Nathaniel Avila

Picture this: Christmas Eve, Tokyo, three homeless pals stumble upon a wailing, abandoned baby in the trash. Sounds like the setup for a gritty crime thriller, right? Nope! It's actually one of the most unexpectedly heartwarming, ridiculous, and strangely beautiful movies ever made about misfits just trying to make it through the holidays. Satoshi Kon somehow took a trio of chaotic characters—a grumpy alcoholic, a trans woman with a heart bigger than Tokyo, and a runaway teenage girl—and made them feel like your new best friends after only 90 minutes. These three wise “men” stumble through an absurd cityscape that feels like Tokyo on holiday-season steroids, encountering everyone from gangster debt collectors to sketchy cab drivers to literal divine intervention (okay, maybe it’s just coincidences, but I’m choosing to believe there’s Christmas magic here). The movie is a rollercoaster of mishaps, heartfelt confessions, and moments of pure, unhinged luck that feel like they were orchestrated by a drunk guardian angel who’s just winging it. And don't even get me started on the miracle of a chase scene with a baby in tow—I'm pretty sure I held my breath for a solid five minutes. What makes _Tokyo Godfathers_ so special is that it juggles the comedy of screwball situations with real, honest portrayals of people often overlooked by society. Kon doesn’t romanticize the struggles of homelessness or push a preachy agenda. Instead, he lets these misfits shine in their messiness, desperation, and genuine humanity. By the time the credits roll, you’re somehow both laughing and ugly crying over the fate of this absurd found family. And if a movie can make you believe in Christmas miracles and make you laugh out loud in the same breath, well, that’s a holiday classic in my book.

Oh boy. *Christmas Evil* is like if Santa took a sharp left turn off the North Pole and right into the deep end of “What were they thinking?” This movie wants to be a psychological thriller about a man’s descent into holiday-fueled madness, but what it really delivers is 90 minutes of off-brand Santa giving everyone the creeps. Our lead, Harry, has the intensity of a man who looks like he eats candy canes *whole,* plastic wrapper and all. Watching him get angrier and angrier about people not respecting Christmas is less scary and more like watching your weird uncle rant at the family dinner table about “the true meaning of the holidays.” The pacing? Slower than a one-horse open sleigh stuck in molasses. Harry doesn’t actually start doing anything “evil” until well over halfway through the film. Up until then, we’re treated to an endless parade of him peering through binoculars at neighborhood kids, spying on co-workers, and obsessively keeping lists of who’s “naughty” and “nice” like a deranged Walmart Santa with a grudge. When he finally goes full Santa-slasher, the kills are bafflingly sparse and lackluster. For a movie titled *Christmas Evil,* you’d expect more…well, *evil*. Instead, he mostly just looks confused, shuffling around in a costume that looks like it was borrowed from a local theater production of *A Christmas Carol.* But, in a weird way, *Christmas Evil* is almost so bad it’s good. There’s something genuinely entertaining about how earnestly the movie tries to sell this deranged holiday spirit as both tragic and terrifying. Instead, it’s just awkward, with random musical cues and baffling edits that make it feel like a fever dream of a Christmas nightmare. It’s not scary, it’s not heartwarming, and it’s definitely not a holiday classic, but if you’re looking for an accidental comedy that’s equal parts unsettling and unintentionally hilarious, *Christmas Evil* might just be the lump of coal you’re looking for.

Anna Kendrick saw the true crime genre, rolled up her sleeves, and said, 'Hold my kombucha.' Woman of the Hour is somehow both chilling and hilarious, like if Dateline and The Office had a baby and dropped it on a game show set in the 1970s. Picture it: you’re a serial killer, doing what serial killers do, and suddenly you're smack in the middle of a brightly lit dating show with your teeth sparkling and disco music blaring. Kendrick takes this insane, true-crime setup and delivers it with both suspense and the kind of awkward humor that reminds you why she’s not just an acting triple threat but also somehow the best friend we all wish we had. Honestly, I didn’t know if I should laugh or keep my door locked for the next three days. Daniel Zovatto’s Rodney Alcala is terrifyingly convincing as he oozes charm in that 'should we run or should we laugh?' way. And Kendrick as Cheryl Bradshaw? Perfectly naive, quirky, and 'I made an oopsie by picking a serial killer' kind of vibe. Also, how is this her directorial debut? It’s like she’s been quietly studying Hitchcock, true crime podcasts, and 1970s fashion catalogs on the side. The suspense hits hard, but Kendrick’s got that light touch, balancing out the horror with just enough comedy that you don’t quite lose your faith in humanity… but you definitely side-eye anyone who’s a little too charming. This is the rom-com crime thriller I didn’t know I needed but now can't stop thinking about. The cinematography? On point, like a vintage Polaroid come to life. The soundtrack? Funky and fabulous, somehow making you feel like you're dancing on the edge of danger. Woman of the Hour is the best reminder that sometimes, truth is stranger (and way more unsettling) than fiction. Kendrick, you've outdone yourself. Now, please, no more TV dating shows for any of us. Ever.

Ah, “The Silent Partner,” where the stakes are high, the heists are clever, and the performances are surprisingly engaging for a film that feels like it’s been hiding in the shadows for far too long. The premise is simple: a bank teller, played by the ever-charming Elliott Gould, discovers a robbery scheme and decides to turn the tables. It’s a decent mix of suspense and dark humor that keeps you entertained, though at times it feels like it’s auditioning for a role in a ‘70s crime anthology that never quite got picked up. The film does have its moments—like when we watch Gould outsmart a psychopathic bank robber (a delightfully sinister Christopher Plummer). The interactions are quirky, and the banter occasionally rises to the level of witty repartee. Yet, for every nail-biting moment, there's a scene that makes you scratch your head and wonder if the filmmakers were just winging it. The pacing is inconsistent, which keeps you guessing whether it’s a heist thriller or a rather odd slice-of-life film about a bank teller who has way too much time on his hands. All in all, “The Silent Partner” is a solid three-and-a-half stars on the Letterboxd scale. It’s got a little bit of everything—comedy, crime, and an oddly endearing sense of chaos. While it may not become a classic, it’s certainly worth a watch for those who appreciate a good plot twist and some old-school cinematic charm. Just don’t expect to be on the edge of your seat the entire time; it’s more of a comfy couch affair with a side of popcorn and mild confusion.

Alright, *Cash on Demand* is like a really good cup of instant coffee—solid enough, but you're not exactly reaching for it on a special occasion. This little British thriller from 1961 isn’t going to blow your mind, but it’s weirdly satisfying in its own polite way. Think Scrooge meets *Die Hard* but with none of the explosions, set in a bank that looks like it was made from leftover props from *A Christmas Carol*. Peter Cushing as the Scrooge-y bank manager really sells it. He’s fussy, fastidious, and an absolute stickler for rules. If you’ve ever wanted to see what a British banker would look like under a semi-polite but relentless robbery, this is the movie for you. Andre Morell as the 'charming but menacing' villain is like a classy bulldog in a three-piece suit, and he brings a kind of mischievous tension to the whole thing. He strolls in, takes over, and suddenly the quiet little bank becomes the scene of a perfectly controlled heist that’s as much a battle of wills as it is a robbery. No one’s rushing around or yelling here—it's all stiff upper lip and veiled threats. The movie’s so civilized it almost feels rude to call it a thriller. It’s more like a slightly tense afternoon tea where you’re never really sure if someone’s about to lose their temper or pass the biscuits. But, let’s be honest, the thrills here are a little *too* subtle. The stakes feel more like a stern warning than actual danger, and there’s a sense that the whole thing could’ve been settled with a strongly worded letter to HR. The black-and-white cinematography has that charming early ’60s British austerity vibe, which is fine, but it also makes the 80-minute runtime feel like it's a bit more of a slow burn than it probably should be. So, 3.5 stars for giving us a cozy, low-key crime thriller with a mild-mannered bite. It’s the cinematic equivalent of watching your prim uncle get mildly exasperated, but hey, that’s strangely entertaining in its own way.

*Bell, Book, and Candle* is like ordering a fancy cocktail that looks amazing but turns out to be all garnish and no kick. Sure, we get the perfect setup with Kim Novak as a sultry witch casting spells on Jimmy Stewart, and we’re treated to 1950s New York vibes with all the jazz clubs and smoky eyeshadow a person could ask for. But the whole thing just never really…catches fire. It’s enjoyable, it’s atmospheric, but somewhere around the third time they zoom in on Novak’s sultry stare, you start wondering if they’ll just skip to the big witchy showdown that never actually arrives. Kim Novak is effortlessly enchanting, but Jimmy Stewart looks confused for most of it—like he's genuinely worried he’s stumbled onto the wrong movie set. It’s a little hard to buy their chemistry when she’s serving otherworldly siren energy and he’s bringing his classic “gee whiz” small-town guy routine. And don’t even get me started on Jack Lemmon as the bongos-playing warlock brother. He’s fun, but he feels like he's in a completely different movie. Watching the three of them interact is kind of like being at a party where everyone showed up in a different costume for a theme no one clarified. In the end, *Bell, Book, and Candle* is an entertaining spell that leaves you with a bit of a shrug. The movie has charm (just not the kind that actually stirs the pot) and it’s visually spellbinding, but you won’t be howling at the moon. It’s more of a playful purr, a cozy Halloween flick you watch while half-paying attention and sipping on mulled wine. Enjoyable? Absolutely. Magical? Only slightly.

Look, I didn’t expect Shakespeare, but I also didn’t expect *Scooby-Doo: Paranormal Family Edition.* It feels like someone took the *Insidious* franchise, wrapped it in a red door metaphor, and shoved it into an overlong therapy session no one asked for. Patrick Wilson is out here doing his best ‘I’m emotionally distant but maybe possessed’ face for 90 minutes, while the script whispers, ‘remember trauma? That’s spooky.’ Spoiler: it's not. It's just...sad. The jump scares are basically *'boo'* on a budget—like they hired the Walmart version of the Further. It’s 80% hallway shots and weird dream logic that makes you question if *you’re* possessed by boredom. Every ghost encounter feels like it could be solved with a little daylight and maybe a Xanax. And don’t get me started on the art school subplot. Nothing screams ‘high-stakes horror’ like "Your painting isn't emotionally raw enough, son." Truly chilling. Overall, the scariest thing about this movie is realizing you paid for it. There’s a scene where a door opens slowly and honestly, I felt that—because my soul was leaving the theater at the same speed. If you’re looking for a good horror movie, maybe walk through a different door. This one's stuck, creaky, and probably leads to the bathroom at a gas station.

Look, I went into *Uglies* hoping for some brainless YA dystopian fun, but holy hell, this movie is like if *The Hunger Games*, *Divergent*, and *The Host* had a disappointing group project and all forgot to do the work. How do you make a movie about turning people pretty and end up with some of the ugliest CGI and acting choices I’ve seen all year? It’s like Netflix went, “We need a new exclusive this week... doesn't matter what.” And voila! *Uglies* was born, with the visual aesthetic of a YouTube makeup tutorial filmed on a potato. Joey King is doing her best, but you can see the existential crisis brewing behind her eyes—like, you *know* she’s regretting signing on as both lead and executive producer. Every plot twist felt like it was slapped together during a Starbucks meeting at 2 AM. Why is the villain's grand evil plan... making everyone hot but boring? I’ve been to corporate retreats with more menace. And don’t even get me started on the emotional moments. They hit about as hard as a wet sock to the face, and the dialogue? Sounded like AI trying to simulate teen angst after listening to TikToks for 20 minutes. The only redeeming quality of this film was the sweet, sweet relief of the credits. I’ve seen better special effects in *Sharknado*, and the themes of conformity and inner beauty were about as deep as a kiddie pool. At least *Divergent* had some decent explosions—this movie gave me nothing but secondhand embarrassment. Save yourself two hours of your life and go watch paint dry; I promise it’ll be a more transformative experience than Uglies.

This is the cinematic equivalent of catching a butterfly and then realizing it was probably a ghost all along. Watching this movie feels like wandering through a dream someone forgot to finish—a mix of fairy tales, existential dread, and "what even is childhood?" vibes. It’s slow, sure, but in that hypnotic way where every shot looks like it was painted by someone who once hugged a haunted doll. Little Ana Torrent gives the kind of performance that makes you wonder if she was just a really wise 7-year-old, or if she unlocked a portal to the collective melancholy of all humanity. Either way, kid's an icon. Plot? Barely. But atmosphere? Oh baby, it’s *thicc.* Bees are a loose metaphor (I think?), Frankenstein is suddenly relevant, and at some point, you start questioning whether you ever really understood what honey was. It’s a movie that seems to be about the Spanish Civil War without ever raising its voice about it. Just haunting silences, moody landscapes, and the existential kind of loneliness that makes you want to hug a pillow for the rest of your life. But somehow, it’s also kind of hopeful—like realizing you’ll never fully understand life but maybe that's okay as long as there’s still light flickering in the distance. In conclusion, this is one of those films that makes you feel smarter just for sitting through it, but not in a pretentious way. It’s more like, “Yeah, the bees symbolize something, but let’s not get weird about it.” Would recommend pairing with a cup of tea and a vague feeling of unease about your childhood.

*“What is a ghost? A tragedy doomed to repeat itself…”* Well, I for one am absolutely doomed to re-watch *The Devil’s Backbone* over and over again. Guillermo del Toro takes a gothic ghost story, sprinkles it with some political allegory, and makes sure it’s wrapped in melancholia like a sad burrito. Set in an orphanage during the Spanish Civil War, this movie asks the hard questions, like: "What’s scarier—haunted children or Franco’s regime?" (Spoiler: it’s a close call.) The film oozes atmosphere from every scene. The orphanage feels as alive as the characters, with its dusty halls, dripping cisterns, and an unexploded bomb that just *casually* sits in the courtyard, as if to say, “Nothing to see here, folks!” The ghost of Santi, with his cracked porcelain face and floating blood mist, is equal parts tragic and terrifying—like Casper’s goth cousin who listens to Radiohead. Seriously, if Santi floated up to me at night whispering, “Many of you will die,” I’d just say, “Okay, but can I Venmo you for therapy?” The story feels both intimate and epic, somehow combining ghosts, trauma, and betrayal into a film that feels like a beautifully sad lullaby. It’s a love letter to childhood fears and unresolved grief—because if there’s one thing del Toro knows, it’s how to tug on those heartstrings *and* scare the pants off you at the same time. Sure, the pacing drifts here and there, but that’s okay. It gives you more time to enjoy the cinematography and ponder the eternal question: *Where can I get a Captain Jacinto action figure?*