Mike Campos

Jonathan Banks is ridiculous good. He does so much with so little; plays the stoic, taciturn old hand so well, that it's tempting to think of that as the sum total of what he is. In both Breaking Bad and Community, he plays a perpetually grumpy, vaguely prideful, uber-competent ruffian, and does so with such skill, that it's easy to go back to that well again and again.

But then in an episode like "Five-O", he hits a note of vulnerability. He sits in the dark, and the tears well in his eyes as he talks to his daughter-in-law about how he "broke his boy." Mike Ehrmentraut is not made of stone. He is a simple man in many ways, who is remarkable for how unremarkable he is at times. But there is a beating heart beneath his steely exterior, one that grieves for his lost son, that blames himself for allowing it to happen, and who throws himself at the mercy of his son's wife out of a sense of guilt and fairness for having taken the man she loves away from her.

That scene is so damn quiet. There's no music to subtly or not-so-subtly massage our emotions one direction or another. There's little of the cinematic flourishes that made Breaking Bad and its successor stand out in a sea of often bland direction on television. There's just close ups of a wounded animal spilling his guts over his greatest regret, and a similar shot of his daughter-in-law, who carries a similar look of hurt but also one of understanding. It's one of the most powerful, tragic scenes in this young series, but also in its more celebrated predecessor, that deepens an already enthralling character and shows that Mike is far more than just grump and handguns.

At the same time, as good as that final scene is, it shouldn't overshadow how well the episode that precedes it is constructed. Apart from the story of Walter White, apart from the story of Jimmy McGill, "Five-O" is a wonderful little short story that works almost entirely separated from the narratives of the protagonists that Mr. Ehrmantraut finds himself associated with.

It is both a mystery and a character piece, offering details both about what led Mike to where he is when we meet him at the parking booth in the beginning of Better Call Saul, but also examining who he is and the baggage he carries with him when we first meet him in Albuquerque.

The episode begins by, not in so many words, asking a number of questions. How did Mike get shot? Was he speaking on the phone with Matty the night before he died? What brought him to Albuquerque in this state? Why won't he tell his daughter-in-law? What did they talk about? Who killed Matty? Who killed his partners on the force.

Then, one by one, the episode cuts back and forth between the present and the future, answering these questions and presenting new ones as it goes. At one point, I believed that Mike had killed his own son for some reason. Or that he at least knew what was going to happen, but didn't stop it.

Instead, the episode doesn't leave the audience guessing for long. Even as it tosses out breadcrumbs, and lets silences linger that make more of an impact than any dialogue, it eventually shows you what happened before it tells you the rest of the story.

The sequence where Mike takes out his son's murderers is masterful. The subtle touches show who Mike is and what he's about. He's capable and smart, as seen in the way he anticipates the dirty cops taking his weapon and breaks into their cop car to plant another one. Despite his anger, he's nervous about his plan, as seen in the way his hand shakes as he makes sure to let his targets know that he's having a few as he holds his glass of whiskey. And he's wily, playing into their expectation that he's drunk, leading them to take him somewhere that an execution can take place without too much notice or trouble.

Then his demeanor changes, and he does what he feels he needs to, and we get everything we need to know except the last piece of the puzzle -- how Matty got mixed up in this in the first place. And that leads us to that final scene, with Mike at the most open and honest and wounded as we've ever seen him.

And we learn things about one of this franchise's greatest characters that were unknown before "Five-O." We know that he's a drunk, who managed to crawl his way out of a bottle. We know that he was a dirty cop, or at least one dirty enough not to raise any suspicion because That's Just How Things Are. And he is a man who carries on with a tremendous sense of shame for the man he was and what it led to. He views himself as someone unworthy of his son's admiration, as someone whose failure to live up to the sterling image his son had of him led to his son's death. Mike is not a sentimental man, not one to wear his emotions on his sleeves, but "Five-O" makes it clear that he carries that weight with him wherever he goes.

While Saul appears for an important segment here, this episode is not about him. He's a supporting character in Mike's story. And yet in the midst of all this great standalone storytelling and character development of Mike, the folks behind Better Call Saul still take time out to lay the groundwork for why a pair of individuals like Jimmy McGill and Mike Ehrmantraut would find each other useful and build a relationship, if not necessarily a friendship together.

To that point, "Five-O" is a great episode of Better Call Saul, that deepens our understanding of one of the series's major players. But even apart from that, it's just a wonderful, heartbreaking, self-contained story about a man who went along to get along, with booze and kickbacks and thirty years of the usual business along the way, and woke up when he failed the person in his life who mattered the most to him. It's easy to love Mike Ehrmantraut, the old badass with a code; but it's even better to love Mike Ehrmantraut, the grieving father ready to live with whatever consequences are to come for killing his son's murderers, who still struggles with the thought that he corrupted something pure and beautiful, and feels responsible for taking away his granddaughter's daddy, his daughter-in-law's husband, because he was not as good of a man as he might have been.

8.9/10. I love the theme for this episode. I love the fact that Jimmy is genuinely distraught at the idea that he went the extra mile, proved that he is better and more committed than his well-heeled competition when it comes to these big fish clients, and they still won't hire him because he's "the kind of lawyer guilty people hire." And so he uses his hush money to both imitate and antagonize the kind of lawyers that respectable people hire, who are inadvertently and intentionally making his life harder. He both resents and envies their respectability, and so when the Kettlemans pay him off, he uses it as the rock upon which he will build his church.

But then he realizes that aping someone else's respectability isn't enough. Instead, he has to inject more of himself and what he does best into the routine in order to beat the big boys at their game. So he stages a rescue, makes the paper, and now has a name in the public consciousness to go along with his new, more respectable look. Everything in the episode is an effort to level the playing field, but with a fractured method for doing so that fits in with the rest of the fast talking conman ways Jimmy has mastered. He tries to go straight, in an almost cartoonish reaction to Hamlin, but eventually melds Hamlin's veneer with his own tactics to carve out something for himself (and win the minor admiration of his semi-perfunctory love interest)

And yet, he knows his brother won't approve. The scene where his brother, ever the voice of disapprobation, shifts from pride, to a frenetic and incredibly well-shot sequences that conveys his panic and sense of unwellness in venturing into the outside world, to the resignation and disappointment when he realizes what Slippin' Jimmy has pulled off, was an incredible way to end the episode.

And if the thematic stuff didn't do it for you, it was also a hilarious episode! Just the very image of Jimmy's billboard (and Hamlin's bewilderment at it) was great. The exchange about "Hamlindago" was a hoot. Jimmy's nigh-three stooges routine with the local college camera guys had a great comedic rhythm to it, and even little details like Chuck finding a rock to put his five dollar bill under in the midst of his disorientation was a stealthily hilarious character detail. One of the most easily forgotten parts of what made Breaking Bad great is how it wasn't afraid to be stupidly, or dryly comic even in the midst of its intense, dramatic stakes, and "Hero" seemed to embrace that element of its predecessor.

[8.4/10] I'd speculated about how Kim would depart Jimmy's world. I feared she might be killed. I thought she'd get fed up with his misdeeds and leave him over that. What I didn't expect was that it would be spurred by a moment of self-recognition born of a terrible tragedy. Kim still loves Jimmy, but she recognizes that they're "poison" together, that they get off on the joint cons, and that when they do, people get hurt. She is one of the vanishingly small number of people in this franchise to recognize that she's on a destructive path and take drastic action to stop it. It's one of the most unexpected, but ultimately satisfying ways to have her exit I can imagine.

And it puts her in good company. Jimmy is as horrified by what happened as Kim is, but he can envision moving on, he can picture maintaining this life despite where it led them, he can see forgetting this some day. Kim can't. It's the same way Gus cannot forget his former partner Max, someone he loves, whose memory lingers with him when he gazes into Don Eladio's pool and holds him back from continuing to flirt with the handsome waiter who chats him up over a glass of a wine. It's the same way Mike cannot forget his son, which leads him to tell Nacho's father the truth about what happened to his child.

Mr. Varga shrugs off Mike's promise that justice will be done, recognizing that what he's talking about is vengeance. He declares that vengeance is a cycle that doesn't stop, and we know from Breaking Bad that he's right. Gus hasn't beaten the Salamancas or Don Eladio. Mike hasn't completed his tour of duty so that he can retire and spend time with his granddaughter. Jimmy can't avoid crossing paths with the cartel again. They're all in this now, and their victories bring them no peace, only pull them deeper into the muck of this, and closer to their ignoble ends.

But Kim breaks away. She cannot forget, but she can act to stop this from happening again. Her final scene with Jimmy (for now at least) is more quietly heartbreaking than explosive and dramatic, but that suits the gravity of this. And in her absence, Jimmy is free to become Saul, as an indeterminate time jump to the man in his huckster faux-finery confirms. The last thing holding Jimmy back is gone. Saul Goodman is here. He can't stop. And despite the woman in his bed, the bedraggled secretary on his phone, and the crowd of people in his waiting room, he is alone.

EDIT: If you'd like to read my usual, longer review, you can find it here -- https://thespool.net/reviews/tv-recap-better-call-saul-season-6-episode-9/

[9.5/10] They got me. They really did. I believed that Saul would do it, that he would find a way to lie, cheat, and steal out of suffering any real consequences for all the pain and losses he is responsible for. I believed that he would trade in Kim's freedom and chance to make a clean break after baring her soul in exchange for a damn pint of ice cream. I have long clocked Better Call Saul as a tragedy, about a man who could have been good, and yet, through both circumstance and choice, lists inexorably toward becoming a terrible, arguably evil person. I thought this would be the final thud of his descent, selling out the one person on this Earth who loved him to feather his own nest.

Maybe Walt was right when he said that Jimmy was "always like this." Maybe Chuck was right that there something inherently corrupt and untrustworthy in the heart of his little brother. This post-Breaking Bad epilogue has been an object lesson in the depths to which Gene Takovic will stoop in order to feed his addiction and get what he wants. There would be no greater affirmation of the completeness of his craven selfishness and cruelty than throwing Kim under the bus to save himself.

Only, in the end, that's the feint, that's the trick, that's the con, on the feds and the audience. When Saul hears that Kim took his words to heart and turned herself in, facing the punishments that come with it, he can't sit idly by and profit from his own lies and bullshit. He doesn't want to sell her out; he wants to fall on the sword in front of her, make sure she knows that he knows what he did wrong.Despite his earlier protestations that his only regret was not making more money or avoiding knee damage, he wants to confess in a court of law that he regrets the choices that led him here and the pain he caused, and most of all he regrets that they led to losing her.

In that final act of showmanship and grace, he lives up to the advice Chuck gives him in the flashback scene here, that if he doesn't like the road that his bad choices have led him, there's no shame in taking a different path. Much as Walt did, at the end of the line, Saul admits his genuine motives, he accepts responsibility for his choices after years of blame and evasion. Most of all, he takes his name back, a conscious return to being the person that Kim once knew, in form and substance. It is late, very late, when it happens, but after so much, Jimmy uses his incredible skills to accept his consequences, rather than sidestep them, and he finds the better path that Kim always believed he could walk, one that she motivates him to tread.

It is a wonderful finale to this all-time great show. I had long believed that this series was a tragedy. It had to be, given where Jimmy started and where the audience knew Saul ended. But as it was always so good at doing, Better Call Saul surprised me, with a measured bit of earned redemption for its protagonist, and moving suggestion that with someone we care for and who cares of us, even the worst of us can become someone and something better. In its final episode, the series offered one more transformation -- from a tale of tragedy, to a story of hope.

(On a personal note, I just want to say thank you to everyone who read and commented on my reviews here over the years. There is truly no show that's been as rewarding for me to write about than Better Call Saul, and so much of that owes to the community of people who offered me the time and consideration to share my thoughts, offered their kind words, and helped me look at the series in new ways with their thoughtful comments. I don't know what the future holds, but I am so grateful to have been so fortunate as to share this time and these words with you.)

EDIT: One last time, here is my usual, extended review of the finale in case anyone's interested -- https://thespool.net/reviews/better-call-saul-series-finale-recap-saul-gone/

I’ve known the evenings, mornings, and days alone,
I have measured out my life in Mesa Verde awards and burner phones.

[8.7/10] With my sincerest apologies to T.S. Eliot, it’s amazing how Better Call Saul can move so slowly, and then so quickly, without missing a beat. It’s hard to know how much time has passed up until this point in the show, but season 4 picked up right where season 3 left off, and has more or less crept along in the aftermath of Chuck’s death and Hector’s “accident” ever since.

Until now. I spent a great deal of time talking about how the last episode set Jimmy and Kim on diverging trajectories, to the point that it was even occasionally literal. “Something Stupid” takes that idea up a notch with a cold open set to the titular crooner melody. The show’s unrivaled montage abilities depicts the passage of time with unwrapped statuettes, file cabinet labels, and holiday sale signs. But Better Call Saul once again gets a little formally creative, using a well-placed split screen to show how both Kim and Jimmy are flourishing in the new lives each has embarked upon, but also how those lives are slowly but surely pulling them further and further apart.

It’s an interesting choice, since Better Call Saul is very much about the slow burn. But it’s part and parcel with one of the most noteworthy creative decisions the show consistently makes -- how Jimmy and Kim are meant to be a real relationship with slow ups and downs rather than the constant shocks and fireworks of romance on a standard network drama. When this season started, I feared for Kim, because the show seemed poised to concoct some grand accident, some big mistake on Jimmy’s part, that either scares her away or worse.

Instead, “Something Stupid” gives us the death of a thousand cuts, and it gives us small scenes and the changing of the seasons to make it happen. The show may still be building to that grand incident and gesture, that will sever the only couple it’s ever truly put together. But Jimmy and Kim didn’t start with fireworks on this show, and rather than end them with something explosive, Better Call Saul is content to just show them drifting apart, more and more living separate lives, until that division just happens without either of them realizing it, or wanting to admit it.

Because “Something Stupid” isn’t just about the passage of time. It’s about the little signs that things have changed or are changing, the ones that are almost imperceptible but nevertheless tell the story. That comes through in our glimpse of Hector. Time has been kind to the old man after the incident with Nacho. During some rehabilitation exercises with the expensive doctor Gus provided, Hector knocks over a cup of water. The medical staff writes it off as an involuntary reaction from a man still trying to regain control of his motor functions. But the perspective shots and editing let the audience know otherwise -- that this was a minor stunt from Hector so he could leer at his nurse.

Gus, observant man that he is, sees it too. He recognizes more than that his longtime foe is still a lech. He recognizes that Hector, the awful man Gus wants revenge, is still in there. Vengeance is no good if there’s no one but the shell of a man to appreciate. Gus too has his own almost impercetible moment, a slow malevolent smile, that conveys his recognition that the man he wants to punish is still awake and aware enough to appreciate it.

So Gus turns the knife a little. He sends the doctor onto her next assignment. In effect, he halts Hector’s progress, despite the doctor’s protestations that there’s more recovery to be had. Hector has recovered enough to appreciate what Gus has done, while still being limited enough to hate it. The simple flick of a cup sets in motion a series of events that changes Hector’s life, and lays the groundwork for Gus’s death.

That’s the interesting thing about the passage of time in “Something Stupid.” It can either elucidate how much progress has been made and imply the trajectory that’s being halted, or it can show how much things have deteriorated. When we see Mike and the Germans, it’s very clearly the latter. The crew that Werner the engineer hired have made great strides in constructing Gus’s underground meth lab, but there’s miles to go before they sleep, and it’s starting to get to the workers.

When an accident on the job sets them back months, on a job the whole group knows won’t be finished anywhere near on schedule, tempers flare, scuffles break out, and it becomes clear to both Mike and Werner that things can’t continue on as they have. There’s more suggestion than development here, as we see more of the restlessness bubbling under the surface for the workers than anything actually coming to a head. But we see a growing camaraderie between Mike and Werner, a shot down suggestion that things might flow easier without Kai that feels portentous, and the slightest change in expression from Mike to show us his acceptance of the idea that the workers need some “R&R”, lest things spin out of control.

But bad feelings are bubbling under the surface for Jimmy and Kim as well. Jimmy and Kim have growing resentments about one another, but are either too ensconced in the status quo to rock the boat or, more charitably, care about each other too much to make an issue out of them, so they come out in odd ways.

When Jimmy tags along with Kim to a Schweikart office party, he can’t help taking a powder in her office. And there, he starts to get a little jealous. He walks the floor and finds out that her office is almost twice as big as his. He looks at a framed note from a pro bono client, and sees that Kim has already had more success, engendered more appreciation, in her spare time as a substitute public defender, than he had when it was his regular gig. Jimmy is scraping by and seeing his partner soar. It bothers Kim, but he loves her, so he lashes out in other ways.

That means causing trouble at Schweikart, using his small talk expertise to “spitball” a fantastical company trip to Mr. Schweikart himself, with all the employees in eartshot. After Jimmy finishes laying out this extravagant ski trip and creating expectations, Schweikart will either have to break the bank to pull it off or disappoint his employees when the real trip fails to live up to the image of a winter wonderland that Jimmy creates. It’s Jimmy’s way of stomping on the Schweikart sandcastle that Kim’s helped to build, a quiet little F.U. and “you’re not so big, huh?” His little conversation has plenty of plausible deniability for the trouble it’ll cause, but Kim knows better, even if she’s unable or unwilling to call him on it. The icy trip home says as much.

But they’re still a team. So when a misunderstanding with a bag of sandwiches, a pair of headphones, and a plainclothes cop leads to Huell facing jail time, Jimmy goes to Kim for help. It’s a well constructed conundrum because it has good and bad elements to it. There’s some real injustice in Huell potentially having to go to prison because of a legitimate misunderstanding as regards a less-than-legitimate business. But there’s something questionable at best about Jimmy’s wilful blindness and obstinance to the cop about his burner phones, and something mixed about Jimmy’s motives, even if it seems unfair for Huell to have to take the fall.

And then there’s Kim’s role in all of this. The most striking reaction, in an episode full of them, is Kim practically suppressing a gag reflex when Jimmy suggests solving this problem by making the policeman crack on the stand. It’s too close to what she helped Jimmy do to Chuck, too much like the sort of life destroying ploy to save one’s own bacon that she’s been trying to make amends for since. So she takes the case but rebuffs Jimmy, resolving to do it her way -- with facts and precedents rather than hustles and manipulation.

But that fails. The prosecutor not only rejects Kim’s tactics, but questions why Kim’s even doing this, and unwittingly slags Kim’s partner in the process. It’s a tense scene, of Kim trying to do everything in her power to make this work, the right way, to help Jimmy even as she’s seeing more and more the ways that he is not the kind-hearted soul with rough edges she once thought. The edges are starting crowd out the parts of Jimmy she always appreciated, even as, in true Breaking Bad fashion, the show puts her in a tight spot and dares the audience to find out whether and how she’ll escape it, and what it will cost her and Jimmy, to do so.

The close of the episode seems to be setting up the sort of dramatic, high stakes moments that drove Breaking Bad. But Better Call Saul has been a show about slower burns, about more gradual, softer transformations than the collection of inflection points that pushed Walter white from “Mr. Chips to Scarface.” And it’s taking the same tack with Jimmy and Kim. Even as the seasons shift, there’s not some big moment that changes everything. There’s just a gradual winnowing of the trust and mutual admiration they once shared, until the image each had of the other is too tarnished to go on.

[8.1/10] This feels like an episode of a different show, and I actually like that. It’s almost a mini-movie, a unique standalone adventure for Eleven. While normally I enjoy the more fragmented, intertwined storylines of Stranger Things, there’s something cool and different about the show telling us one story for the hour rather than pieces of four or five stories put together.

It also takes us to a new location for the first time in the series (barring the cold open to the season). We get to see a 1980s, neon colorful punk version of underground Chicago. Suddenly, Eleven finds herself within a crime ring, joining up with the “outcasts”, running from cops, and gaining rebellious revenge on those who’ve hurt her.

But she also finds solace. The not so subtle throughline of “The Lost Sister” is that Eleven is looking for “home.” She became frustrated, as teenagers do, with rules and a sense of being cooped up and not allowed to follow her own wants and wishes. So first she looks for home in the form of her mother, only to find, through her Aunt’s call to authorities, that it’s not necessarily a safe space for her.

So instead she goes off searching for her “sister” -- another gifted cold she saw in her mother’s flashbacks who can commiserate with her and knows what she experienced in a way no one else does. There’s such a dose of moving warmth when Kali and Eleven show one another their brandings and then embrace, made family by their shared experiences. It’s a sort of familial connection that she’s been yearning for, an alternative to the life she’s been made to lead thus far.

And it’s a big difference! Kali’s got a very different philosophy than everyone else Eleven’s met so far. She is, more or less, the Magneto in the X-Men-like story, and also kind of Emperor Palpatine? As to the former influence, Kali believes in vengeance against the workers from Hawkins Lab who hurt them, and believes that regular people will always view folks like her and Eleven as “monsters.” As to the latter one, she tells Eleven to channel her anger in order to increase the strength of her powers, prompting flashbacks to romantic rivals and the blow-out argument with Hopper.

The combined lessons prompt Eleven to join in Kali’s revenge quest and use her powers to find Ray, one of the workers who doled out abuse, and reveal that, when tapping into the “right” emotions, Eleven has the power to move a bus. It’s a bit of rebellion and acting out, and to its credit, the creative team of Stranger Things make it look really cool.

Granted, some of Kali’s gang look pretty goofy, even for the 1980s. But between Eleven’s punk rock makeover, the rock and roll soundtrack, and the slick but gritty heist-like sequence of their storming Ray’s apartment, you get the sense of why Eleven would think this is the living end. It fits as an outsized version of the standard “good kid falls in with a bad crowd” narrative, which works to its benefit.

But then something changes. When it comes time to punish Ray for his transgressions, Eleven spots the picture of him with his daughters and can’t go through with it. More than that, she stops Kali from taking him out either, knowing the pain of losing one’s parent and not wanting to inflict it on any other innocents. It’s a reminder that for however much Eleven is frustrated with Hawkins and has lashed out at the people who’ve hurt her, she has a conscience. And no matter how much she wants to belong with her new sister and these new cool kids, she also has a soul that she can’t just set aside. Eleven’s a good kid, and this is a great way to dramatize that.

And yet, part of her hesitation stems from some unresolved daddy issues, something that Kali exploits. Kali uses her glamour powers to create the image of “Papa”, asking why Eleven never tried to look for him, never tried to confirm that he’s gone. It’s a powerful scene, of Kali pointing out how Eleven’s hurt might fester, of her twisting the emotional knife, out of an understandable extremism born of lived experience. At the same time though, it focuses Eleven on what she really wants.

She wants home. And when she stops and reflects on what that means, she sees Mike caring for her, Dustin calling her a friend, and Hopper looking after her like she was his own daughter. Sometimes you need to leave the situation you’re from in order to be able to see it clearly. Leaving Hawkins, seeing the alternatives and broader scopes and threats denied her, Eleven appreciates what she has and the people who truly do care for her. Stranger Things isn’t shy in its messaging, but it’s moving nonetheless.

It’s cool to get this sort of flight of fancy, one that breaks from the show’s usual M.O. to give us a different kind of Eleven adventure. It not only delivers a series of cool sequences in a different setting, but delivers a strong character story for Eleven, that reaffirms who she is and how much the good people in her life really mean to her.

Since the plot is remarkably the same, I’m just going to copy-paste my original plot analysis from the original film:

“Halloween is about Michael Myers, a man that many years ago, murdered his own sister as a child. Locked away for years, he finally escapes and wreaks havoc on a random set of teenage friends, but not before stalking them first.” – Review of Halloween (1978)

Oh sorry, that’s not exactly accurate – this time, his victims aren’t as random as the original movie. This time, you more or less discover as the film moves along what you discover in the 1981 sequel – that (spoiler alert), Laurie is Michael’s younger sister. So his murderous rage is all about killing his family – that much you know about in the original series, but it’s more than that now, because you now understand on a deeper level how truly horrible his childhood was before he became the monster. In the original film, Loomis briefly explains how he intimately knows the extent of Michael’s evil ways – in this film, we see it. We see his abusive and repulsive family, his budding interest in death beginning with animals, his fascination with masks and self-loathing, and his untamable hatred towards the mental hospital but surprising respect towards Dr. Loomis. We see all of this because it takes its sweet time introducing us to his history that we needed the first time around!

More than that, it introduces us to more than just an idea that this man is evil, but also a physical representation of one heck of an intimidating beast of a man. Seriously, this guy is huge. He’s a hulk. The original film had a typical guy in a mask. Why was he wearing a mask? Because it’s Halloween, I guess…this movie explains everything. It took away all of my complaints about the first movie and then some. The best way I could describe this film is as if they took the script for the original movie, got a better director, got a better writer to rewrite certain scenes and introduce integral elements, got better actors, invested in better equipment and technology, and hired a different director of photography – because it actually shows us what we needed to see that the first film left out. In my honest opinion, this movie improved on just about every level.

However, where it didn’t improve – was partially in casting. I do believe this is the best guy to ever play Michael. It made the most sense, but the rest of the cast was either just fine, or a bad choice. Now, I like Malcom McDowell as much as the next guy, I think he’s a wonderful actor, but Dr. Loomis wasn’t the right choice for him. Loomis needs to be Michael’s opposite, someone caring and understanding but ultimately hurt when he can’t get through to Michael’s inner child. Donald Pleasence did a pretty good job in the first film, but McDowell looks and sounds too evil to play this type of role. It almost went to John Hurt, which would have been perfectly fine. I would have also accepted someone like Liam Neeson in that type of role. Not McDowell. The rest of the cast did a fine job at acting, but not so much at creating something memorable…and the original did when it came to Jamie Lee Curtis.

In my honest opinion Halloween was better than the original – but only on a technical level. It didn’t change anything about the series that was already good to begin with. It just improved on the parts that the original lacked. If you watched the rest of the classic series, you’ll notice that they’re always struggling to explain plot holes in order to make another movie – this movie mostly got that out of the way from the beginning as to not run around aimlessly trying to find direction. As far as horror goes, it’s a solid slasher film. The series has never really been a favorite of mine, but I definitely respect the film went with this remake. Check it out!

[7.5/10] There’s a good term paper to be written on why we as a culture are so drawn to stories of supernatural occurrences in small towns. Maybe it’s because the distance from big cities gives cover and plausibility to magical or spooky goings on where the public writ large wouldn’t know about them.Maybe it’s because, as shows like Twin Peaks established, they can be a means to process the real life dark things that can happen in these idyllic locales Maybe it’s because we still idealize them as “real America”, so when something goes wrong there, it feels more tragic and more senseless.

Whatever the reason, in its opening bout, Stranger Things channels all the tropes from Stephen King, Stephen Spielberg, David Lynch, and a dozen other cultural touchstones about unexplained happenings in small town America. This is plainly a pastiche, one that’s counting on its audience’s affection for a particular time and place and genre, but also using them to good ends.

It sets up various cliques and interested parties, quickly establishing the different centers of gravity in the town. There’s the quartet of geeks who play DnD in their parents’ basement, get excited about ham radio, and unsurprisingly based on those first two points, get hassled by bullies at school. There’s the older sister, Nancy, who’s trying to stay devoted to her studies but finds herself both excited and made uncomfortable by Steve, the popular boy who’s taken an interest in her.

There’s Hopper, the drinking, smoking, layabout sheriff who’s suddenly faced with a case far more serious than an owl attacking someone’s hairdo. There’s Joyce, the single mother of two trying to make ends meet and understandably devastated and scared by the disappearance of her son. There’s Mr. Clarke, the encouraging science teacher who has a kinship with the nerds in his tutelage. And there’s other parents, siblings, and townspeople the show can pick up or put down as the story unspools.

Most of these characters play on tropes and archetypes: the dorky kids, the good girl sister, the donut-dunking local officer, the single mom scraping by, and so on and so on. But Stranger Things is remarkably efficient in using those tropes to fill in the gaps and get the different corners of the show up and running in one forty-seven minute opening jaunt. Not all of them get as much depth as Joyce in the early going -- and her memories and search for her son is the most emotionally-involving and, not coincidentally, realest aspect of this first outing. But each has potential, and the lines that run between them, or could in the future, are clear and compelling.

What’s particularly striking, though, is how restrained but effectively the show weaves in the supernatural into what could work just as well as a regular missing child story. We see the effects of whatever creature is haunting these woods. We hear breaths and watch lights flicker and watch as panicked scientists are seemingly consumed. But Stranger Things achieves most of this through suggestion, with electricity humming or shorting, mysterious agents preparing for something awful and doing things that are even worse, and a mute little girl who appears to have powers of her own.

Eleven is the most fascinating element of this first episode. Without a word from her, “Vanishing” makes you care about her plight, wonder about her connection to these bizarre goings on, and fear who or what might be after her. There’s some kind of linkage between her ability to stop a motorized fan and the lightbulb-blasting effects that whatever’s really happening at the Department of Energy outpost here. There’s also some kind of experiments or other horrors being visited upon her that makes her so ready to run. With those two elements combined, hers is the right mix of sci-fi intrigue and empathy-inducing character introduction.

The chief move that Stranger Things makes in its first chapter is to get us to sympathize with something or someone and then show it tragically taken away. The audience cares about the titular disappearance of young Will Byers not just because it’s sad anytime a kid goes missing or it's easy to feel for his distraught mom and older brother. We care because he had the opportunity to cheat at Dungeons and Dragons and instead offered scrupulous honesty -- because, as Mike points out, he could have saved himself and instead put himself at risk to protect others. We only get a short amount of time with him, but it’s enough to establish that he’s a good kid and understand why his family and cohort are so anxious to save him.

Likewise, we don’t get much of Benny, the restaurant owner. We just see him looking after a young runaway, giving her free food and ice cream, taking care with the woman he thinks is a social worker because he doesn’t want to scare the child who’s unexpectedly come into his care. We see, in just a few short scenes, that he’s a good person, which lets us know, in no uncertain terms, who the good guys are, who the bad guys are, and what’s at stake when the suits come in, guns blazing, and take him out, sending Eleven running.

Maybe that’s the biggest draw here. The setting of a small town in Indiana gives us potential to have a distinctive ecosystem of kids and adults where mysterious things can go down amid cover-ups and disbelief. But it also conveys a certain innocence, a certain uncorruptedness, within this way of life, that tugs at your heartstrings and makes you that much more invested to see if that innocence can be rescued.

The makeshift heroes and unwitting victims in the stories the Duffer Brothers are pulling from have a mixed record in terms of undoing the evil that’s befallen their friends and their town. We can only hope that Will, and Hawkins as a whole, fare better than Benny did. Either way, I’ll keep watching.

[8.3/10] This is the episode of Moon Knight that made the series click for me. I largely enjoyed what we got so far, from the strong direction to the great acting to the intriguing additions to the lore. But those superb pieces never really amounted to more than the sum of their parts to this point. What kind of show was this, exactly? Is it a horror pastiche? A psycho thriller? A throwback adventure tale? An internal psycho drama? I couldn't quite get my hands around it.

But this is the one that crystalizes it -- it’s a show about extreme childhood traumas and the resulting mental disturbance that affects a person for the rest of their life. It is a tragedy, an exploration of the self, a confrontation of one of the hardest things a person can go through and the psychological coping mechanisms that may or may not be healthy, but which the mind reaches for in times of crisis.

To the point, we now have two possibilities for Moon Knight. One of them is that all of this is real. Marc is the avatar of an Egyptian god named Khonshu. There is a villain named Harrow trying to revive an ancient deity of vengeance. Marc and Steven are venturing through the afterlife (sorry, “an” afterlife) with a goddess as their guide. The power of the Moon Knight, his powers and supernatural foes, are all genuine and part of the broader cosmology of the Marvel Cinematic Universe which has seen wilder and weirder things than this.

The other is that these are all the delusions of a poor, mentally distrubed man, currently trying to grapple with his myriad of traumas in a mental health facility. There is no Khonshu, only the hallucinations of a man grappling with the mental baggage of feeling responsible for his brother’s death, the emotional and physical abuse inflicted by his mother, and a career as a soldier and mercenary that once again put blood on his hands. Marc needed to contextualize all that killing, to explain it, justify it, account for it, and so invented Khonshu and these other grand forces,a reflection of the dead pigeon he saw near the cave where his brother died. His mother declared him a murderer, and this is way of processing that. Her death prompted him to check himself into a hospital lest he suffer further.

I feel the same way about these two possibilities as I do about the same sort of dichotomy in Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse Five -- it doesn’t really matter whether or not it’s real. My assumption is, given that the MCU is more interesting with another spooky hero out there than if it’s all in one merc’s head, the Moon Knight business is real. Maybe the psych ward routine is another trick by Harrow, or a test from the gods, or some other mystical mumbo jumbo. But I assume Marc will figure out some way back to the real world and real events eventually, with perhaps some hint or wink that he could still be imagining all of this just to keep the audience guessing.

And yet, regardless of whether it’s “real” in-universe, the thematic and symbolic impact is the same. Marc blames himself for all the bad things that happened in his life since his mother’s death. He doesn’t think he’s worthy of being with Layla because he fears that if she knew the truth about him and her father, she’d see him the same way his mother does. He needed Khonshu as a form of salvation, to externalize his sense of being a murderer and the psychic weight of all those deaths that are slowly crushing him. Whether or not Khonshu is a genuine Egyptian god or delusion of an unwell human being is immaterial. The impact of the idea, the impressionistic rendition of what it would feel like to labor under such immense guilt and self-hatred, is what matters.

And yet, we know one thing is true: regardless of whether Marc is really Moon Knight, he did suffer a psychic break as a child and develop Steven as an alternate personality. I had assumed Steven was a product of more mystical mumbo jumbo, but this episode is downright frank about the more down-to-earth manner in which he appeared.

Steven was a defense mechanism to the abuse inflicted by Marc’s mother in the wake of his brother’s death. He is composed of the pieces of the same VHS tape of an adventure movie and game Marc played with his brother, meant to be a fantasy who can hold onto the good, loving relationship Marc had with his mom before tragedy struck. It is an extreme means to compartmentalize the psychic and physical torture of his childhood from a grieving but contemptible parent. I appreciate that, for all its fantastical elements, Moon Knight doesn’t just treat its multiple personality disorder like some wacky thing that just happens, but rather digs into it as the product of extreme events a child’s mind wasn’t capable of dealing with, that left scars which linger to this day.

On a personal note, I have to say that this was a tough episode to watch first thing in the morning. The MCU is no stranger to delving into harrowing (no pun intended) stories about trauma. Much of the post-Endgame output, particularly on the T.V. side, has been about processing the losses from the Blip and its aftermath. Wanda grappling with the loss of Vision, Bucky reckoning with his own history as a killer, Clint Barton still mourning Natasha Romanov have all been key parts of the series that preceded Moon Knight.

But I have to say, I was not prepared for this madcap journey of the mind to turn into a meditation on the tragic loss of a child, followed by years of blame and abuse from a parent, accompanied by severe psychic disturbance from the aftereffects of being beaten and shamed for your childhood and adolescence. People right off superhero films and shows as being for children, which is reductive to begin with. But this is the type of episode that shouldn’t just be put forward as an example of what these stories can achieve artistically, but as a disclaimer that not everything that involves comic characters is suitable for kids to consume. (I hope this comes with a warning for parents on Disney+, frankly.)

That said, I really like the approach this episode takes to such heavy materials. Candidly, I’m a sucker for this sort of Charlie Kaufman/Michael Gondry-esque exploration of the soul material. So reimagining Marc’s past as a journey through a psych ward with abilities to revisit key childhood moments and process the lives he’s taken in impressionistic ways works like gangbusters for me. The show doesn’t pull any punches when it comes to the brutal reality of Marc’s youth, but putting it in this package ironically makes it feel more impactful and visceral than plain flashbacks might.

I also love the hippo god. The CGI is surprisingly convincing for such a mythical creature, and her general attitude of a pleased middle manager excited to have guests for the first time in a while puts Moon Knight in line with some of the prosaic weirdness of Loki. The colorful iconography of the ship of the dead sailing on the sands, the ghouls of the past climbing aboard to drag our heroes to hell, and the beauty of the “sea of reeds” stands out.

And once again, Ethan Hawke does an incredible job, making the psychiatrist version of Harrow seem chipper and demure in a way his evil tempter guise does not. (I died laughing when Steven called him Ned Flanders-esque, a thought I had when I first saw the mustachioed, bespectacled version of the series’ villain.) There continues to be a quiet menace here that's hard to put your finger on, where Harrow says things that seem and sound right, but he seems like he’s putting on a show for his own purposes somehow. There’s great ambiguity in the performance that Hawke plays just right.

In the end, there is catharsis. Marc had to deal with his past to be able to get his heart in balance, a metaphor for the way he needed to process his trauma with his mom to find peace. There is obviously one more episode, and more ground to cover, but the idea of Marc reaching heaven, even if it comes at the cost of the meeker self he created to compartmentalize his worst and most difficult feelings about his mom, is poignant.

Putting the events we’ve seen thus far in that light helps make this show finally make sense to me. This is far and away the series’ best episode to date, with a difficult but raw and imaginative look at something unthinkable in the life of a parent and child, and a means to cope with so much psychic hardship all around. There’s more to come, but this is the Rosetta stone of the series, to put it in archeological terms -- the piece that helps to comprehend so much more about what we’ve seen so far, and understand its deeper meaning.

[7.4/10] Man, there’s a lot to unpack here. But the upshot is this. This show still defaults to extended, overblown conversations between two characters, and it is just not good at them. But what it is (at least sometimes) good at is coming up with thorny moral conundrums and setting faux-meaningful montages to stirring indie pop songs, and I am here for it.

So let’s go with my favorite part of the episode -- the whole situation with Negan trying to save Lydia from a beating and accidentally killing one of the Highwaymen in the process. There’s so many great wrinkles to a pretty simple incident.

You have Lydia in between her two surrogate dads, trying to figure out how to get by in a very tricky situation. The fact that she wants to blend in, but is still treated like an outsider makes her gravitate toward Negan, who knows a thing or two about that. He tells her not to take the bullying lying down. It’s an effort to help her, but it’s almost the spark that lights up this whole conflagration. And on the other hand, you have Daryl, who’s the good dad, who wants her to striaghten up and fly right and do things the right way, while being a little naive to the realities of her situation. The devil and angel situation between them is a really interesting one, and as much as I’m come-see-come-saw about Lydia, I like this exploration of the position she’s in (even if her bullies are a bit over the top.)

But I also like the dynamic between Daryl and Negan. There’s a subtle suggestion that Daryl sees a bit of himself in Negan, wondering if the old dog has reformed and if, in that way, it means there’s something on the other side of this for Daryl himself. The scene between the two of them is tense, in the best way, and it’s one of the few one-on-one conversations that works.

It works because, as in the last episode, it calls on our heroes to balance the practical and the pragmatic. Negan was already on thin ice, and tempers have flared given the renewed threat of the Whisperers, so the community is hungry for blood and ready to take out their frustrations on an old enemy. Daryl has to balance his own appetite for justice for someone he’d probably rather see dead, with the need for law and order in the community, with the reality of an angry mob that might exact its justice one way or another, and an overarching need to protect Lydia herself.

That’s the small complication I love in this one -- Michonne’s idea that it might be Lydia’s existence within their group that’s kept the Whisperers from destroying them, making it all the more important that they protect her. It complicates the motivations and realities for everyone involved. That’s particularly potent in a situation like this one, where folks already want Negan’s head, but it’d be punishing him for his former deeds, not for the act of valor he did here in trying to save Lydia from being hurt or worse due to the actions of her mother and not herself. There’s so many worthwhile tangles to that, and I love it.

What I don’t love is making Ezekiel suicidal, giving him a long, overwritten conversation (not to mention kiss) with Michonne, and the doldrums this episode falls into in the mean time. I like the choice to explore how Ezekiel would react to losing his kingdom and losing Carol, and I like even better him commiserating with Michonne over having lost a lot and feeling the weight fall only on your own shoulders. But the kiss thing comes out of nowhere, and the dramatization of Ezekiel’s feelings are incredibly rushed, and it all falls apart and gets fixed likety split.

I have mixed feelings about Michonne’s bits in the episode apart from Ezekiel. Her conversation with Judith is a little too artificial-sounding (though Danai Gurira makes it work) and a little too neat with “L’il Asskicker” figuring out the Whisperers’ plan. But I do like the idea of Michonne being heartened despite her occasional sense of lostness by the next generation, and the joy of living and fighting with her daughter by her side.

The show tries to channel that idea, expressed by Ezekiel and Michonne, about being so lost that you’re almost ready to give up, for Magna, to pretty middling results. I’ll admit, I just don’t care about Magna, and the show hasn’t given me much of a reason to. She continues to feel like the Poochie of the newbies, but maybe they’re cooking something up interesting here with her and her partner. (I’ll admit, I did find it interesting that they had a lawyer-client relationship.)

And the fallen tree at the Hilltop is a good plot obstacle for people to have to hop over. The way it motivates Ezekiel’s mental paralysis and the newbie quintet to have to go fight walkers is solid construction, even if the show doesn't do much with either.

Overall, this episode’s a mixed bag, one that has a lot of good material involving Negan, Lydia, and Daryl in particular, untying the knot of how a new society and the threat of war and the integration of outsiders gets all jumbled together. That’s outstanding stuff which buoys the proceedings, even if it’s dragged down by out-of-nowhere stuff for Michonne and Ezekiel (two characters who haven’t interacted much), and some over the top stuff elsewhere.

[7.???/10] I love and hate this episode. I love Luke. I love Ahsoka. I love Grogu. I love Cad Bane. I like Cobb Vanth. But what the fuck are they all doing in the same episode of Book of Boba Fett? Why are we plundering the rest of the canon so severely when this show is a chance to expand it? How can Star Wars keep falling back into the same small universe problem?

And look, I’m a total hypocrite, because I gasped and cursed so loud when Cad Bane showed up in live action for the first time ever that I spooked our cat. Watching the badass bounty hunter who made his bones in The Clone Wars stalk out from the edge of the horizon, issue threats on behalf of his latest benefactors, and then get into a gunfight with Space Seth Bullock is unbelievably cool.

Would it feel as cool if I didn’t already know or appreciate Cad Bane? If my wife’s reaction is any indication, maybe a third as cool. He’s still a badass Lee Van Cleef homage with a steely gaze and one of Cory Burton’s patented scary voices. The character works here for the same reason he worked in The Clone Wars on his own terms. Dave Filoni, who directed the character in animation, now gets to direct him in live action (more or less), and shoots the whole thing like a riveting western. It’s great. I love it.

And it’s also bad news. One of the cool things about The Clone Wars is that it expanded the Star Wars Galaxy. Sure, they shoehorned in Chewbacca and Boba Fett and brought Darth Maul back from the dead. But they also widened the universe and the lore with original characters like Cad Bane and Ahsoka, or dove deeper into the identical clones of the Republic Army until they were well-rounded and full of humanity, or you know, widened the aperture of what we knew about the freakin’ Mandalorians.

This is good, or at least a lot of it is. But it feels like such fan service, much of which seems to have more to do with setting up season 3 of The Mandalorian than advancing anything of importance here.

Ashoka is probably my favorite character in all of Star Wars. From the moment she popped up in The Mandalorian, I went back and forth with my friends about whether or not she would ever run into Luke. And she does! They know each other! She guides him regarding his training temple and gives him perspective on his first student!

But the scene feels like it exists solely to play on our excitement of seeing those two characters on screen together. Ahsoka’s there with his master’s only son, and it’s an oddly flat and awkward scene. There’s a cheesy line about him being like his father, and she seems to give him a nudge about letting Grogu choose which path he wants to follow. And yet, it doesn’t have the momentousness such a meeting should. BoBF just wants to say, “Hey! These two luminaries of the franchise are having a conversation! Isn’t that cool?” and leave it at that.

Don’t get me started on the training sequences. Again, it’s neat to see Luke training someone! It was neat in The Last Jedi! Watching him as the master instead of the student is a nice flip from The Empire Strikes Back. But these scenes are unbelievably derivative of Ep. V. Luke just does the same sorts of shtick Yoda did, only slightly modified given the size disparity. He quotes his old master, uses the same sort of training ball that Obi Wan did with him, etc. etc. etc.

You can handwave some of this away. Luke was only trained by Obi Wan and Yoda, so of course he’s going to fall back on the same techniques. But the episode does nothing to show Luke growing on his own, or differentiate what and how he’s approaching this with Grogu. It’s great to channel the audience’s collective affections for Yoda here, but it’s also a cheap trick in some ways, conjuring up goodwill that George Lucas earned [gulp] forty-two years ago rather than generating some on your own.

Maybe it’s just the awkwardness of having to recreate young Luke. The digitally remade version of the character looks a lot better here than he did in season 2 of The Mandalorian. It’s trickier to pull off the sort of virtual facelift in bright lighting, but Luke looks plausible as a real human being, much as he was in Return of the Jedi, a good ninety percent of the time, which is impressive.

Occasionally, the mouth syncing is ever so slightly off, which gives you some of that uncanny valley effect, but there’s remarkable improvement from what the Favreau corner of the Star Wars Galaxy trotted out a little more than a year ago. Likewise, Mark Hamill’s voice sounds much more accurate and unmodified than it did in the other series. The problem is that his delivery is off here. Hamill is a master voice actor, so I chalk it up to either the direction or the awkwardness of how his character is done versus other performers, but so many of his lines have the same upward inflection.

His dialogue is also strikingly generic. I feel like I wrote something close to the same shtick in my sixth grade fan fiction. It’s just a regurgitation of the same Jedi bromides that scads of others in the franchise have uttered for decades now. There’s nothing new, no added insights, nothing specific to Luke and his experiences in all of this. It’s just warm broth for old souls who remember the warm feeling of watching Luke’s training and now get to enjoy it slightly remixed and reheated for their continued consumption.

I don’t know. Fanservice isn’t inherently bad. Oftentimes it works and works well on me. (See: the Cad Bane material.) But there’s something so blunt about it here, so crass even, in the way it’s deployed. I respond to it with the force of someone who’s waited to see this mix of characters interact for years, but also as someone who can feel himself being manipulated by nostalgia and recognition to prop up something with very little “there” there.

I suppose we can cross that bridge if we come to it, but god help me if they’re setting up Grogu to return to Mando in s3 of his show. Once more, you can handwave it. Ahsoka suggested he’d been through too much to be trained, even if she doesn’t get in the way of Luke’s efforts. The last two episodes have set up that maybe there’s too much of an attachment between Din Djarin and Grogu for the little guy to be able to follow the Jedi path. But I don’t like building to such an emotional climax in s2 of The Mandalorian and then seeming poised to undo it in a couple of episodes of someone else’s show.

Despite all that, I like the parts of this that feel closer the thrust of Book of Boba Fett. There’s logic to the idea that Mando would help Boba Fett, and Fett’s crew needs foot soldiers to fight the Pykes, and Mando has a connection to Cobb Vanth and the people of the newly-dubbed Freetown.

Vanth’s opening skirmish with the Pykes is badass as all hell and establishes not only his gunfighter bona fides for anyone who missed The Mandalorian, but also his disdain for the spice trade. His conversation with Mando himself is warm and wry, with good points from Mando about how the Pykes will eventually be Freetown’s problem and smart but knowing remarks from Vanth in return. And as predicted, Cad Bane showing up brings those problems to Vanth’s doorstep, putting a thumb on the other side of the scale for a reluctant Freetown to get involved with Fett’s war, but perhaps giving Vanth a personal stake in joining the fight. (I’ll believe Vanth’s dead when I see his body burning on a pyre.)

These scenes also play on characters we know and (in my case at least) like. They bolster players introduced in other series and mediums, but they also advance the cause of what’s going on here and now. They show real change in Mos Pelgo/Freetown, in Vanth, and in the relationship between him and Mando which bears out in interesting ways. In short, it uses those characters to further the story at hand and to advance them as people and figures in the broader narrative.

The scenes set on the site of Luke’s new training temple just don’t do the same. They mix and match characters from the Original Trilogy, the animated wing of Star Wars, and the key figures of the franchise’s recent live action expansion. But beyond a bit of “Gee, it’s sad for Mando and Grogu to be apart” which we already did at the end of Mando s2, it’s all empty calories, familiar motifs, and recapitulations of past successes. I like all of these characters and pieces of Star Wars past and present, but I wish the show was using that foundation to take them all to new places, rather than to reheat some well-loved leftovers and shuffle toward restoring the status quo.

It's both rather hilarious and a little disheartening to know that far and away the best episode of The Book of Boba Fett so far doesn't even feature him. Yes, for this show's hype, in reality it seems like we all just wanted a return to the classic adventures of Din Djarin and it does not disappoint. There is a lot going here thematically, narratively, and character wise, and Bryce Dallas Howard does an excellent job in the director's chair making it all fit into place. Her direction in general is stellar here, some of the best live action Star Wars has had since Rian Johnson rocked the world with TLJ. It's a slow, meditative episode too which adds to a mystique around Din as a character that this show really hasn't achieved.

It definitely helps that this is also just a wickedly good look into Din without Grogu. He's lost and reverting to old habits, and seeing that regression done in a way that still somehow works as genuine progression is very difficult to pull off. The scenes with his new ship are equally as great, and I especially love some of the throwback sequences in this that harken back the beginning of the saga. And while I hope the next episode actually does focus on Boba Fett again (we only have two episodes left which is a bit concerning), as a short detour, this was incredible stuff.

Easy recommendation for zombie-survival fans or fans of the original comic books.

Going into this episode, I knew that there was "a shocking surprise ending." So when Eugene Pontecorvo is revealed to be working with the FBI, I said to myself, "Eh, that's not that big of a twist." And then when he killed himself, I thought that had to be what I'd heard about and I said to myself "Eh, that's not that big of a twist." And then Uncle Junior shot Tony and I said, out loud this time, "What the fuck?"

Color me surprised. It was a hell of a moment. The show had spent much of this episode and the last couple of Season 5 to suggest that Tony's days might be numbered. Frank had a legitimate beef with Tony that didn't seem likely to be settled easily. Johnny Sack himself didn't seem too enamored with his New Jersey counterpart. Chris continued to run hot and cold on his uncle. Silvio openly talked about dissension in the ranks. Eugene himself seemed back into a corner with suggestions from more than one corner that he could bump off Tony, and even Vito talked about his possibly becoming the boss of the family.

Instead, it was a man with dementia who believed that he was taking out an intruder or Pussy Malenga or something along those lines in an almost random occurrence. That's often the way in this show -- when everything is looking to build to some expected confrontation, the unexpected, even mundane happens to throw it all into chaos. (See also: Richie Aprile.) There's a sense that David Chase and his colleagues are quite conscious of this episode as the beginning of the final season, with a number of callbacks to early episodes. Junior's obsession with Pussy Malenga (the guy he wanted to knock off at Vesuvio in the show's first episode), and ending up killing the nephew who stood in his way, is a nice little feint toward that opening entry, as is Tony's refrain of "it's a nursing home", in a flip on his usual response to discussion of the retirement community and his mental retcon of what happened with his mother and that pillow.

The episode also draws a number of contrasts between Tony and Eugene, and in a larger sense, between the Sopranos and the rest of the world. Tony and Carmela are enjoying sushi every night and buying expensive cars as apologies. Other folks are feeling the pinch. Even Eugene, who inherits 2 million, can't get away. In many ways it's an episode about the big guy and the little guy. Tony can throw his weight around, he can make choices, live lavishly, at the expense of those around and affected by him. Eugene, even with money, doesn't have power, and that means that everyone from Tony to the FBI can toss him around without his having any say in the matter.

It's also about that difference between money and freedom. When Carmela shows up to Ginny Sack's home, ostensibly for a spa day, but mostly to show off her new porsche while Ginny is having money trouble because of her husband's indictment, it's a little more of the haves rubbing their success in the noses of the have-nots. But when she tries the same with Angie Bumpensero, and Angie reveals that she bought herself a corvette instead, Carmela is taken aback, and is again reminded that her wealth does not give her the independence she once so sorely sought.

And there's also an idea of death as the great leveler, no matter how low your are on the totem pole or how high you've climbed. When Eugene hangs himself, the camera doesn't cut away to spare us his suffering. Instead, it lingers, and the audience sees Eugene kicking frantically, gasping for air, until he finally collapses after a few final twitches. It's incredibly uncomfortable to watch, but underscores the unpleasantness of his position that this is preferable to going on. But then the show pulls the same trick once more. A different show might have ended simply on Junior shooting Tony and Tony collapsing to the ground. Instead, it stays with Tony as he agonizingly pulls himself across the room, struggles and strains to dial 9-1-1, before passing out from blood loss. Tony and Eugene may be at different stations in life, but when it comes to the throes of death, the type of suffering that may be visited upon a person, Tony's money and power can't stop it anymore than Eugene can.

This is an honest, spoiler-free review coming from your average fan (not a critic):

I just saw this new marvel film, and I have to say... it's no where near as bad as the critics make it out to be.

Yes there is a lot of dialogue. But it gives the characters a chance to shine and for scenes to breathe.
People call this film dense. I would disagree. Yes there is a fair bit of plot and history told, however I would say that other mcu films have simply much simpler plotlines most of the time.

There are moments when things are just about to become exciting, and then it is interrupted with more dialogue which instantly kills the suspension.

There are a number of plot twists in this film, and some unexpected things happen that I wouldn't have seen coming.

This film has a slow burn, but sometimes that's a good thing. Would I have liked more action? Yes. Was I unhappy with the action we do get? No.

I will admit, going into this film I was expecting a masterpiece, and while I wouldn't quite call it that, its definitely a well-made film, marvel or not.

Oh. And expect to have to do some reading at the very beginning. Kinda reminds me of a classic Star Wars opening crawl.

[7.1/10] I think “Stranger in a Strange Land” might have had more impact if we didn’t have The Mandalorian. There’s plenty of places to go with The Book of Boba Fett, new directions for the series to take apart from what’s come before. But the fact of the matter is, if we wanted to see a taciturn badass in Mandalorian armor traipsing through the desert and kicking butt, we’ve already had two seasons of it. The return of the franchise’s original T-helmeted bounty hunter feels like old hat when it offers more of the same.

That said, I like The Mandalorian, its approach, and it’s aesthetic, so I’m not really complaining. But it leaves the return and first live action starring role for one of Star Wars’ signature characters feel like just another installment in an ongoing meta series of live action shows set in this world rather than the momentous event it wants to be.

Still, there’s some worthwhile stuff here. While a little generic, Boba Fett trying to rule Jabba’s old crime empire with “respect” rather than “fear” and running afoul of other local interests is a decent premise. The dynamic between him and Fennec Shand is a good one, and the hance to get to learn a little more about the underworld of Tatooine and Mos Espa is intriguing.

Likewise, the flashbacks we get to Boba’s life after escaping from the Sarlacc pit in Return of the Jedi are a little rote, but have their moments. The choice to put him with the Tusken Raiders is interesting, because it basically guarantees a set of sequences with minimal dialogue. Episodes in this corner of the STar Wars Galaxy have focused on visual storytelling as much as on conveying plot and character through conversations, so ti leads with a strength f or writer Jon Favreau and the production team.

That said, the visuals aren't perfect. IT’s natural for a desert-set episode, but there’s a wash of undifferentiated beige to everything. The makeup and production design team does do a good job with Fett’s sun-baked skin and the various physical creatures involved. But we also get some janky-looking CGI creations in the form of the young Tusken’s guard dog massiff and a six-armed lizard beast who our hero goes toe-to-toe with in the episode’s climax. Frankly, there’s a Prequel-esque unreality to those creatures which doesn’t bode well.

Still, there’s something to be said for Boba being stripped of his armor by Jawas (linking up with the continuity of The Mandalorian) and having to hack it as a warrior and worthwhile ally amid a different culture. The story beats are a little well-worn, but there’s something there.

That’s how I feel about this episode as a whole. None of it’s bad, it’s just a little played out. Boba Fett was always more of a cool costume than a character. The Prequels deepened a little with an ironically generic “You killed my father!” backstory, and he got a little more color in the Star Wars: The Clone Wars animated series, but he’s mostly a blank slate. The Book of Boba Fett has the tall task of taking an iconic character and filling in the details in a way to make us care about him beyond that “cool action figure” status.

The show’s opening salvo is a little duller, a little less engaging than you might hope for from the team that brought us The Mandalorian. I’d rather see Star Wars Television branch out more, give us more diverse setups and settings than something that scans as more of the same. But Favreau and company have gotten good at delivering this particular brand of sand-worn action and quasi-silent film approach, so the same is solid, even if it’s not great.

[8.7/10] Something about the Favreau branch of Star Wars feels so true to the franchise’s roots. There’s a continual sense that both The Mandalorian and *The Book of Boba Fett are throwbacks to the same sort of pulp storytelling that once inspired George Lucas. Favreau and the creative team behind this show are far from the first to do a Dances with Wolves-style tale of an outsider being taken in by, and eventually becoming a part of, a group of indingenious people. But the modern, fantastical reimagining of the idea works so well within Star Wars given that history of the stories told within this setting.

There’s nothing fancy or especially novel about Boba becoming a part of the Tusken tribe who initially captured him, finding common cause with them, and aiding them in the struggle against their aggressors. The story beats here are as well-worn as the sand-smacked tents the tribe takes with them. But the rendition of them is so good, the emotion and visual grammar and production design so committed, that you feel for it all nonetheless.

The show remains laconic, but the images tell the story here. We see the progression of Boba learning how to wield a Tusken staff, as his skill grows under the tutelage of the Badass Tusken in Black (or “BTIB” for short). We see him witness the loss of life and senseless devastation at the hands of a passing train of criminals shooting at the locals for sport. We watch him saunter into a biker bar and smash up the culprits so he can take their vehicles and use it for a greater cause. And we watch him continue this cultural exchange, showing his benefactors how to use the bike at the same time they teach him how to fend for himself amid this desolation. There’s a given-and-take, a growing mutual respect and admiration between Boba and his new compatriots, that needs few words to come across the transom for us to feel it.

It crescendos into one hell of a set piece. I don’t know what it is about action sequences set on trains, but they almost always work. (See also: Samurai Jack, The Wolverine, even Solo.) There’s excitement here not just because of the uptempo vibe and the exquisite production design and effects, (Seriously, that multi-armed train conductor droid is the most Star Wars thing I’ve seen in forever), but because it’s the culmination of the montage where Boba shows his friends how to leap from the speeders, of the BTIB proving his prowess is not just academic but also effective in combat, of Boba himself paying back these people who’ve suffered so much by turning the tables on those who slaughter them so callously.

There’s a real resonance in having a man of Maori descent like Temura Morrison star in a story of indigenous people reclaiming their ancestral lands from aggressors. For so long, the Tuskens have been treated as faceless, half-feral antagonists. Seeing them not only treated with such a humanizing gaze here, but put front and center in a tale of casting off the shackles of people who disrespect their land and treat them as disposable, is arguably a major breakthrough for Star Wars.

Granted, the vision quest is a bit of a cliche with its own problems, but that too has a long history in Star Wars. The way Boba Fett flashes back to key moments in his life as he finds the branch for his own staff adds a sense of spirituality to the proceedings. (Though it’d be nice if they found a way to incorporate a few of his adventures from Star Wars: The Clone Wars into those scenes.) Star Wars, at least in its original form, was a very tactile presentation. Taking time to show Boba being dressed by his new compatriots, the labor that goes into his staff, gives it extra meaning and a sense of rousing achievement when he walks out in his new clothes, or gets the nod from the BITB, having become a full member of the tribe through what he’s given back to it. The story there is simple, but by god is it effective.

The plot we get to see in the present isn’t nearly as moving, but is certainly intriguing. The presence of two twin Hutts, who turn out to be Jabba’s cousins, seeking to reclaim what they view as their territory, portends and interesting power struggle. (And the fact that they have a badass Wookiee bounty hunter in tow only adds to the cool factor.) We finally meet The Mayor, an Ithorian who seems crafty and a player in his own right (who seems to have a bounty hunter type of his own). And watching Boba and Fennec banter while making the captured assassin-for-hire squirm and talk is a hoot. There’s more table-setting than actual progression in the present-set part of the episode, but they’re doing enough to hold my interest.

Overall, the flashback story is masterful enough to make up for any sense of incompleteness in the latter day developments. It’s a return to pulp storytelling, done chiefly through intriguing visuals and setting-specific flourishes that make them Star Wars’ own. That’s in keeping with the approach that once elevated the franchise so many years ago, while also evolving it through the new treatment and exploration of the Tuskens here. It’s a wonderful tribute to what Star Wars has been, also what it could be.

(As an aside, it’s neat to see the Pykes unmasked and tangled with here. I wonder if they’re still affiliated with Maul and/or Dryden Vos.)

Recently, I read this interview with Kevin Feige where he said that the Academy Awards have a bias against Marvel movies.
If you ever wonder why that is, look no further than the first 20 minutes of this episode.
You get this long 10 minute scene between Pugh and Steinfeld which hits a lot of important emotional beats for the plot, and the writing is actually not too bad.
Sure you have Pugh doing that awful Russian accent again, and Hailee Steinfeld’s making weird faces as if she’s Kate McKinnon in an SNL skit, but that’s besides the point.
Look specifically at how they shoot it.
Besides the bland looking apartment, you cannot shoot such an important and lengthy scene doing nothing besides shots and reverse shots and then expect to get an Oscar (or in this case Emmy) for it.
It is literally the laziest and most uninspired way to approach a scene like that.
So, what do they do to mask the poor filmmaking and weak story choices (because let’s face it, Marvel has once again put out something with a messy and unfocussed plot)?
Just take a quick look at some of the other comments, and you’ll get the idea.
It’s like they’re dangling a ball in front of a cat, and it’s kinda embarrassing to see how effective that is.

We were gonna reach a boiling point for Clint and Kate at some point, and having it here is probably the smartest choice they could have made. While not a lot of progress is made on the overarching mystery (outside of confirming some small details), the real treat is all of the strong, strong character work being done here for pretty much the entire cast. Clint in particular I think stands out here as the real treat - the PTSD of his time as Ronin, as well as the death of Natasha, still cast a shadow over the entire series and I love how the show is making that the main emotional hook for him to overcome here.

Just as interesting too is how the show continues to handle Kate, whose naive attitude towards crimefighting and lack of planning is starting to really backfire. The final argument that occurs, a hot kettle of these two opposing arcs clashing with each other, really works because of that, and the action scene that proceeds it - which features a wonderful four way battle including a really great surprise - uses that backdrop for strong emotional beats and great choreography. Cinematography is aces as well here. Still absolutely in love with Hawkeye, and with two episodes left to go I'm eagerly awaiting what they have next.

[8.4/10] The Matrix plays different to me now than when I was a teenager, which is as it should be. The philosophy that blew my mind in middle school seems a little rote as an adult. The omnipresence of dialing phones as the bridge to cyberspace feels a bit quaint. And the dark heart beneath the prosperity and anti-authoritarian/conformity speeches seem a little outdated when more of that dark heart has been on display in modern society and we’re more worried about unseen pockets of hate that metastasized on the internet than we are about the web as a mean to strike back against the system.

And yet, The Matrix still “slaps”, a word that is appropriately du jour now but likely to become passe in twenty years. While the film’s approach to special effects and adoption of wire-fu became so influential that it became ubiquitous, there is still such tension in every set piece. While the film’s questioning of what counts as reality and choice and control feels a little freshman philosophy class, this is still a film with something on its mind. And the premise of a boundless digital world, controlled by A.I., after our old one was brought down by our own hand, is still enough to power a film like this.

Those factors, and the unmitigated style oozing out of every frame, make The Matrix just as memorable, if not necessarily as deep, when returning to the film twenty years later. The story, which I once found compelling, if not outright inspiring as a teenager, feels a little rote now. Maybe it’s just that we’ve had beaucoup chosen one stories since then, but the whole “you’re him, Neo” routine comes off much more staid and standard when your movie is sandwiched between Luke Skywalker and Buffy Summers on one side, and Aang and Harry Potter on the other.

What’s more, The Matrix is mostly one big long introduction. In an odd way, it feels a lot like a phase one Marvel Cinematic Universe film, where it’s devoted as much to establishing the main character of a soon-to-be franchise as it is telling a plot-driven story from start to finish. Most of the film’s runtime is about what The Matrix is, what happened to lead humanity to this place, and a lot of exposition and ruminations on the nature of experience and truth beyond any full blown narrative developments. We basically get Neo being brought into the Matrix, learning about “The One” and then, in the last half hour of the film, the plot obstacles actually pile up. It’s a personal journey or a pilot more than a full-fledged story on its own.

Beyond that, the acting seems far shakier as an adult than it did when I was a kid. Keanu Reeves’s lines in the film became the stuff of memes before memes were really a thing. While occasionally grazing profundity, the script is full of action movie one-liners and platitudes than even the more seasoned performers have trouble making sound convincing at times. And even Hugo Weaving, whose mannered performance is one of the most memorable in the film, feels like he verges into Shatner-ing at times.

And yet, those elements, which would sink most films in my estimation, are more than counterbalanced by the aesthetic brilliance, the intense fights, the unmitigated style, and yes, the thoughtfulness baked into an otherwise standard “he is the chosen one” tale. It’s striking on rewatch how much of The Matrix is about choice. There are some strong themes about mental liberation, about what we perceive versus what is real, and the way that what we believe informs what we’re willing to see and experience. But choice is at the core of the film’s ethos, about deciding what kind of person you want to be, what kind of future you want to have, despite fate or destiny or predetermination, that permeates the film and emerges in monologues from both the good guys and bad guys.

Plus, it’s just a damn imaginative and durable premise. The Matrix was not the first work to prophesize a digital world, or an omnipresent artificial intelligence, or virtual reality as a refuge from a battered real world. But the film combines all of these elements into a setup that works, with infinite possibilities that can spring from it. As much time as the script spends establishing how things got to this point and what the rules of this universe are, it’s compelling just to learn more about this setting and see its limits and possibilities dramatized before the actual conflict kicks in. Frankly, I’m shocked that, despite the polarizing reaction to this film’s sequels, we haven’t had a reboot or reimagining or late sequel based on the potential to reuse this film’s premise alone.

But even if the premise wasn’t as good as it is, even if the film didn’t have more on its mind than the average actioner, the visuals and direction alone are enough to make it worth giving The Matrix another spin. While some of the CGI doesn't pass the eye test as well in 2019, the writer/director Wachowskis still make all those groundbreaking skirmishes stunning whether or not you can see the seams. Beyond the famed bullet time sequences, which still stand up today, the fight scenes are directed, blocked, and edited almost perfectly. There’s enough cuts to liven up the shot selection, but we get to see enough sustained combat and movement to understand the geography of the showdowns and believe our heroes as masters of their trade. There’s a lot of borrowing going on here from East Asian films that use the same approach, but the Wachowskis deploy it masterfully. The use of the virtual setting and the longer cuts amid the fireworks help find the middle ground between the impossible and the believable that makes Neo and Morpheus and Trinity’s battles so damn captivating.

At the same time, there’s just oodles of style in this thing. There’s the obvious washed out green sheen to everything, an omnipresent color grading that signifies sci-fi dystopia before we’re two steps into the film. The black leather, monochromatic aesthetic feels timeless, with distinct looks for even the more short-lived members of Morpheus’s crew. And the larger than life actions by our heroes and villains -- impossible firefights, wall-walking evasions, daredevil leaps -- are all done with the right amount of slow motion, musical accompaniment, and virtuosity to make the crew of the Nebuchadnezzar seem like the coolest people in the world, whether you’re 13 or 30.

The Matrix isn’t a film with a powerhouse plot or indelible performances (give or take Laurence Fishburne) or deeply-sketched characters. It’s a film with high-minded themes, an outstanding setup, and unbelievable action and aesthetics that elevate beyond less successful fare and make it a stone cold classic. It may not rock my world the same way it did when I was a teenager, but even today, the film is enough to get my blood-pumping at the same time it gets me thinking. That combination lets the film soar even after its innovations have become commonplace, because nobody’s quite topped the Wachowskis in their ability to marry top notch, jaw-dropping action with general audience appropriate but still thought-provoking ideas.

[7.6/10] I like that in some ways, this was a Karli Morgenthau episode. She’s been our antagonist, if not quite our villain, for a while now, so it’s nice to get an episode that delves deeply into both her motives and methods. While her conversation with Sam is a little on the nose, it also does a good job of illustrating why the Flag Smashers want to go back to how things were during The Blip: a sense of displacement, not just of people but of the border-crossing communities that formed in the wake of a world rent in twain. Sam doesn’t agree with those aims, just how she goes about achieving them, and it makes us understand her position better too.

It’s also a good episode for super soldier serum fans. We see meditations on the reason why folks would and wouldn’t want to take it. Karli and her crew take it to empower people otherwise lacking in it. Zemo smashes vials of the serum on sight on the principle that wanting to make more super powered individuals is inherently supremacist. Sam professes, without hesitation, that he wouldn’t take it if offered, even if we don’t get to hear his reasons. And John feels his limitations as a simple physically gifted mortal, and decides he needs to have those extra abilities to be able to measure up.

It’s a telling development for Walker, and a good episode for him too. It’s not exactly flattering for the character, but we see more of his presumptuousness (this time with the Dora Milaje -- it goes about as well as you’d think), but also his insecurity. He wants to do this right, and doesn’t understand why it doesn’t come easy to him like so much else has. We see his temper and impatience, not to mention his propensity to default to violence, which makes it scary if the dearly departed Battlestar is right and the serum magnifies who you already are, then the blood-stained shield he holds in vengeance as the episode’s cuts to the credits is a bad portent.

We also get some good Bucky material here. There’s some great non-verbal acting from Sebastian Stan in the opening sequence, where we see glimpses of his slow but meaningful recovery in Wakanda from his horrible brainwashing. His back and forth with the Dora Milaje is powerful in its intensity and his standing up to John Walker is potent, especially when Walker lays on the guilt trip. Hell, even the simple facial expression he takes on when a member of the Dora Milaje detaches his arm is pretty damn impressive.

Zemo is also a blast here. I love him as an agent of chaos, one who isn’t afraid to slip out unnoticed whenever possible and has a blasé attitude to various parties trying to arrest and re-imprison him. There’s a droll-yet-principled quality to him which, backed by Daniel Bruhl’s performance, makes him a real treat of a presence.

And not for nothing, it’s a good Sam episode too. As I said, his conversation with Karli is a potent one, and it’s particularly telling that his default is to at least try to get through to his foe, to understand where they’re coming from and aim to deescalate the situation, whereas Walker just wants to come in and punch things. Even when Karli threatens his sister, he’s angry and tense, and even shows up in his battlesuit, but doesn’t take violence as a first option. Another sign of his worthiness to succeed Steve, in spirit, if not in the mantle.

Overall, there’s some big time plot developments here, but the big thing that stood out to me was the character work. I’m willing to forgive a lot of janky plot material (which this episode definitely had some of), if I buy the characters and their relationships, and The Falcon and the WInter Soldier is delivering on that front.

Ignoring the first aired episode (the Christmas special) and bearing in mind that the series ought to be started off with what ended to be episode 13, Homer's Odyssey is the first episode that enlarges the Simpsons universe. We not only get new characters introduced (such as the twins Sherri and Terri, Chief Wiggum or Otto Man, the school bus driver), but with the class field trip we also visit the power plant the first time, Blinky can be seen and we learn that Bart really want's a tattoo (which he actually got in the eight first episode). Also interesting: In this episode Smithers is black for the first and only time.*

Besides this, after the last one being Bart-centric, this one's Homer-centric, and not only shows the heights but also the depths that Homer can go through (e.g. by stealing Barts piggy-bank or trying to kill himself).

Even though I like the general idea of the episode, overall I didn't have too much fun with that episode. The jokes are rather dull and uninspired, who hasn't seen jokes like someone on the way to kill himself complaining about something else that could have killed him on the way? And in the end I really disliked the spinelessness with which Homer is shown at the end of the episode, knowing the disappointment he will cause. While the message is still clear and valid (i.e. most peoples integrity has a price tag), I just felt that in this episode it was a bit to dully conveyed.

So in the end, waying in positives and negatives, again I have to say that this episode holds the balance, ending up with 5/10 points.

*) PS: Again some trivia fact: If you ever wondered why: The coloring wasn't decided by the creators and story tellers, but the coloring department could decide themselves and did so randomly when it came to skin color. They felt like Smithers being black; however, character-wise it was clear that Smithers would have an psychopathic personality with an homoerotic component towards Mr. Burns; and they not only felt that the color choice in this case would not only ruin the personality they've planed for Smithers but also be a bit to much that was unloaded on Smithers. Thus the change.