Rating: 70/100

This anime is one of those that delivers a powerful message; it has few episodes, but each one is packed with meaning. In fact, at home, my children took the opposite view to mine – perhaps because of their youth, or rather because they were swayed by the thinking of almost all the antagonistic characters.

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Based on Osamu Tezuka’s manga published in 1967, this 24-episode anime is perfect for an afternoon binge-watch, although I personally think it’s more effective to watch it at a leisurely pace, as each episode contains a powerful lesson that might be lost if we view it merely as a form of entertainment.

In Dororo, we encounter two stories that converge on a path towards a truth—perhaps a painful one—but since it is the truth, it is better to know it in all its nuances. Set against a backdrop of conquests and battles for territory and power, the samurai seek to defend the powerful at the expense of ordinary people, who end up suffering from famine, cold and abuses—not only from nature, but also from those who wield force and weapons.

The story begins with the birth of a deformed child, without arms or legs, whom the father decides to abandon to his fate, as he has already fulfilled his duty; for all this was the result of a sacrifice he made in the name of his kingdom. Daigo Kagemitsu had made a pact with the demons so that his land might prosper.

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The baby was taken to a meadow, but the woman carrying him saw a raft and decided to leave him on it, so that the river would carry him away and he would eventually die; but it was at that moment that the life of Hyakkimaru, the protagonist of the main story, began.

Dororo, for his part, is a boy orphaned by war and famine, who has resorted to swindling and stealing just to survive. The beauty of this character is that, despite everything he has been through, he has not lost his sense of joy; and when he meets Hyakkimaru, he provides a stark contrast to the bleak world of the man who wanders the land, trying to understand what happened to him.

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Fitted with prosthetic face, arms and legs, Hyakkimaru was trained by the man who found him so that he could defend himself on his journey of self-discovery, during which, after encountering and defeating demons, he gradually recovered the parts of his body that had been taken from him at birth.

Many adventures befall this pair of characters: one driven by the need to reclaim himself and experience life to the full, and the other by a desire for companionship and support, although initially he saw it as a business venture to rid the villages of the spectres and demons that plagued them. They ended up forming a blended family in which the child is the one who ‘educates’ the teenager, growing up together on a journey to understand the life they have been dealt.

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The dichotomy between what is right and what is one’s own is the thread that runs through the story, and this was the crux of the difference in opinion between my children and me: whilst they argued that he had to accept his fate, I maintained that he needed to reclaim what was rightfully his, for no one should be subjugated by others in the name of a greater good. Sacrificing one child for another is not the right thing to do.

In the end, that desire to reclaim what was rightfully theirs was what led everyone to understand that we all have the right to be what we wish to be, including Hyakkimaru, who had to face a world that demanded he not exist.

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Este animé, es uno de esos que llegan para dar un mensaje contundente, con pocos capítulos pero cada uno cargado de intención. De hecho, en casa, mis hijos tomaron partido opuesto al mío, quizás por su juventud, o más bien llevados por el pensamiento de casi todos los personajes antagónicos.

Basado en el manga de Osamu Tezuka publicado en 1967, este anime de 24 capítulos es excelente para una tarde de maratonear, aunque particularmente considero que verlo despacio tiene más efecto, pues en cada episodio hay una enseñanza fuerte, que quizás se pierda si lo vemos solo como un programa de entretenimiento.

En Dororo, conocemos dos historias que se van uniendo en un camino por llegar a una verdad, quizás dolorosa, pero siendo verdad, es mejor saberla con todos sus matices. Enmarcada en una época de conquistas y peleas por territorios y poder, los samuráis buscan defender a los poderosos, a costa de la gente común, quienes terminan padeciendo de hambrunas, frío y desmanes no solo naturales, sino también de quienes ostentan la fuerza y las armas.

La historia comienza con el nacimiento de un niño deforme, sin brazos ni piernas, a quien el padre decide abandonar a su suerte, pues ya cumplió su cometido, pues todo ello fue producto de un sacrificio que hizo en nombre de su reino. Daigo Kagemitsu había hecho un pacto con los demonios, para que su tierra fuera próspera.

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El bebé fue llevado a un pastizal, pero la mujer que lo llevaba, vio una balsa y decidió dejarlo en ella, para que el rio se encargara de alejarlo y que finalmente muriera, pero fue en ese momento cuando se inició la vida de Hyakkimaru, el protagonista de la historia principal.

Dororo, por su parte, es un niño huérfano por efectos de la guerra y el hambre, quien se ha dedicado a estafar y robar para poder sobrevivir. Lo bonito de este personaje es que a pesar de todo lo vivido, no ha perdido la alegría, y al momento de encontrarse con Hyakkimaru, le da el contraste al mundo sombrío de quien va por el mundo, tratando de entender qué le pasó.

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Equipado con prótesis de rostro, brazos y piernas, Hyakkimaru fue entrenado por el hombre que lo encontró, así podría defenderse en su viaje de autodescubrimiento, en el cual, luego de encontrarse con demonios y eliminarlos, iba recuperando partes de su cuerpo, que le fuera arrebatado al momento de nacer.

Muchas aventuras pasan este par de personajes, llevados uno por esa necesidad de recuperarse a si mismo, y de experimentar la vida a plenitud, y el otro por la compañía y el apoyo, aunque en un principio lo viera como negocio para deshacerse de espectros y demonios que azotaban los pueblos. Terminaron siendo una familia ensamblada en la que el niño es quien va "educando" al adolescente, creciendo juntos en medio de un viaje por entender la vida que les ha tocado vivir.

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La dicotomía entre lo justo y lo propio es el hilo que conduce el cuento, y era en esto la separación de criterios entre mis hijos y yo, ya que ellos decían que tenía que asumir su destino, mientras yo defendía la necesidad de recuperar lo que le pertenece, pues nadie debe ser sometido por otros en función de un bien mayor. Sacrificar a un hijo por otro, no es lo correcto.

Al final, ese deseo de recuperar lo propio fue lo que llevó a todos a entender que todos tenemos derechos de ser lo que deseamos ser, inclusive Hyakkimaru, quien tuvo que enfrentarse a un mundo que le pedía no estar.

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Foto/Photo by: Screenshots from Imdb gallery Banner de portada: Cortesía de @palabras1 Edición/Edited by @mamaemigrante using canva Translated and formatted with Deepl

Mortal Kombat 2026 is the kind of movie that doesn't promise you existential revelations, but it gives you exactly what you need on an evening when you want to clear your mind: raw action, bright colors, larger-than-life characters and a healthy dose of attitude. And, surprisingly, the movie actually delivers. It's not a masterpiece, it doesn't try to be profound, but it has a constant energy, a brisk pace and enough personality to keep you hooked until the end.

Johnny Cage is the magnet of the film. Karl Urban manages to be simultaneously charismatic, annoying, funny and badass. He practically steals half the film just by his presence. Kitana, on the other hand, brings an unexpected visual and narrative balance. She's not just the "fan girl", but a character with weight, who gives a bit of structure to the chaos.

Let's be honest: the story is there to connect the action scenes. It's not bad, but it's not memorable either. It's a simple, predictable narrative thread that doesn't bother, but doesn't impress either. However, the film has a great merit: it no longer tries to be serious with force, like the 2021 one did. It accepts the absurdity of Mortal Kombat and embraces it. This makes it more authentic, more relaxed and more faithful to the spirit of the game.

This is where the film shines. It's an interesting mix of brutality, neon, humor and self-irony. There are moments when it seems like a metal music video, others when it seems like a comic book come to life. It's not a film that will make you think, but it's a film that knows how to give you an hour and a half of pure escapism. And sometimes, that's exactly what you're looking for.

If you're a Mortal Kombat fan, the film is a joy: fatalities, iconic characters, video game vibes, but if you're not a fan, it may remain a colorful, noisy, but surprisingly entertaining action film.

Seven Twenty Three (S3x07)

Airdate: 27 September 2009

Written by: Andre Jacquemetton, Maria Jaquemetton & Matthew Weiner Directed by: Daisy von Scherler Mayer

Running Time: 48 minutes

In the first seasons of Mad Men, Don Draper featured as an iconic, larger-than-life character who functioned as a personification of the American Dream in its purest form—a man who came from nothing and whose talent for selling images, both of himself and his clients, convinced him that everything was possible and that he could do no wrong. By Season 3’s seventh episode, Seven Twenty Three, that carefully constructed persona is brutally dismantled. Draper is finally confronted by his limitations, knocked down to reality both figuratively and literally. This episode, a pivotal turning point in the series, orchestrates his humbling with a precision that is as dramatically satisfying as it is psychologically acute. It marks the moment when the show’s central myth of self-invention collides with the immutable forces of corporate power, personal history, and human vulnerability.

The episode was written by Andre and Maria Jacquemont together with the show’s creator, Matthew Weiner, and represents the directorial debut of Daisy von Scherler Mayer. Mayer, best known for her 1995 independent film Party Girl and also the wife of the series’ music composer David Carbonara, brings a distinct and personal touch to the material. This is immediately evident in the unusual, almost novelistic opening sequence, which forsakes the show’s typical establishing shots for a triptych of characters waking up. We see Peggy Olson in bed with a lover after having sex; Don in a motel room with blood on his face; and Betty Draper resting on a plush red couch. It is a bold, disorienting choice that functions as a narrative hook, promising to reveal how each character arrived at these disparate moments. The rest of the episode is precisely that explanation, weaving their stories into a tapestry of compromise, desire, and capitulation.

The narrative begins with something banal: Don and Betty discussing new interior design for their Ossining home. This surface-level domesticity is swiftly undercut. Don later accompanies his children, Sally and Bobby, to a field class held by their teacher, Suzanne Farrell, to observe the partial solar eclipse of 20 July 1963. The celestial event offers an opportunity for Don and Suzanne to talk, a conversation the experienced teacher interprets as flirting—something Don denies with a characteristic, almost reflexive, deflection. This subplot reinforces Don’s perpetual state of being in transit between identities, unable to fully inhabit either the responsible father or the serial adulterer without conflict.

Simultaneously, Betty embarks on her own journey towards transgression, though her path is paved with the respectable veneer of civic duty. Through her Junior League membership, she learns of a controversial reservoir project and is urged to leverage a personal connection to Henry Francis, an assistant to Governor Nelson Rockefeller. Their arranged meeting in a local bakery shows repressed longing. Both find excuses to come alone. Henry can promise nothing regarding the reservoir but clearly relishes the brief encounter, their mutual attraction barely concealed beneath polite conversation. As they leave, Betty is drawn to an ornate, oversized couch in a shop window. Henry, revealing a past moving furniture, identifies it as a fainting couch—a Victorian relic for ladies overwhelmed by their corsets. The symbolism is unsubtle but potent: Betty, constrained by the corset of her perfect-wife persona, is unconsciously seeking a place to collapse.

The catalyst for the episode’s central drama is the unexpected arrival of Conrad Hilton at Sterling Cooper. The legendary hotel tycoon, a genuine historical figure whose introduction in Season 3 is noted as a significant narrative device, comes specifically to hire Don Draper. This coup sends a jolt of prestige through the agency, leaving the staff in awed applause. For Don, it should represent the ultimate validation of his genius. Yet, in the world of Mad Men, no triumph comes without a price.

Parallel to this, Peggy Olson is dealing with unwelcome courtship. Duck Phillips, believing she belongs with him at Grey, woos her with gifts. Uncomfortable, she returns a present to his hotel suite, where Duck, ostensibly sober, makes another pitch—both professional and personal. Peggy’s refusal turns to acquiescence with startling speed, leading to a sexual encounter that has often been critiqued as a rare narrative misstep. The transition from professional tension to sexual liaision feels abrupt, insufficiently motivated by either established attraction or deeper character connection, leaving a moment that feels more plot-driven than character-driven.

Don’s deal with Hilton, rather than cementing his autonomy, triggers his undoing. The immense account brings unwelcome scrutiny from the other Sterling Cooper partners, who insist he sign a formal contract—anathema to Don, who values the independence that saved him during the PPL takeover. The pressure escalates when Roger Sterling, in a profound betrayal, telephones Betty to enlist her influence. This intrusion of business into his domestic sanctum infuriates Don. In a fit of pique, he simply leaves, driving aimlessly until he picks up two young hitchhikers, Doug (Trevor O’Brien) and Sandy (Erin Sandsers). They are travelling to Niagara Falls to marry, a plan Doug candidly admits is a strategy to avoid the draft. This reference to Vietnam feels a touch anachronistic or heavy-handed for the summer of 1963, a time when the conflict was still a distant, low-intensity concern for most Americans. The couple shares drugs with Don, leading to an impromptu, hazy party in a motel room. Here, Don’s subconscious surfaces in a vision of his abusive father, Archie Whitman, before Doug physically assaults him, knocking him out and robbing him. He awakens abandoned, symbolically stripped of his money, his dignity, and his illusion of invincibility.

Betty, in the meantime, has acted on her obsession, purchasing the fainting couch and installing it in her living room, to the horror of her interior designer. This act of defiant, self-indulgent decoration reveals that the couch she was resting on in the opening sequence is indeed this very object—a tangible manifestation of her inner lassitude and yearning for an escape she cannot yet name.

Don returns to the Sterling Cooper offices on 23 July 1963, bearing the humiliating physical evidence of his downfall: a band-aid on his nose, dismissed as a “fender bender”. A greater humiliation awaits in Bertram Cooper’s office. Cooper, who had previously tolerated Don’s fabricated identity with benign indifference, now recalculates. With the lucrative Hilton contract in play, Don’s secret becomes leverage. In a chilling display of corporate realpolitik, Cooper demands the contract, forcing Don’s capitulation. The only concession Don can wrench is the petty victory of no longer having to work with Roger. The man who sold the world is himself sold, his genius now legally owned by the firm. The episode’s title, “Seven Twenty Three”, thus refers not just to the date of his return but to the new, binding numerical identifier of his servitude.

The episode is superbly crafted. Von Scherler Mayer’s direction is assured, balancing the intimate stillness of Betty’s scenes with the chaotic, drug-fuelled descent of Don’s misadventure. The writing is taut, layering multiple character arcs with thematic coherence. The performances are, as ever, exemplary; Jon Hamm conveys Don’s crumbling defiance with heartbreaking subtlety. However, the episode is not without flaws. Beyond the previously noted abruptness of Peggy’s scene, the Vietnam reference, while intended to foreshadow the coming national trauma, can feel like a box being ticked rather than an organic part of the narrative.

The episode is also rich in industry meta-commentary. Colleagues refer to Don as “our Ogilvy”, a nod to David Ogilvy, the legendary British advertising executive who served as a partial model for Draper. They quote from his seminal 1963 book, Confessions of an Ad Man, anchoring the fiction in the real history of the industry. This cleverly blurs the line between Don the character and the titans he emulates, even as the episode systematically deconstructs that very emulation.

Finally, the closing choice of “Sixteen Tons” by Tennessee Ernie Ford is an impeccable music cue. The classic tune’s lyrics about debt, labour, and being another day older and deeper in debt perfectly underscore the episode’s thesis. For all his individual brilliance, Don Draper is revealed to be just a cog in the corporate machine, a man who must, as the song says, “owe [his] soul to the company store”. His knee is bent, his contract signed. The American Dream, in this devastating hour, is shown to have fine print—and it is binding.

In the broader context of Season 3, which portrays the last gasps of the pre-assassination era, Seven Twenty Three is a crucial inflection point. It is the moment the show’s protagonist is forcibly integrated into the very system he sought to transcend, a personal November coming months before the national one. The episode stands as a masterful, if occasionally imperfect, piece of television drama, proving that the most compelling collapses are those of the giants we ourselves erected.

RATING: 7/10 (+++)

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The year 1939 is frequently cited as the annus mirabilis of Classic Hollywood, a golden period so densely packed with masterpieces that they must inevitably be separated into distinct tiers. While the upper echelons are occupied by such undisputed, monumental works as Gone with the Wind, The Wizard of Oz, and Stagecoach, the lower tier is no less fascinating, housing pictures that achieved iconic status through sheer star power and entertainment value rather than pure cinematic innovation. George Marshall’s Destry Rides Again, a Western comedy that provided one of the era’s greatest stars with her most iconic sound-era role while simultaneously catapulting another to new heights, firmly belongs to this latter category. It is a film of considerable charm and professional polish, yet one whose legacy is perhaps more significant than its intrinsic artistic merit, being a fascinating product of studio system pragmatism, genre hybridisation, and the potent alchemy of its leading players.

The opening credits offer an immediate clue to the film’s derivative yet opportunistic nature, noting it was merely “suggested by” Max Brand’s 1930 novel. This was a conveniently vague formulation, a common Hollywood practice to explain that the plot has, in fact, very little to do with its purported source material. The novel had already been adapted more faithfully in a 1932 Tom Mix vehicle. This 1939 version effectively jettisons the original narrative, transplanting its essence into the fictional, aptly named town of Bottleneck. Here, a classic scenario of corruption unfolds: the town is ruled by the ruthless saloon owner Kent (Brian Donlevy), who employs his girlfriend, the chanteuse Frenchy (Marlene Dietrich), to distract and fleece men at the poker tables. When a rancher, Lem Claggett (Tom Fadden), is cheated out of his property and the investigating Sheriff Keogh (Joe King) is murdered, the corrupt mayor (Samuel S. Hinds) appoints the town drunk, Washington “Wash” Dimmsdale (Charles Winninger), as the new sheriff. Wash, a former deputy to the legendary lawman Tom Destry, sobers up and summons his old boss’s son, Thomas Destry Jr. (James Stewart). The central conceit—and the film’s primary comic engine—is that Destry Jr., despite his formidable familial reputation, is a resolute pacifist who refuses to carry a gun. His methodical, unarmed intelligence as he ascertains the situation and prepares for an inevitable showdown provides the narrative spine, around which entwines a subplot of Frenchy’s growing, reluctant attraction to the morally upright newcomer.

Directed by the prolific George Marshall, whose career spanned five decades of Hollywood history, Destry Rides Again exhibits the superb production qualities typical of a major studio release at its peak. These technical virtues—crisp cinematography, sturdy sets, and efficient pacing—help the film overcome its fundamental generic limitations. Its identity is notably split. As a Western, its action is curiously stage-bound, largely confined to the saloon and the main street of Bottleneck, giving it the air of a theatrical play rather than an expansive frontier epic. It feels slight when compared to the mythic grandeur of Stagecoach, released the same year. The film functions far more effectively as a comedy, leveraging Stewart’s innate likability and a roster of eccentric townsfolk. Yet, this comedic tone exists in an uneasy, sometimes jarring, juxtaposition with genuinely dark content: multiple murders, systemic corruption, and the lingering shadow of Destry Sr.’s violent death, which serves as a sobering reminder of the cost of law enforcement.

Where the film truly excels is in its exploitation of star power. For Marlene Dietrich, then languishing under the label of “box office poison,” Frenchy was a career-reviving godsend. She returned with gusto to the archetype of the worldly, morally ambiguous entertainer, a persona she had perfected earlier in the decade. While her musical numbers, including “The Boys in the Back Room,” lack the transcendent, avant-garde edge of her collaborations with Josef von Sternberg, they are delivered with a knowing, weary sensuality that perfectly defines the character. For James Stewart, then a rising star known for his earnest, everyman qualities, this role marked his first foray into the Western genre. He cleverly transposed his trademark “aw-shucks” persona onto the archetypal Western hero, creating a uniquely pacifist lawman whose strength derives from wit and moral certainty rather than firearms. The off-screen torrid affair between Stewart and Dietrich, much reported by gossip columnists of the time, adds a layer of palpable, off-kilter chemistry to their on-screen interactions, where Frenchy’s cynical world-weariness clashes delightfully with Destry’s naive integrity.

The film is further elevated by an exceptional supporting cast, who breathe life into archetypes with remarkable skill. Mischa Auer provides superb comic relief as Boris Stavrogin, a Russian immigrant whose tragicomic loss of his trousers to Frenchy in a poker game becomes a running gag. Una Merkel, one of Classic Hollywood’s most underrated talents, is magnificent as the domineering, moralistic Lilly Belle. Her legendary catfight with Dietrich’s Frenchy remains one of the film’s most startling sequences. Reportedly filmed in a single, bruising take with considerable improvisation, the scene is unexpectedly visceral and realistic, a raw burst of physicality that stands in stark contrast to the often-stylised violence of the era. The actresses’ subsequent injuries attested to the scene’s authentic ferocity.

For all its entertainment value, the film is not without structural flaws. The climax, in which Destry finally arms himself and leads a makeshift militia against Kent’s gang, feels somewhat anti-climactic. Despite a flurry of gunplay and the surreal, amusing sight of the town’s women joining the fray, the resolution arrives with a sense of procedural inevitability rather than thrilling catharsis.

A more profound narrative weakness is imposed by the strictures of the MPAA Production Code. Frenchy, as the “bad girl,” cannot be allowed a romantic future with the flawlessly heroic Destry, regardless of their chemistry or her redemptive sacrifice. This forced the script to introduce the character of Janice Tyndall (Irene Hervey), the obligatory “good girl” who represents Destry’s appropriate marital prospect. Hervey does what she can, but the role is irredeemably one-dimensional, making the final romantic alignment feel formulaic and undermining the more complex, bittersweet connection between Destry and Frenchy. Her fate, though dramatically poignant, ultimately serves as a punishment for her earlier transgressive lifestyle, a mandatory concession to moral orthodoxy that dates the film considerably.

Despite these compromises, Destry Rides Again was a resounding commercial success. Its most lasting impact was the dramatic rejuvenation of Dietrich’s career, re-establishing her as a potent and bankable star. The film’s legacy extended beyond its initial release; George Marshall directed a near shot-for-shot remake in 1954, Destry, starring Audie Murphy. More significantly, the film was immortalised through parody in Mel Brooks’s Blazing Saddles (1974), where Madeline Kahn’s brilliant performance as Lilly von Shtupp is a direct and loving homage to Dietrich’s Frenchy, cementing the character’s place in the cultural lexicon.

Destry Rides Again is a film of modest artistic ambition that achieved outsized historical importance. It is not a pioneering Western nor a groundbreaking comedy, but a highly polished, supremely entertaining example of studio craftsmanship. Its enduring appeal lies in the magnetic collision of two iconic stars at pivotal moments in their careers, and in the enduring, scrappy charm of a well-told tale where the good guy wins by outthinking the bullies, all set to the tune of a saloon piano. It is, in essence, a quintessential lower-tier gem of Hollywood’s greatest year—flawed, formulaic in places, yet utterly indispensable.

RATING: 7/10 (+++)

==

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The Green Mile Is More Than Just A Prison Movie. It Is A Powerful Story About Humanity, Compassion, And Justice. Nearly Three Decades Later, It Remains One Of The Greatest Stephen King Adaptations Ever Made.

Some movies entertain you while you’re watching them, and then there are movies that stay with you long after they end. The Green Mile falls firmly into the second category for me. Released in 1999, this emotional drama combines elements of fantasy, mystery, and tragedy to create a film that is both heartbreaking and unforgettable.

The movie was directed by Frank Darabont, who had already proven his talent with another Stephen King adaptation, The Shawshank Redemption. Darabont understood how to take King’s storytelling and translate it to the screen without losing the emotional depth that made the original story so compelling. His direction is patient and deliberate, allowing viewers to become fully invested in the characters and their journeys.

Tom Hanks stars as Paul Edgecomb, the head guard on death row at Cold Mountain Penitentiary during the 1930s. Hanks delivers a strong and believable performance as a man trying to do the right thing while working within a flawed system. His character serves as the audience’s guide through the events that unfold on the prison’s death row, known as “The Green Mile.”

The standout performance comes from Michael Clarke Duncan as John Coffey. Coffey is a massive inmate sentenced to death for the murder of two young girls. Despite his intimidating appearance, he possesses a gentle nature and a kindness that immediately sets him apart from the other prisoners.

The supporting cast is excellent as well. David Morse, Bonnie Hunt, James Cromwell, Barry Pepper, Michael Jeter, Doug Hutchison, and Sam Rockwell all contribute memorable performances. Doug Hutchison is especially effective as Percy Wetmore, one of the most unpleasant and cruel characters in the entire film.

As the story progresses, Paul and the other guards begin to notice that John Coffey is unlike anyone they have ever met. He appears to possess extraordinary healing abilities and a supernatural gift that cannot easily be explained. These discoveries force the guards to question everything they believe about justice, guilt, and innocence.

One of the film’s greatest strengths is the relationship between Paul and John. Their friendship develops naturally throughout the story and becomes the emotional core of the movie. Tom Hanks and Michael Clarke Duncan share incredible chemistry, making every scene between them feel genuine and heartfelt.

The movie also does an excellent job building emotional investment in nearly every character. By the time the story reaches its final act, viewers have spent enough time with these people that their triumphs and tragedies carry real weight. Few films manage to create such strong emotional connections.

Another reason the film works so well is its pacing. At just over three hours long, it could have easily felt bloated or overly drawn out. Instead, the story unfolds at exactly the right speed, giving important moments room to breathe while keeping the audience engaged from beginning to end.

Visually, The Green Mile captures the atmosphere of a 1930s prison perfectly. The setting feels authentic and lived-in, helping immerse viewers in the world of Cold Mountain Penitentiary. Combined with Thomas Newman’s beautiful musical score, the film creates an emotional experience that is difficult to forget.

The movie explores several important themes, including compassion, redemption, prejudice, faith, and the imperfections of the justice system. These themes are woven naturally into the story rather than feeling forced, which makes their impact even stronger.

What I appreciate most about The Green Mile is that it never relies solely on its supernatural elements. At its heart, this is a story about people. It is about kindness, cruelty, sacrifice, and the difficult choices that individuals face when confronted with moral dilemmas.

There are very few movies that can make me laugh, smile, feel hopeful, and then completely break my heart by the end. The Green Mile accomplishes all of those things. Its emotional moments are earned, not manipulated, which is one reason they remain so effective even after multiple viewings.

For me, The Green Mile is simply a great film. The cast is outstanding, Frank Darabont’s direction is excellent, and the story delivers an emotional punch that few movies can match. More than twenty-five years after its release, it remains one of the most powerful and memorable films I have ever seen.

Mother Mary 🤔 where am I gonna start? Okay let me ask you this? Have you watched a movie that reach into your chest, grip something you didn't even know was sitting there unresolved, and just hold it just to make you look at it. Mother Mary is the second kind. It's the kind of A24 film that will split a room completely down the middle, and honestly, I understand both sides. But let me tell you what happened. Let me actually walk you through it, because this one deserves that.

The film opens with Sam Anselm — played by Michaela Coel in a performance that honestly should be illegal — speaking bitterly to an unseen listener, laying bare a sentiment that she deserves neither love nor hate. It's a cold, strange way to open a movie. No context nor warmth just a woman and her unprocessed grief dressed up as indifference and then — the film shifts to a dazzling scene with pop icon Mother Mary, performed by Anne Hathaway, singing her song "Burial" to a chorus of devoted fans.

The contrast is immediate and jarring and completely intentional. One woman in the shadows of something that broke her. One woman blinding in the spotlight. And the film quietly whispers — these two were once inseparable.

Before Mother Mary became the iconic pop star she is at the start of the movie, she and Sam were best friends, soulmates in the truest artistic sense. Mother Mary as the singer and songwriter, and Sam as the designer who created MM's image through fashion and fabric.

They made each other famous and then, at their peak, Mother Mary broke the relationship. She said she wanted to express herself differently and Sam, Sam had to watch the person she built walk away and keep shining without her, I felt that in my spine.

Mary is planning a bold comeback after a troubling onstage fall that had rumors swirling about a possible suicide attempt. In the days leading to her return, she frets over the dress she must wear — a piece that must somehow feel like her again. Her travels take her to London, where the urgency pushes her toward a reunion with the designer she hasn't seen in over a decade and so Sam and Mary are back in the same room for the first time in years and you can feel every inch of the distance between them.

Old resentments are laid bare as a vengeful Sam forces Mary to confront the end of their creative partnership. Despite launching Mary's career together, Sam was denied credit and cut out of her inner circle entirely. That detail lands like a slap the woman who dressed you, who built you, who poured her entire artistic soul into your image — erased. Like she never existed. I sat with that for a long time because I've seen versions of that story in real life. The uncredited woman, the invisible collaborator. It is one of the oldest and cruelest betrayals in creative spaces.

Then the supernatural element arrives, and this is where Mother Mary becomes something else entirely. When Sam goes to see Mary perform one last time, the pain cracks something within her. She grinds her teeth so hard her molars crack. After the broken teeth are extracted, something revelatory happens. Her open wounds become an escape hatch for the resentment that has literally been gestating in her body — taking the form of a swath of red fabric. A ghost made of grief. I know that sounds wild. It is wild but it is also one of the most poetic visual metaphors I have ever seen for what unprocessed heartbreak actually does to a person's body.

Mary then recalls meeting a fan named Imogen played by FKA Twigs — who leads her into a séance. The women summon a spirit that possesses Imogen, who takes Mary's hand and cuts it. The red ghost appears and tries to enter her wound, but Mary escapes — for now. During her last concert, the ghost appears again, causing her fall. Nobody can see the red ghost but Sam and Mary. Only the two people who shared that wound.

And then the ending. Oh my my, the ending. Sam leads a reluctant Mary in a ritual to exorcise the spirit using her dressmaking tools. Taking Sam's shears, Mary slices open her own chest and Sam pulls out the ghost — turning the spirit of their mutual trauma into harmless fabric. Mary apologises for having wronged Sam. Her team rushes her to the show and Sam, alone, crafts the red fabric into a dress.
The final look features a red dress made from fabric infused with the red spirit — symbolising transformation and release. The film closes on this eerie, image.

Art made from the wreckage of a broken relationship. Pain turned into something you can wear. David Lowery described this film as being about how art can take something terrible and turn it into something beautiful and somehow, impossibly, it does exactly that.

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Johnnie To enjoys a reputation as one of the most successful and internationally renowned Hong Kong filmmakers of the 21st century. Much of this esteem is owed to his skilful handling of the gangster genre, for which Hong Kong cinema was best known in past decades. With his 2012 film Drug War, however, he ventured slightly outside those well‑worn genre parameters, weaving together elements of police procedural, action thriller and, somewhat unusually, the road movie. This ambitious amalgamation results in a taut, brutal, and distinctly mainland Chinese crime epic that both honours and subverts the traditions of Hong Kong action cinema.

The film’s relocation to mainland China is a structural necessity for its road‑movie aspirations. Hong Kong’s cramped urban landscape offers little scope for the long, open roads that define the genre. Consequently, the plot is set in the industrial zones and highways around Tianjin, a major northern port. The narrative engine ignites when Timmy Choi (Louis Koo) crashes his car into a restaurant. Hospitalised, his plight coincides with a police crackdown on his drug‑mule operation. Captain Zhang (Sun Honglei) quickly deduces Choi is the survivor of a catastrophic meth‑lab explosion that killed his family. Facing China’s mandatory death penalty for drug manufacturing, Choi’s attempted flight from hospital fails, forcing him into a desperate bargain: he will betray his upstream partners—the flamboyant fishing magnate Bro Haha (Ping Hao) and the shadowy kingpin Uncle Bill (Zhenqi Li)—in exchange for his life. This sets in motion a complex series of undercover stings, with Zhang reluctantly posing first as Choi’s new partner and then as Haha himself. The procedural mechanics are meticulous, but To masterfully tightens the screws; two of Choi’s henchmen escape a police raid, and Choi’s own commitment to the deal begins to waver, seeding the dread that the entire operation is spiralling towards disaster.

Drug War is a profoundly unusual film, particularly for audiences accustomed to Hong Kong genre fare. Its status as a co‑production between Hong Kong and mainland studios necessitated, and surprisingly benefited from, a stark authenticity. The mainland authorities, it seems, did not object to the film’s unflinching portrayal of less‑than‑commendable realities: rampant drug crime, a desperate underclass willing to risk death by becoming “mules” with ingested drug capsules, and the sheer bureaucratic scale of the police response. This grants the film a gritty, almost documentary‑like texture that distinguishes it from the more stylised moral universes of To’s earlier works like Election or PTU. It is a film that acknowledges the People’s Republic not as a monolithic entity but as a vast, conflicted landscape where high‑tech policing battles entrenched, desperate criminal enterprise.

To and his cinematographer Cheng Siu‑keung make brilliant use of this northern Chinese setting. The open, often desolate spaces—framed under a pallid, cold sky—create a sense of bleak isolation that mirrors the characters’ moral desolation. This is not the neon‑drenched, rain‑slicked Hong Kong of noir tradition; it is a world of concrete, steel, and frost. Conversely, the film equally portrays modern China as a surveillance state where technology is a key battleground. The police, with their access to vast databases, omnipresent CCTV, and Zhang’s own dogged experience, consistently hold the upper hand in information warfare. This technological realism grounds the cat‑and‑mouse game, making the eventual unravelling not a failure of intelligence, but a tragic consequence of human unpredictability and violent chance.

And unravelling it does, with a ferocity that remains shocking. The film’s commitment to visceral realism is established early with grotesque, matter‑of‑fact scenes of drug mules being forced to defecate under police watch. It escalates in a central, unbearably tense sequence where Captain Zhang, to maintain his cover as Haha, must inject himself with methamphetamine, his salvation relying on the advice of the very man he is trying to convict. Yet this all serves as a prelude to the film’s devastating final act. The plot’s carefully constructed house of cards collapses into near‑Jacobean levels of bloodshed. In a prolonged, chaotic shootout at a primary school, allegiances shatter and bodies fall with ruthless impartiality. The violence is graphic, messy, and punctuated with startling details of bodily fluids and brutal physics.

This carnage sets the stage for one of modern cinema’s most chilling and memorable conclusions. The actual final scene returns to a cold, procedural silence. Choi, having survived the bloodbath only to be captured, is strapped to a gurney. In a desperate, futile bid to bargain, he spews names and dates as a prison official administers the lethal injection. His voice slows, slurs, and stops. It is a stark, unglamorous depiction of state execution, a rare and courageous ending for a gangster film that pointedly refuses any catharsis or redemption. The law, impersonal and absolute, has the final word.

For all its impressive power, Drug War is not a flawless film. Its principal weakness, as noted, stems from its sprawling narrative ambition. The relatively large number of secondary characters—police subordinates, various gangsters—means many are sketched too thinly. The audience has little time to become attached to their fates, which can dilute the emotional impact of the later massacre. While this perhaps intentionally mirrors the impersonal machinery of both the drug trade and the police state, it does create a certain emotional distance at the very moment the film seeks to overwhelm.

Despite this flaw, Drug War proved to be a massive box‑office hit in both China and Hong Kong, a testament to its gripping execution and topical ruthlessness. Its influence extended beyond borders, inspiring a 2018 South Korean remake, Believer, which later spawned a sequel. Over a decade on, Drug War appears as a pivotal work in Johnnie To’s filmography. It represents a successful grafting of his genre mastery onto a new, harsh national canvas, producing a police thriller of exceptional tension and a bleak, enduring commentary on crime, punishment, and the desperate calculus of survival under the shadow of the death penalty.

RATING: 7/10 (+++)

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Fuente

Fuente

Fuente

Autor Mongie (Leeanne M. Krecic), género drama y romance, estudio de animación OLM.

ENGLISH

Source

Source

Fuente

Author Mongie (Leeanne M. Krecic), drama and romance genre, OLM animation studio.

Translated Using Deepl

Do you know the difference between order and chaos?