Justin Schaffer

Celine Song’s 2023 debut, Past Lives, was released to critical acclaim, earning nominations for Best Picture and Best Original Screenplay at the Academy Awards. The story follows Nora and Hae Sung, childhood friends in Korea who are separated when Nora’s family emigrates to Canada. Years later, they reconnect online and begin to rekindle their bond, only to drift apart again. Eventually, Hae Sung visits Nora in New York, where she now lives with her husband, Arthur. All of this unfolds under the idea of In-Yun, a Korean concept suggesting that people are connected across lifetimes through fate, the result of thousands of interactions in past lives. Most of the film is built on silence, long pauses, and glances. There’s very little actual interaction or exploration of who these characters are. They act like they’re living a remarkable love story, but the truth is, they don’t have much of anything to say to each other, and it feels routine. Nora and Hae Sung met in grade school at the age of twelve. Then twelve years later, Hae Sung tracks Nora down on Facebook. He messages her on Skype. Another twelve years pass before he travels to New York to see her. At one point, he says: “What if I’d come to New York twelve years ago? What if you had never left Seoul? If you hadn’t just left like that, and we just grew up together… would I still have looked for you? Would we have dated? Broken up? Gotten married? Had kids?” For a film so fascinated by fate, its characters don’t seem to believe in it. That’s a whole lot of what-ifs for someone who supposedly believes in destiny. And all this longing ignores the fact that Nora is happily married to a man she met unexpectedly at a retreat—something you might call fate. Which brings me to Materialists. Celine Song is back with another story of three characters, two men and one woman (again), in New York City (again), confronting love, destiny, and the choices that shape a life (again). In Past Lives, the decades-spanning structure gave us glimpses into who these people were. But here, the character background is thinner. We see the homes of the two men—one rich, one poor—but learn almost nothing about the protagonist, Lucy. We don’t know how she lives, what she loves, or what she does outside of work. Without that, there are no stakes. We can’t root for her. Lucy describes herself as hard to please, difficult, judgmental, and superficial. So when emotional and revelatory moments arrive, they fall flat. We’re not given enough to care. She’s in love with the idea of both men but chooses the one who feels most familiar: the one she knows how to fight with, the one she can control, the one whose apartment feels second nature. The man who is second best. I appreciate the nods to the pitfalls of modern dating, but the film, like Past Lives, just didn’t land for me. Maybe that’s because I’ve worked hard to build healthy relationships. No what-ifs, no regrets. A conscious, all-in kind of love. Every past relationship I’ve had isn’t a failure—it’s a foundation, each one making the next better. And that’s true. Everything, for me, is always better than the last. Love is not an idea of a person. Love is not a backup plan.

Ask any horror movie buff why they like the genre, and they’ll say that, sure, gore and jump scares can be fun, but horror movies explore the fears and anxieties that humans face every day. These themes show up as monsters and metaphors, reflecting fears about the unknown, loss, and human nature. While this has always been true, it feels even more apparent now with films like Get Out (racism), It Follows (sexual anxiety), Midsommar (cults and codependency), and Hereditary (family trauma). Bring Her Back is the latest addition to that list. Bring Her Back comes from twins Danny and Michael Philippou, who first gained attention with horror-comedy videos on YouTube. The film follows a brother and sister who, after the death of their father, are introduced by their foster mother to a new sibling, only to discover she’s hiding a terrifying secret. It’s brutal, gruesome, and I’m pretty sure I watched at least 10 minutes of it through my fingers. It doesn’t rely solely on jump scares, instead lingering with haunting visuals and disturbing images of body horror that have seared into my brain. I felt many of these scenes physically, and still get squeamish just thinking about them. What’s most haunting, though, is that this film is about grief—how it stays with you, how it shows up in different forms at different times, how it can control you, and how it can affect others if left unprocessed. While I have no desire to watch this film again and would struggle to recommend it because of its scenes and just the general vibe of a bad time that it is, I fully respect its vision, its message, and how effectively it left my skin crawling.

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.