Hustlers was meant to be a film about female empowerment. And it was, to a certain extent. I expected and wanted this to be a kickass and complex film of sexy women who use their confidence, skills, and wits towards a brilliant plan to get revenge on the Wall Street guys who wronged them.
Netflix’s new comedy drama, Don’t Say Good Luck, is a heartwarming tearjerker as well as a love letter to the transformative power of being a theater kid. Directed by Julia Hart, Don’t Say Good Luck follows Sophie (Sunny Sandler), a theater kid who finally gets the lead role in her school’s production of Waitress - just as she finds out her mom Elizabeth (Melanie Lynskey) is dying of cancer. While the singing is by no means spectacular and Sandler’s acting is stiff, the film is grounded in the moving performance of Lynskey as a mother who wants nothing more than for her daughter to achieve her dreams, even if she can’t be there to see them.
With This is Us now on its fifth season and A Million Little Things on its third, we have a lot of material to entertain the hypothetical: if these two shows got in the ring together, who would come out victorious? Despite the endless recognition for the former’s success, I dare say I’d put my money on A Million Little Things once all is said and done.
Despite its aggressiveness, the Beef anthology series is about romantic love in all its forms. The final scene of the first season led us to believe that, despite the conflict, drama, and toxic traits, the main characters would end up together and, most likely, live happily ever after. The whole “beef” plot was the prelude to their love story.
The Last Son of Krypton returns as the kind-hearted, blue-eyed boy scout we all know and love.
Him is visually stunning—all concrete cathedrals and bone-rattling impact shots that look like a nightmare highlight reel. Marlon Wayans is magnetic as this legendary quarterback who's basically selling salvation with a smile that never quite reaches his eyes. But the story keeps running in circles: more tests, more cryptic pep talks, more ritualistic drills. The sports-as-religion metaphor beats you over the head when subtlety would've been more effective. The middle drags, and that finale chooses spectacle over substance. It's undeniably stylish, but left me cold. Also worth noting: despite the Monkeypaw connection, this isn't actually a Jordan Peele film—he didn't write or direct.
