Justin Schaffer

At a brisk 94 minutes, Black Bag makes every second count, delivering a stylish, sexy, and smart spy thriller. From its immersive opening to the mind games around the dinner table, the film maintains a tension that keeps both the audience and its characters on edge throughout. Having revisited Ocean's Twelve just before watching Black Bag, Soderbergh's signature style was fresh in my mind—and it’s on full display here. Set against the luxurious yet gritty backdrop of British intelligence, the film comes alive with long, fluid camera movements, quick cuts, intimate close-ups, and sleek wardrobe choices. Every frame glows, giving the world a textured, tactile quality that enhances its noir vibe. The script, by Jurassic Park and Mission: Impossible writer David Koepp, is sharp, guiding the audience through a labyrinth of deception. The stellar cast—led by Michael Fassbender and Cate Blanchett—instantly convinces you that their characters know exactly what they’re doing, even if the complex web of the plot isn’t fully clear. You trust them to lead you to the right conclusions, and the film culminates in a whodunnit that plays out like a 94-minute magic trick. Beyond its visual appeal and intelligent dialogue, Black Bag also explores themes of love, trust, and betrayal. It’s about choosing your partner, doing anything for them, and trusting they’ll do the same. It’s the best film of 2025 so far and is currently in theaters.

Having sat in on a murder case, been selected for a jury, and stood as a defendant in court, I find the legal process fascinating. It’s remarkable that we still adhere to the tradition of trial by jury. For anyone summoned for jury duty but yet to experience it, I’m always happy to share my insights, as I believe jury duty is an integral pillar of society that deserves to be taken seriously. With that, I appreciate courtroom dramas. When done well, they feel like an intense standoff between two teams vying for control. The language, positioning, timing, and strategy employed to sway the verdict make these stories compelling. This creates a lot of potential for Juror #2. Juror #2 stars Toni Collette, J.K. Simmons, Kiefer Sutherland, and Nicholas Hoult, who plays Justin—a juror who quickly begins to suspect that the defendant might not be guilty. Most notably, the film is directed by Clint Eastwood, who, at 94 years old, continues to work. With over 40 director credits to his name, Juror #2 marks his latest effort. The film’s hook is that, as the story unfolds, Justin becomes increasingly convinced that he may have accidentally killed the victim. At the same time, he is about to become a father, presenting him (and the audience) with a complex moral dilemma to juggle. Since a successful courtroom drama hinges heavily on the use of words, the dialogue feels clunky here. There are moments when events conveniently drive the plot rather than unfold realistically. The film also lacks setup and nuance, moving quickly from scene to scene without presenting much creativity or interpretation. It feels like a direct, uninspired transfer of the screenplay to the screen. Additionally, the use of a slight Roshomon-style narrative—revisiting the same flashback repeatedly—becomes tiresome. While I applaud Clint Eastwood for continuing to direct at his age, the film’s shortcomings are difficult to dismiss. Its plain presentation comes off as old-fashioned, dated, and Lifetime-like.

Edward Berger’s Conclave, based on the 2016 novel, is a fictional portrayal of the power struggle among 118 Cardinals in the Vatican following the death of the Pope. At its core, it’s a political thriller that draws relevant parallels to real-world figures—especially in the U.S.—who have sidestepped accusations of crime and corruption. While Conclave pulses with political intrigue, it’s also quiet and meticulous, finding tension in the smallest of moments. Yet, it’s never too quiet to lose your attention. This is achieved through its cinematography, with a striking color palette that pops off the screen. The compositions aren’t just visually appealing; they serve the storytelling, subtly reinforcing the film’s power dynamics. Thematically and tonally, Conclave is reminiscent of 2008’s Doubt, though it’s much more beautiful to look at. What stands out, too, is the modern setting—Cardinals smoking, arguing, and scrolling on their phones—creating a fascinating juxtaposition between the ancient institution and present-day realities. And then there’s the cast: Ralph Fiennes, Stanley Tucci, and John Lithgow deliver wonderful performances, inhabiting their roles and making every sharp line of dialogue land. Though I’m not deeply familiar with Catholicism or religious practices, I still enjoyed what was going on behind the Vatican’s closed doors and closets.

“People see what they want to see. They never ask who you really are.” Sean Baker has a history of creating films that explore the nuanced lives of sex workers. His latest film, Anora, winner of the Palme d’Or at the 2024 Cannes Film Festival, continues with that trend. The film centers on Ani (Mikey Madison), a young sex worker in New York who marries the son of a wealthy Russian oligarch. Marketed as “a modern-day Cinderella story,” I don’t feel that Anora delivers on that comparison. Cinderella’s tale is one of hope, kindness, and transformation, yet this film devolves into a silly, tedious buddy comedy. While Anora does carry a constant tension reminiscent of Uncut Gems, it lacks the underbelly grit that made the New York of Uncut Gems feel lived-in and immersive. Anora‘s depiction of New York feels like a facade, despite Baker’s use of real-life workers in real-world settings. Additionally, the flawed protagonist in Uncut Gems had layered motivations you couldn’t help but root for despite his shortcomings, but Anora struggles to evoke the same connection. Because the wealthy Russian family can pay their way out of harm, this diminishes the stakes and any sense of consequence. The supporting characters are unlikable and undermine the gravity of the film’s subject matter. A story involving sex work should have an empathetic, thoughtful lens. But here, it feels dismissive rather than insightful. While Baker’s commitment to telling stories from this specific community is appreciated, Anora ultimately feels shallow and disjointed, its characters applying more slapstick than lipstick.

While I’m not typically drawn to superheroes, I’ve always been fascinated by the Batman universe. I think it’s because Batman is a superhero without superhuman powers, instead relying on intellect and technology to combat crime. I’m also attracted to this world because Gotham feels gritty and grounded, rooted in real-life cities like Manhattan and Pittsburgh (my hometown, where The Dark Knight Rises was shot). The Penguin, a spin-off of the film The Batman (2022), is a limited series exploring the rise of the popular villain in Gotham's criminal underworld. Colin Farrell (The Banshees of Inisherin) and Cristin Milioti (How I Met Your Mother) lead the cast, but it’s Farrell’s performance and physical transformation into the Penguin that steal the show. One of the show’s biggest accomplishments is that it stands on its own. Even if the Batman universe were removed, it would remain a solid story with well-realized characters navigating trauma, class, wealth, and desire. Although the series is just beginning, the first episode hints at a promising gangster noir, exploring the dark journey of a man driven to do anything for power in Gotham City.

In middle school, my nickname was "Opie." It sounds cool at first—until you realize it’s short for Ethiopian. The thing is, I grew up in Butler, PA, home of the Bantam Jeep, a 98% white population, and the recent Trump assassination attempt. As a tan-skinned kid, I stood out. When I tried to correct the bullies by telling them I wasn’t Ethiopian but Thai, they demanded I speak Taiwanese to prove it. When I tried to correct them again, well… I decided to find solace and safety in things like emo and pop-punk music, skateboarding, and art. I loved—and still love—bands like Hellogoodbye and The Starting Line. My AIM screen name was “hiddencinema,” I discovered synthesizers through Motion City Soundtrack, blacked out the pink tag on my stepsister’s hand-me-down Keds with a Sharpie, spent summers getting skate “clips” with the few friends I had, agonized over my MySpace Top 8, and made plenty of cringe-worthy decisions just to look cool in front of my crushes. So when I saw Dìdi, a film about an impressionable 13-year-old Taiwanese American in 2008 who went through nearly the same experiences—even down to the music and clothes—it hit me. I’ve never felt so seen by a film before. It’s about feeling torn between your Asian identity and being "just half," deciding whether to go by your given name or embrace a nickname, and the awkwardness, loneliness, and sense of being an outcast and a phony while also discovering who you really are. In Dìdi, Chris, or "Wang Wang," learns how to skate, flirt, and love his family. But ultimately, he discovers it’s much harder to pretend to be something you’re not and far more rewarding to embrace who you truly are. This film reminded me that twenty years later, I’m still learning to embrace myself—and it reminded me to love those who accept me, even if they don’t understand me.

In 2017, I went through a broken engagement, got a DUI, and turned 30 surrounded by people I didn’t care to be surrounded by. It was then that I made the conscious decision to audit my circle and find an environment of creative, inspiring, and motivating people. I achieved this by injecting myself into the Denver art community, going to as many art shows as possible, meeting local artists, and reinventing myself by answering the question, “Are you an artist?” with “Yes.” What I learned is that when you pretend to be the person you want to be, eventually you don’t have to pretend anymore. That audit, reinvention, and act of courage resulted in a personal journey of discovery, acceptance, expression, and healing. This brings me to the upcoming film, Sing Sing, which is based on the real-life Rehabilitation Through the Arts program at the Sing Sing Maximum Security Prison in New York. The film stars recent Oscar-winner Colman Domingo as Divine G, a man wrongfully imprisoned, who finds purpose through participating in a theater group with other incarcerated men. The group overcomes struggle and tragedy, banding together to perform an original production. The result is a performance that showcases the transformative power of art and resilience, offering them a chance to feel human again, even in inhumane conditions. The biggest surprise is that the cast is primarily comprised of real-life formerly incarcerated actors. Knowing these actors were real alumni of the rehab program was already touching, but seeing the end-credits clips of their original performances from the program was utterly heartwarming. Art is important. Art is empowering. Art is healing.

Ghostlight, the latest film from writer Kelly O'Sullivan and director Alex Thompson, is the follow-up to their debut, Saint Frances — which I highly recommend, especially if you’re a Lady Bird fan from the Midwest. Ghostlight tells the story of a construction worker who unexpectedly finds himself performing in a community theater production of Romeo & Juliet. The familiar play and its tragedies are used to mirror similar themes in Ghostlight. This creatively blurs the lines between life and art making some of the film’s scenes even more profound as they’re true to the film’s play and its protagonist. The cast delivers believable performances, bringing depth and relatability to their roles — a task made easier since the three leads are a real-life family. This small cast performing a small production in a small town makes the film feel close, both in location and emotion. Ghostlight is a warm and tender reminder of how art can reflect and illuminate our lives, leading us toward understanding, connection, and the importance of being earnest.

Yorgos Lanthimos' Poor Things was one of my favorite films of 2023. It balanced absurdity with humor, the joy of curiosity, and the cost of love. Emma Stone's remarkable performance anchored the film with a captivating portrayal that added depth to its bizarre and mesmerizing world. In his follow-up, Kinds of Kindness, Lanthimos crafts three loosely intertwined stories. The first story follows a man seeking to escape his predetermined path. The second focuses on a cop who questions his wife's demeanor after her return from a supposed drowning. The third tells of a woman searching for an extraordinary individual prophesied to become a renowned spiritual guide. Much like Poor Things, Kinds of Kindness also contains absurdity, humor, and the lengths one would go to for love. However, in the latter, because it uses a triptych device, the narrative thread feels disjointed as each story ends before any character can grow. The most distinct trait of a film that will remove me from immersion is its dialogue. If characters take turns speaking while frequently calling each other by name, I’m immediately removed from the film as that comes off as rigid and rudimentary. And Kinds of Kindness falls into that trap. Its dialogue and structure push the limits of coherence and believability, much like Darren Aronofsky’s Mother! which tests the boundaries of absurdity, shock, and metaphor to see what it can get away with. My interpretation of Kinds of Kindness is that it explores the idea that people often do bad things in an attempt to achieve something good. While characters strive to be kind for love or acceptance, many are hurt along the way. Lanthimos seems to suggest that the path to kindness is fraught with missteps and unintended consequences. I appreciate that Lanthimos’ distinctive style continues to provoke and intrigue, and I’m thrilled that studios are giving him the resources to continue creating unique works, but films of this kind, kind of leave me feeling Punk’d.

In 2003, writer/director Jeff Nichols found a photobook on his brother’s coffee table (his brother being Ben from the band Lucero). The book, The Bikeriders, published by photographer Danny Lyon in the 1960s, chronicled the real-life Chicago Outlaws Motorcycle Club. Moved by its images and accompanying text, Nichols decided to make a film about it. The film, however, is a fictionalized version about a group called the Vandals, though many of the characters are based on those in the book. Using photographer Lyon as the framing device, the film depicts interviews with numerous members of the biker gang, with an abundance of voiceover from one of the members’ romantic interests. However, the narrative quickly splits to focus on three other members of the crew. Because of this, there’s a bit of drifting from person to person and place to place, with occasional text overlays to orient us to where and when we are. Due to the nature of using this voiceover interview approach, we’re told what to care about, but we never see why we should care about it. Therefore, there’s no emotional resonance to any of the events, motivations, or particularly the relationships in the film. Often, the characters appear one-dimensional, with low stakes and no growth. Lately, I’ve been feeling a little lost and lonely. Lost in the sense of not having a strong anchor in my life. And lonely, not due to a lack of social activities, but a lack of connection. This has resulted in being overwhelmed by the plethora of possibilities on my journey to discover new communities to belong to. I’ve recognized that there are a lot of correlations between my current state and this film’s shortcomings. Formulating a fictitious story from a series of photographs offered too much possibility for Nichols. The story sprawls and sputters into a conventional tale akin to any mafia film you’ve seen before. The decision to spotlight a few characters slightly instead of one completely meant there was no anchor, no direction, and no connection. And without those, it feels a little lost.