He shows little enthusiasm for his new subordinates, with the notable exception of Data, whose positronic nature appeals to Jellico’s preference for unambiguous efficiency. Yet, when he consults Counsellor Troi prior to negotiations with the Cardassian representative Gul Lemec (John Durbin), Jellico reveals himself to be acutely perceptive and strategically adept. He pointedly—and famously—insists that Troi wear a standard Starfleet uniform on the bridge rather than her customary civilian attire, a directive that would become permanent for the character henceforth. This moment is more than a costume change; it is a symbolic assertion of military discipline over therapeutic informality, a small but telling illustration of Jellico’s philosophy.

Meanwhile, the covert mission unfolds. Picard, Crusher, and Worf infiltrate Celtris III with the aid of a Ferengi smuggler, Solok (Lou Wagner). Upon penetrating the alleged secret base, they discover the entire setup is an elaborate Cardassian trap. A frantic firefight ensues; Crusher and Worf manage to escape via their transporter, but Picard is captured. The episode concludes with Picard being brought before the chillingly composed Gul Madred (David Warner), setting the stage for the psychological ordeal of Part II.

Behind the scenes, Chain of Command was written by Ronald D. Moore, one of Star Trek’s most respected and prolific authors. It was originally conceived as a single, dense episode. However, logistical and budgetary considerations prompted the producers to split it into two parts, with the second half effectively serving as a minimal‑set “bottle episode” centred on Picard’s interrogation. The division feels artificial in this first part; the narrative is forcibly stretched, with the Jellico subplot required to carry substantial weight to fill time before the inevitable cliffhanger. Moreover, the episode was deliberately crafted as a tie‑in to the imminent Deep Space Nine. References to Bajor and the Cardassian withdrawal are explicit groundwork. Originally, the Ferengi smuggler was intended to be Quark, a regular from DS9, a plan altered likely due to scheduling, leaving Solok as a somewhat generic substitute.

Notwithstanding these structural compromises, Part I is exceptionally well‑written and deftly directed. It stands as one of the rare instances in TNG that successfully resurrects the classic Cold War espionage tropes that animated the original series’ encounters with the Romulans. The Cardassians are presented not as mindless aggressors but as capable, cunning, and patient adversaries—a sophisticated mirror to the Federation’s own calculated idealism. This revival of geopolitical nuance gives the episode a gripping, tense atmosphere that distinguishes it from more routine technobabble‑driven plots.

The episode is further elevated by a superb guest performance from Ronny Cox. Cox, drawing perhaps on his famed roles as corporate antagonists in sci‑fi classics like RoboCop and Total Recall, imbues Jellico with an initially villainous aura. He is the bureaucratic interloper, the stern disciplinarian who disrupts the Enterprise family. Yet the writing and Cox’s nuanced delivery carefully avoid caricature. Jellico is manifestly a competent, even brilliant, officer; his methods are different, not inherently wrong. This complexity makes him a fascinating counterpoint to Picard and generates genuine friction among the crew, a friction that feels earned rather than contrived.

Where the episode notably falters is in its concluding moments. The cliffhanger—Picard captured, Crusher and Worf escaping, the ominous face‑off with Gul Madred—is executed with a heavy‑handed theatricality that verges on the conventional and predictable. After a hour of building subtle tension and character conflict, the resort to a standard “hero in peril” finale feels like a narrative regression, a concession to the requirements of the two‑part format rather than an organic culmination. It undermines some of the sophistication that preceded it.

Despite this flawed ending, “Chain of Command, Part I” remains one of the stronger entries of The Next Generation’s sixth season. It provides a compelling study in contrasting leadership styles, expertly introduces the Cardassians as a formidable long‑term threat, and serves as a vital narrative bridge between the closing chapter of the classic films and the ambitious expansion of the franchise to come. Its virtues substantially outweigh its structural imperfections, even if those imperfections remind us that even the best of Star Trek was sometimes bound by the pragmatic realities of television production.

RATING: 7/10 (+++)

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and you take him birdwatching

There are some episodes that you can't just watch and finish. Even after watching, they keep going back and forth in your head for a long time. Episode 10 of Star Trek: Discovery, Season 1, felt exactly like that to me. Even after finishing the episode, I sat quietly for a while. Because there was such an uncomfortable mystery in the whole story that slowly entered my head.

Everything seemed different from the beginning. The atmosphere inside Discovery, everyone's behaviour, their conversations — there was a suppressed tension in everything. No one was directly afraid, but everyone seemed to understand that something was up ahead that was not normal.

I found Michael Burnham very real in this episode. Although he was very strong and confident many times before, here there was a tiredness in his eyes. It seemed that he himself didn't know who to trust and which way to go. In one scene, he is seen observing his surroundings very carefully, and at that moment, I felt like he was trying to understand not only the situation but also his own mind.

Captain Lorca's case seemed even more suspicious in this episode. To be honest, I still don't fully understand the man. Sometimes it seems like he is working for the good of everyone, and at other moments it seems like he has some other motive hidden inside him. The way he speaks is such that it is difficult to understand when he is telling the truth and when he is hiding something.

Saru looked quite restless here. One thing I like about his character is that he always senses danger first. And in this episode, that feeling was even more intense. Many times, it seemed like he was understanding something that others could not yet grasp. His facial expressions felt very natural.

Tilly, as always, brought a slightly different feeling. Even amidst all this pressure, his presence created a light feeling at times. But this time, he didn't seem as cheerful as before. He himself was nervous inside. These small changes made the episode more lively.

What I liked most about this episode was the atmosphere. Even though there wasn't much action, there was a sense of suspense throughout. It felt like something was going to happen. And that anticipation created the real excitement. There are many series that try to force surprises, but here the mystery was built gradually. I personally enjoy this type of story a lot more.

Another thing I noticed was that the lighting and sound were used very beautifully in this episode. Some scenes were so silent that the silence itself was uncomfortable. At other times, the background music was entered in such a way that the scenes seemed even heavier.

The ending made me think the most. Because it felt like Discovery had reached a point where everything could change. And that feeling made me anxious to watch the next episode.

Honestly, this episode wasn't just a sci-fi story for me. It was an experience where you had to slowly enter a fear of the unknown. And that's why Episode 10 seems to me to be one of the most interesting episodes of the series so far.

I'm ending it here today. I'll try to share my feelings about a new episode again. Everyone, be well.

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Hollywood, that self-styled “dream factory”, has always presented itself as the ultimate manifestation of the American Dream: a place where anyone, through a combination of hard work, talent, and luck, can achieve their ambitions. It is a deeply ironic paradox, then, that one of the most authentic realisations of this myth arrived through catastrophic, bewildering failure. Tommy Wiseau, an enigmatic figure of obscure origin and bottomless wealth, ultimately achieved the Hollywood dream, albeit via The Room (2003), a film now universally considered one of the worst ever made. Yet, in a twist that eludes most studio executives, Wiseau’s creation has attained a cult immortality and enduring fascination that most critically acclaimed films can only dream about. James Franco’s 2017 film, The Disaster Artist, sets out to chronicle this bizarre triumph, walking a fine line between celebration and condescension.

The subject of this meta-narrative is, of course, The Room. This 2003 drama—which Wiseau wrote, directed, produced, and starred in—was savaged by critics upon release but gradually became endearing to a new class of cinephiles who embraced its “so bad it’s good” ethos. The phenomenon was documented in a 2010 article by journalist Tom Bissell, who later collaborated with Greg Sestero, Wiseau’s co-star and friend, on the memoir The Disaster Artist: My Life Inside The Room, the Greatest Bad Movie Ever Made. This book detailed the film’s chaotic production and Sestero’s complex relationship with the eccentric auteur, providing the direct source material for Franco’s adaptation.

The film rights were acquired by Seth Rogen’s Point Grey Pictures, with Franco taking on the dual role of director and star, portraying Wiseau himself. His brother, Dave Franco, was cast as the earnest, often bewildered Greg Sestero. This fraternal dynamic proves to be one of the film’s strongest assets. The Disaster Artist opens with a scene of ironic meta-commentary, featuring celebrities like Kristen Bell and Adam Scott playing themselves, praising The Room in mock-serious testimonials. The conventional plot then begins in 1998 San Francisco, where aspiring actor and model Sestero encounters Wiseau in an acting class. Captivated by Wiseau’s bizarre, utterly committed performance of a Stanley Kowalski-esque monologue, Sestero befriends him. Together, they decamp to Los Angeles to pursue acting careers, where Sestero is stunned to discover that Wiseau inexplicably owns a spacious apartment. As auditions dry up and frustration mounts, Wiseau—seemingly unfazed by rejection and armed with a mysterious, endless source of wealth—decides to simply make his own film.

What follows is a painstaking, often hilarious reconstruction of the disastrous production. Franco’s direction is assured, and his performance as Wiseau is a remarkable piece of mimicry. He captures the peculiar cadence, the inscrutable accent, and the childlike, often tyrannical ego of the man. The interplay between the two Francos is excellent; Dave’s portrayal of Sestero as a loyal but increasingly strained friend provides the film’s emotional core, grounding Wiseau’s surreal antics in recognisable human concern. The film genuinely benefits from its positive, almost affectionate attitude towards the creative process. It appreciates the sheer effort and sacrifice involved in making a film, even when the final product is an objective disaster. In this sense, The Disaster Artist is a far more competent and engaging piece of cinema than The Room—though, as the film itself tacitly admits, that is a notably low bar to clear.

However, this very competence highlights the film’s central limitation: its derivative nature. The Disaster Artist is, fundamentally, a professionally made film about an amateurish one. This creates an inherent tension. The production is bolstered by an impressive, star-studded cast including Jackie Weaver, Josh Hutcherson, Alison Brie, and Seth Rogen himself. While these actors are uniformly good, their recognisable faces often wreck the immersion in the reconstructed 2003 production scenes. We are constantly aware that we are watching skilled performers pretending to be bad performers. Franco underscores this meta-textual layering in the end credits, which run side-by-side comparisons of iconic, awkward scenes from The Room with their meticulously recreated 2017 counterparts. The effect is amusing but reinforces the film’s status as a polished derivative work.

This authenticity is a double-edged sword. For viewers unfamiliar with Wiseau’s opus, The Disaster Artist would likely seem bewildering and inconsequential. Its humour and pathos are largely predicated on prior knowledge of the source material’s legendary failings. For those in the know, the film is an entertaining, often touching tribute, but it cannot escape the feeling of being a superior, yet unoriginal, copy. It follows a well-worn biopic template, reminiscent of Tim Burton’s Ed Wood (1994), which treated another “worst director” with similar directorial devotion and sentimental warmth. Burton’s film took a selective, affectionate approach to its subject’s life, focusing on creative passion over failure—a blueprint Franco adopts faithfully.

Franco’s committed performance was recognised with a Golden Globe for Best Actor in a Musical or Comedy, a triumph that now feels like a last hurrah. Shortly afterwards, Franco’s career became overshadowed by allegations of sexual misconduct amid the #MeToo movement, a sobering postscript that adds an unintended layer of melancholy to the film’s celebration of single-minded artistic pursuit.

The Disaster Artist is an accomplished, affectionate, and frequently funny film that succeeds in humanising a modern cultural oddity. Yet, it remains constrained by its own premise. It is a slick, Hollywood product about the antithesis of slick, Hollywood product-making, and in its very professionalism, it cannot fully capture the chaotic, transcendent magic of the authentic disaster it seeks to honour.

RATING: 6/10 (++)

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Released in 2005 and directed by David Dobkin, Wedding Crashers arrived at the perfect time for mid-2000s comedy. It had the right mix of outrageous humor, strong chemistry, and just enough heart underneath the insanity to make it more than just another raunchy comedy. It may not sit in the same untouchable category as something like Caddyshack or Animal House, but it absolutely earned its place as one of the funniest mainstream comedies of its era.

Owen Wilson and Vince Vaughn lead the film as John Beckwith and Jeremy Grey, two divorce mediators who spend their free time sneaking into weddings for free food, free drinks, and the chance to meet women. It is a ridiculous premise, but the movie fully commits to it and that confidence is a huge part of why it works.

Vince Vaughn is probably the engine of the entire movie. His fast talking, nonstop energy and complete confidence make Jeremy one of those characters who can keep a scene moving just by talking. Vaughn was in his prime in this era, and this role fits him perfectly.

Owen Wilson balances that energy well by playing John with a little more sincerity and charm. He is the one who starts questioning the lifestyle when he falls for Claire, played by Rachel McAdams. Wilson gives the movie enough emotional grounding so it does not just become two hours of jokes without direction.

Rachel McAdams works well as Claire because she does not feel like just a generic romantic lead. She has warmth and intelligence, and her chemistry with Wilson makes the romantic side of the story believable enough to matter.

Christopher Walken as Secretary Cleary adds exactly the kind of strange authority you expect from Christopher Walken. He barely has to do much because his presence alone makes scenes better. Jane Seymour, Isla Fisher, and Bradley Cooper also help create the wonderfully dysfunctional Cleary family dynamic.

Isla Fisher, especially, is hilarious as Gloria. Her completely unhinged obsession with Jeremy gives the film some of its biggest laughs. She steals scenes because she commits so fully to the chaos of the character without holding back.

Director David Dobkin keeps the pacing fast and understands that this kind of comedy works best when it never slows down too much. Even when the plot shifts more toward romance in the second half, the film still keeps enough absurdity alive to stay entertaining.

The humor is broad and sometimes ridiculous, but that is part of the appeal. This is not a subtle comedy trying to win awards for sophistication. It is built around awkward situations, bad decisions, and characters lying their way into disaster.

What makes Wedding Crashers better than weaker comedies of the same era is the chemistry between the cast. Vaughn and Wilson feel like real friends, and that friendship keeps the movie grounded even when the situations get ridiculous.

It also understands timing. Some comedies throw jokes nonstop and hope something lands. Wedding Crashers actually builds scenes and lets awkwardness work for the humor. That is why moments like the dinner scenes with the Cleary family are still so memorable.

The movie also became one of the last big examples of the R-rated studio comedy before Hollywood shifted away from that kind of film. Looking back, it feels like part of a specific era where these movies were allowed to be messy, loud, and unapologetically adult.

No, it is not the most classic comedy ever made, and it probably is not trying to be. It does not have the timeless perfection of something like Airplane! or Ghostbusters. But sometimes that is the wrong standard anyway.

Sometimes a movie just needs to be funny, rewatchable, and genuinely entertaining. Wedding Crashers succeeds there completely. It gives real laughs, memorable performances, and the kind of comedy comfort movie people still throw on years later.

In the end, Wedding Crashers is a really good film because it never overthinks itself. It knows exactly what it is—funny, chaotic, and built for a good time. That honesty is why it still works.

It may not be a perfect comedy classic, but it is pure laughs and fun through and through, and sometimes that is more than enough.

This is a cross post of @gwajnberg/daredevil-born-again-season-2 by @gwajnberg.

My review about Daredevil born again season 2

Breaker of Chains (S4x03)

Airdate: 20 April 2014

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

Running Time: 56 minutes

Among enthusiasts and scholars of Game of Thrones, few debates inspire such fervent disagreement as the question of precisely when the series "jumped the shark." One of the earliest candidates, and perhaps the most chillingly prophetic, is Breaker of Chains, the third instalment of the fourth series. The reasons for this dubious distinction rest not upon a single scene—a moment of such staggering miscalculation that its reverberations continue to echo through discussions of the series' legacy, foreshadowing the controversial creative decisions that would eventually define its conclusion.

Breaker of Chains arrived in the immediate aftermath of The Lion and the Rose, an instalment that remains among the most universally praised in the series' canon. The Purple Wedding, as it became colloquially known, delivered a therapeutically satisfying dose of karmic retribution as the odious King Joffrey choked and expired before his horrified court. The narrative satisfaction derived from watching pure malevolence receive its just desserts created an atmosphere of near-euphoric goodwill amongst viewers. Consequently, Breaker of Chains bore the unenviable burden of following a masterpiece whilst establishing the dynastic, political, and personal consequences of regicide.

The episode wisely recognises that Joffrey's death, however welcome, precipitates a murder mystery of Byzantine complexity. No true-hearted mourners gather round the late monarch's bier; the boy-king was universally despised, and his obvious death by deliberate poisoning rather than accidental choking transforms virtually the entire court of King's Landing—and indeed significant figures beyond—into credible suspects. The shadowy conspiracy encompasses a deliciously broad spectrum of potential culprits, each bearing plausible motive. Lady Olenna Tyrell sought to protect her granddaughter from a monster; various Lannister rivals harboured long-standing grievances; even covert actors might have orchestrated the assassination for inscrutable purposes of their own. The sole individual beyond suspicion is Cersei Lannister, whose genuine, if smothering, maternal love renders her incapable of wishing harm upon her firstborn. This distinction becomes crucial, for Cersei's grief-fuelled determination to identify and punish the conspirators drives much of the episode's tension.

Amidst this atmosphere of suspicion, even family ties offer no guarantee of innocence. Consider Tywin Lannister, who, whilst his grandson's corpse lies in state, conducts brilliant political education of Joffrey's younger brother and heir, Tommen. Portrayed with understated competence by Dean-Charles Chapman, Tommen receives instruction on the nature of rulership that scarcely conceals Tywin's evident belief that he has inherited an infinitely more suitable candidate—humble, responsible, and responsive where his predecessor was arrogant, impulsive and cruel. Tywin's pragmatism extends to diplomatic overtures delivered with characteristic audacity. Interruption of Prince Oberyn Martell and Ellaria Sand amid an orgy at King's Landing's brothel demonstrates both his disdain for social niceties and his understanding of power. Despite full awareness that Oberyn possesses both motive (the murder of his sister Elia and her children) and expertise (his legendary knowledge of poisons) for involvement in Joffrey's death, Tywin reframes the encounter as opportunity rather than confrontation. The promise of a meeting with Gregor "The Mountain" Clegane offers the vengeful prince a pathway to justice—cleverly positioning their potential alliance against mutual enemies whilst subtly acknowledging the blood-soaked history between their houses.

The contrast with Tywin's actual son could scarcely be more stark. Tyrion languishes in the Black Cells, his position rendered desperate by the mechanics of Westerosi justice. When Podrick Payne visits bearing news, the gravity of his predicament becomes clear: a three-judge panel comprising his own father Tywin, the obsequious Mace Tyrell, and the very Prince Oberyn, will determine his fate. The composition suggests predetermined outcomes, for Cersei's influence ensures that should she possess decisive authority, both Tyrion and Sansa would already hang for crimes they likely did not commit. Cersei's conviction that Sansa participated in conspiracy alongside her husband reflects maternal grief curdled into paranoid fixation—a tragic irony given Sansa's genuine innocence.

That innocence frames one of the episode's more sinister revelations. Following her miraculous escape from the capital, Sansa boards a ship and encounters her unlikely saviour: Lord Petyr Baelish, whose involvement transforms from coincidence to calculation. Littlefinger's manipulation extends years into the past; Ser Dontos Hollard, the pathetic alcoholic knight who "rescued" Sansa during the chaos, proves merely another pawn in his elaborate machinations. Dontos's brutal execution—shot through the face with crossbow bolts—serves dual purposes: eliminating witnesses whilst demonstrating to Sansa and audience alike that Baelish's involvement with the Purple Wedding conspiracy extends far beyond mere opportunism.

The episode's structure maintains the series' characteristic geographical sprawl, adopting an episodic approach to developments beyond the capital. In the Riverlands, Arya Stark witnesses renewed evidence of the Hound's moral degradation as he betrays the hospitality of a struggling farmer, robbing the man who offered shelter during their desperate journey. At Dragonstone, Stannis Baratheon simmers with frustration that Joffrey's death arrived at the precise moment his campaign lacks resources to exploit it—a logistical crisis that inspires Ser Davos Seaworth toward unorthodox financial solutions. The Northern storyline intensifies as Tormund's wildling war-party attacks an innocent settlement, calculated brutality designed to draw Castle Black's garrison into exposed positions. Meanwhile, Samwell Tarly makes a decision of dubious wisdom, dispatching Gilly and her infant son to Mole's Town's dubious protection as a brothel servant, reasoning that her presence amongst the Night's Watch's celibate brothers invites greater danger. Jon Snow argues urgently for preemptive action against the mutineers holding Craster's Keep, understanding that their capture by wildlings would reveal the Watch's numerical weakness—intelligence that could prove fatal in the coming conflict.

The episode's title, however, belongs to Daenerys Targaryen's narrative, which climaxes with her arrival at the slave city of Meereen. The wealthy slavers dispatch their champion, Oznak zo Pahl, portrayed by Daniel Naprous, whose elaborate taunting outside the city walls proves spectacularly ill-advised. Daario Naharis dispatches the braggart with casual efficiency, clearing the stage for Daenerys's theatrical propaganda coup. Addressing Meereen's enslaved population, her catapults fire not destruction but broken chains—symbolic projectiles raining liberty upon the city's battlements. The sequence demonstrates the Mother of Dragons' growing sophistication in combining military might with political theatre.

Written by showrunners David Benioff and D.B. Weiss and directed by Alex Graves, Breaker of Chains demonstrates considerable technical competence. Multiple storylines receive economical yet effective treatment; Graves permits even brief sequences, such as the wildling massacre, to resonate through disciplined visual storytelling. The episode even accommodates playful intertextuality—Oznak zo Pahl's Low Valyrian insults translate directly from the French knight's absurd taunts in Monty Python and the Holy Grail, a knowing wink at genre-savvy audiences.

Yet these accomplishments crumble against the episode's catastrophic centrepiece. When Jaime Lannister enters the Great Sept to find Cersei mourning their son, the scene that follows transforms from complex emotional excavation into something genuinely disturbing. Requesting privacy from the septons and septas, Jaime confronts his twin amidst the sacred space, and what unfolds defies euphemism. The interaction, depicted as non-consensual—despite deriving from a consensual encounter in George R.R. Martin's source material—constitutes sexual assault.

The fan response was immediate and devastating. Viewers who had invested in Jaime's painstaking redemption arc—the gradual transformation from child-murdering villain into honourable, if wounded, protagonist—felt betrayed by this apparently arbitrary regression. Critics decried the depiction as "shock for shock's sake," a cynical attempt to outdo the Purple Wedding's emotional impact through gratuitous brutality. The controversy metastasised through contradictory statements from Martin, Benioff, Weiss, and Graves, whose varying interpretations—ranging from "it becomes consensual" to "it's complicated"—only amplified the perception that the scene had been carelessly conceived.

This single misstep stained the episode indelibly, offering the first genuine taste of Game of Thrones making serious narrative errors—the progenitor of controversial decisions that would eventually culminate in the widely derided series finale. Breaker of Chains, for all its competent plotting and occasional brilliance, thus occupies a peculiar place in television history: a technically proficient instalment remembered primarily for the moment when creative judgment failed catastrophically.

RATING: 6/10 (++)

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