Like Barbie, Toy Story, Dr. Dolittle and countless other examples of anthropomorphic light entertainment, Coyote vs. Acme relies heavily on nostalgia. In this case, the source is the classic Looney Tunes rivalry between the Road Runner and Wile E. Coyote.

Poor Wile E. has spent decades being disappointed by the quality-control department at the Acme Corporation, his exclusive supplier of rockets, catapults, explosives and other devices guaranteed to fulfill his lifelong dream of sitting down to a relaxing dinner of roasted Road Runner. The products invariably malfunction, although it must be said that Wile E.’s operating procedures would also interest OSHA.

Finally, he hires a law firm whose motto is “Don’t win. Settle.” Its specialty is nuisance litigation—the sort insurance companies pay to make disappear. But Wile E. refuses to be dismissed, and the case proceeds.

Review: This has the unmistakable air of a corporate effort to squeeze a little more juice from the Warner Bros. intellectual-property orange. Nearly every underdog trope is dutifully wheeled into place: the downtrodden client, the sad-sack lawyer, the heartless corporation and the inevitable discovery that justice is available—provided it does not interfere with quarterly earnings.

The original Road Runner cartoon debuted in 1949, created by director Chuck Jones and writer Michael Maltese. Jones was reportedly inspired by Mark Twain’s description of the coyote as “a living, breathing allegory of Want”—always hungry, poor, unlucky and friendless. It is a perfect description of Wile E., except that Twain neglected to mention his unlimited line of credit with Acme.

What Jones and Maltese created was remarkably pure comedy. There was almost no dialogue, little plot and no character development in the conventional sense. There was simply appetite, ingenuity, failure and gravity. Especially gravity. Wile E. was vain, obsessive and absurdly persistent, but also strangely admirable. He never blamed the market, changed careers or hired a consultant. He simply ordered a larger rocket.

The new movie contains no great surprises. Will Forte plays the defeated lawyer with appropriate rumpled desperation. John Cena, as Acme’s corporate counsel, hams things up with tremendous energy, apparently having concluded that subtlety is another defective Acme product.

There is also a truckload of familiar Looney Tunes characters: Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck, Porky Pig, Elmer Fudd, Tweety, Sylvester and, in a standout appearance, Foghorn Leghorn. They arrive less as characters than as beloved shareholders being asked to approve the transaction.

Yes, much of this has been done before. Yes, the movie is shamelessly nostalgic. And yes, Warner Bros. is leveraging its intellectual property with all the tenderness of a mining company.

But the old characters still work because their creators understood something that many modern comedies forget: a joke does not need to explain itself, congratulate itself or pause to establish a cinematic universe. Sometimes a coyote runs off a cliff, hangs in the air just long enough to recognize his mistake, and falls.

The studio got me to plunk down some cash, and I don’t regret it. That is more than I can say for most of the retreads that came my way this summer. At least this retread remembers who designed the original tire.

Paul Kelly was born in Brooklyn, New York, and grew up in Westchester County. Like many of his generation, he was surrounded by stories—on screens, in books, on the radio, even in commercials and sports. Somewhere along the way, he began to see narrative patterns everywhere: in childhood games, teenage crushes, and later, in work itself.

He majored in English and learned how to take stories apart and rebuild them. His professional life—as a training consultant—centered on writing: case studies, role plays, simulations, and other human dramas disguised as business exercises.

When Facebook imposed a 165-character limit on status updates in 2005, Paul began writing movie reviews within that narrow frame. The constraint sharpened his style and his sense of what truly mattered in a story. That same year, he wrote The Seven Slide Solution: How to Tell Your Business Story in Seven Slides or Less, a guide to communicating ideas with clarity and persuasion.

Paul describes himself not as a film critic but as a story reviewer—someone more interested in how stories work on us than in whether they “work”.

But independence and isolation are not the same thing.

A person can remain active, autonomous, and fully in control of their life while also choosing to live among others. In fact, building a community may be one of the most practical ways to protect that independence as we grow older. The goal does not have to be living alone at all costs. It can be living life on your own terms, with people nearby who make that life safer, richer, and more connected.

Isolation Is More Than Feeling Lonely

Loneliness is an emotional experience. Social isolation is the actual absence of regular relationships, conversations, and meaningful contact. A person may experience one without the other, but both can become more common with age.

Retirement can remove the daily social contact once provided by work. Friends and family may move away. Adult children may have demanding schedules. Changes in mobility, transportation, hearing, health, or finances can gradually make it harder to participate in the wider world.

Isolation often develops quietly. A canceled outing becomes a week at home. A week becomes a routine. Eventually, someone may realize that days are passing without a real conversation.

This is not simply a lifestyle concern. The CDC and National Institute on Aging have linked social isolation and loneliness with higher risks of depression, anxiety, heart disease, cognitive decline, dementia, and other serious health problems.

Human beings need other human beings. That need does not disappear when we turn 50, 60, 70, or 80.

Community Creates a Natural Safety Net

Living in a community creates something technology alone cannot provide: another person who knows what is normal for you.

They notice when you have not come downstairs. They hear when something falls. They recognize when you seem unwell, confused, unusually tired, or simply not yourself. They can check whether you arrived home safely, offer a ride when your car is in the shop, or call for help during an emergency.

That does not mean roommates must become caregivers. A successful homeshare should include clear boundaries, realistic expectations, and honest conversations about what each person can and cannot provide.

Still, there is enormous comfort in knowing that someone else is nearby.

A safety net can be as simple as, “I’m heading out and should be back by six,” or, “I haven’t seen you today. Everything okay?” These small moments of awareness can help people feel more secure in their homes without sacrificing privacy or personal freedom.

Everyday Contact Keeps Life Moving

Community is not only about preparing for emergencies. It is also about the ordinary interactions that make a home feel alive.

Someone is in the kitchen making coffee. There is another person to ask about the strange noise coming from the washing machine. You can share a television recommendation, discuss the news, split a meal, admire the neighbor’s dog, or complain about the weather.

Not every interaction needs to be profound. A large part of human connection is built through small, repeated moments.

These moments can also encourage healthier routines. It may be easier to take a walk when someone else wants to go. Meals may become more regular when they are occasionally shared. Appointments are harder to forget when another person asks how they went. Even maintaining a home can feel more manageable when chores, errands, or responsibilities are divided fairly.

Research examining homesharing among older adults has found benefits including greater companionship, help with everyday tasks, and improved well-being.

Community Supports Purpose and Belonging

One of the most damaging ideas in our youth-obsessed culture is that aging makes a person less interesting, less capable, or less relevant.

It does not.

Older adults carry decades of experience, humor, skills, stories, opinions, knowledge, and hard-earned wisdom. Community provides a place for those things to remain visible and valued.

Living with or regularly connecting with others creates opportunities to contribute. One person may be the better cook. Another may understand technology. Someone may love gardening, managing household finances, fixing things, planning outings, or remembering every important birthday.

Being needed is not the same as being burdened. Mutual support allows everyone to give something and receive something.

That sense of reciprocity matters. Community is strongest when older adults are not treated as passive recipients of care, but as active participants in building the lives and homes they want.

Shared Living Can Protect Financial Independence

Housing costs do not disappear in retirement. Property taxes, insurance, utilities, repairs, rent, groceries, transportation, and maintenance can place enormous pressure on a single-income household.

At the same time, many boomers have more house than they currently use. Bedrooms once occupied by children may sit empty while the cost of maintaining the entire home continues to rise.

Homesharing can offer another option.

A homeowner may be able to remain in a familiar home and neighborhood while receiving rental income or sharing household expenses. A room seeker may gain access to comfortable, affordable housing without moving into a traditional senior living environment.

The right arrangement can help both people preserve their choices. It can make aging in place more realistic while turning unused space into something valuable: a home for another person and the beginning of a new community.

Privacy and Community Can Coexist

Choosing community does not require surrendering solitude.

Roommates do not need to spend every evening together. They do not need identical interests, schedules, or personalities. Some people want frequent companionship. Others simply prefer knowing that another trustworthy person is in the home.

The key is compatibility.

Before entering a homeshare, people should discuss cleanliness, noise, guests, pets, cooking, smoking, schedules, shared expenses, household responsibilities, privacy, and expectations around social time. The more clearly these subjects are addressed at the beginning, the easier it becomes to create a respectful home.

A good match is not about finding someone exactly like you. It is about finding someone whose habits, boundaries, values, and vision for shared living can peacefully coexist with your own.

We Were Young Together. We Can Grow Older Together.

Aging does not have to mean retreating from the world. It can mean intentionally creating a new kind of world, one built around mutual support, shared resources, friendship, independence, and choice.

boomerroomers is an interactive national community for boomers interested in homesharing, connection, and “living-alone-together.” Members can create profiles, identify their housing and lifestyle preferences, explore potential matches, and connect with people who may be looking for the same kind of next chapter.

You do not have to wait until isolation becomes a crisis to begin building community.

A spare bedroom can become someone’s home. A compatible roommate can become a familiar face, a shared laugh, a reassuring presence, or a trusted friend. A different living arrangement can open the door to greater security, financial breathing room, and a renewed sense of belonging.

We were young together. Let’s grow older together, our way.

I have not read the original poem, so I will not comment on the film’s faithfulness to its source. Nor will I speculate on what Homer—who was almost certainly not the poem’s sole author—intended to convey.

Review: Unlike most modern blockbusters, The Odyssey is not part of a franchise like The Avengers or Jurassic Park. It has to succeed on its own, more in the tradition of Lawrence of Arabia or Ben-Hur. Films of that scale are enormous gambles, both financially and artistically.

Christopher Nolan has accepted that challenge with mixed results. Judging by the opening box office, the financial gamble appears to have paid off. It is on the artistic side that questions begin to emerge.

The film’s greatest triumph is its visual presentation. Nolan’s decision to shoot entirely with 70mm IMAX cameras proves far more than a marketing gimmick. At first the effect is subtle, but before long I realized the rolling seas almost made me seasick, while the Trojan Horse seemed to possess a life of its own.

The cast is equally impressive. Matt Damon delivers a solid, if not especially inspiring, performance as Odysseus. Anne Hathaway brings quiet dignity and grace to every scene. Tom Holland is an appealing presence, while John Leguizamo is the film’s most pleasant surprise. Elliot Page and Lupita Nyong’o also contribute memorable performances—while undoubtedly giving the culture warriors another excuse to get their panties in a bunch.

Well directed. Beautifully photographed. Expertly acted. On paper, that should be enough for a masterpiece. Yet three shortcomings kept me from joining the chorus of unqualified praise.

First, there is almost no humor and precious little Eros. There is a chronic shortage of women, and even seven years stranded in paradise with Charlize Theron barely the emotional temperature of the steadfast Odysseus.

Second, the sheer size of the cast left me struggling to keep everyone straight. Menelaus, Telemachus, Agamemnon—it was, quite literally, all Greek to me.

Finally, the battle scenes eventually become repetitive. Rather than conveying the brutal chaos of ancient warfare, they often resemble a superhero free-for-all or a Jason Bourne chase sequence turned up to eleven.

None of these criticisms amount to a reason to skip the film. Quite the opposite. The Odyssey is one of the most accomplished productions I have seen in years. It simply falls one or two rungs short of greatness.

Highly Recommended.

Paul Kelly was born in Brooklyn, New York, and grew up in Westchester County. Like many of his generation, he was surrounded by stories—on screens, in books, on the radio, even in commercials and sports. Somewhere along the way, he began to see narrative patterns everywhere: in childhood games, teenage crushes, and later, in work itself.

He majored in English and learned how to take stories apart and rebuild them. His professional life—as a training consultant—centered on writing: case studies, role plays, simulations, and other human dramas disguised as business exercises.

When Facebook imposed a 165-character limit on status updates in 2005, Paul began writing movie reviews within that narrow frame. The constraint sharpened his style and his sense of what truly mattered in a story. That same year, he wrote The Seven Slide Solution: How to Tell Your Business Story in Seven Slides or Less, a guide to communicating ideas with clarity and persuasion.

Paul describes himself not as a film critic but as a story reviewer—someone more interested in how stories work on us than in whether they “work”.

Though each has plenty of complaints about the other, they are united in their frustration with the couple upstairs, whose enthusiastic lovemaking has kept them awake for months. Hoping to resolve the situation, Angela impulsively invites the neighbors to dinner.

Enter Pina (Penélope Cruz), a clinical psychologist and sexologist, and Hawk (Edward Norton), a retired firefighter and widower. Inevitably, the conversation turns to sex and ways to keep long-term relationships “fresh.” Before long, they invite Joe and Angela to experience what all the fuss is about. The proposition forces the couple to reexamine both their marriage and the lives they have settled into.

Review: Based on the Spanish film and play The Neighbors Upstairs, The Invite has an intimate feel and a deliberately simple plot. There are few, if any, surprises. It recalls earlier “shocking proposal” films such as Eyes Wide Shut and Bob & Carol & Ted & Alice. What interested me most, however, was not the proposition itself but the question: Why now?

This is, at its core, a film about temptation—a subject that mainstream entertainment rarely explores anymore. In our increasingly secular culture, the struggle between being good and being naughty has largely disappeared as a dramatic force. The notions that “the devil made me do it” or “my guardian angel intervened” no longer occupy much of our moral imagination.

Unlike earlier films of this type, The Invite has no liberation agenda. It isn’t attacking outdated sexual conventions or celebrating the overthrow of social restraint. Instead, the invitation is treated almost casually, as though it were an offer to attend a party or watch a football game. Even more striking, the characters never seriously wrestle with questions of right and wrong. Their reasoning is simply that no innocent is harmed and consenting adults are free to do as they please. The moral lessons of Adam and Eve—and, for that matter, much of Western civilization—are regarded as quaint relics rather than living guideposts.

The Invite is unlikely to become a classic. But as an artifact reflecting how contemporary culture thinks about temptation, morality, and personal freedom, it is a surprisingly interesting one.

Paul Kelly was born in Brooklyn, New York, and grew up in Westchester County. Like many of his generation, he was surrounded by stories—on screens, in books, on the radio, even in commercials and sports. Somewhere along the way, he began to see narrative patterns everywhere: in childhood games, teenage crushes, and later, in work itself.

He majored in English and learned how to take stories apart and rebuild them. His professional life—as a training consultant—centered on writing: case studies, role plays, simulations, and other human dramas disguised as business exercises.

When Facebook imposed a 165-character limit on status updates in 2005, Paul began writing movie reviews within that narrow frame. The constraint sharpened his style and his sense of what truly mattered in a story. That same year, he wrote The Seven Slide Solution: How to Tell Your Business Story in Seven Slides or Less, a guide to communicating ideas with clarity and persuasion.

Paul describes himself not as a film critic but as a story reviewer—someone more interested in how stories work on us than in whether they “work”.

How an eight-year-old managed to avoid the digital takeover until now goes unexplained. At her first sleepover, Bonnie is humiliated by her lack of technology and retreats even further into her shell.

The toys take it upon themselves not only to fight the tech invaders, but also to find Bonnie a friend. Her parents finally surrender and buy her a Lily Pad. At the same time, they stash the toys in deep storage, ultimately condemning them to the dreaded donation truck.

The toys escape near a farm, where they discover a promising candidate for Bonnie’s friendship. Much of the rest of the film involves their efforts to bring the two together. There are also a few interludes devoted to the developing romance between Buzz Lightyear and Jessie the cowgirl.

Review: I make no apologies for paying “good money” to see a fourth sequel to an animated feature on a sunny June afternoon. Animation mastered the concept of something for everyone long ago.

Whether it is Bugs Bunny satirizing fascism, Betty Boop giving men a thrill, The Simpsons poking at America’s dysfunctions, or Shrek parodying Disney itself, animation has often been more courageous, more cutting-edge, and funnier than even the most “serious” live-action films. For evidence, look no further than the Oscar-nominated short films.

Disney’s contribution to the genre, like Disney’s contribution to nearly everything, tends to lack the bite of earlier animators. It often feels as if a marketing researcher has tested every frame.

It is also a bit rich that a company so deeply involved in games, streaming platforms, digital effects, and nearly every other form of technology would greenlight a film in which technology is presented as rotting children’s brains. But that is a discussion for another time.

As for this film, it is a workmanlike display of high-tech wizardry. The characters remain charming, the storyline is emotional, and several previously neglected characters (Jesse) are given more room to breathe. Pixar releases one of these about every ten years.

That seems about right.

Paul Kelly was born in Brooklyn, New York, and grew up in Westchester County. Like many of his generation, he was surrounded by stories—on screens, in books, on the radio, even in commercials and sports. Somewhere along the way, he began to see narrative patterns everywhere: in childhood games, teenage crushes, and later, in work itself.

He majored in English and learned how to take stories apart and rebuild them. His professional life—as a training consultant—centered on writing: case studies, role plays, simulations, and other human dramas disguised as business exercises.

When Facebook imposed a 165-character limit on status updates in 2005, Paul began writing movie reviews within that narrow frame. The constraint sharpened his style and his sense of what truly mattered in a story. That same year, he wrote The Seven Slide Solution: How to Tell Your Business Story in Seven Slides or Less, a guide to communicating ideas with clarity and persuasion.

Paul describes himself not as a film critic but as a story reviewer—someone more interested in how stories work on us than in whether they “work”.

Fairchild begins displaying disturbing abilities. She speaks languages she does not know, appears to read minds, and emits strange clicking sounds. Whether she is possessed, transformed, or merely receiving a very aggressive cosmic transmission is initially unclear.

As Kellner and Fairchild are drawn together, they discover that Scanlon and elements of the government have concealed contact with extraterrestrial life for decades—and intend to keep it concealed. What follows is a familiar manhunt: car chases, crashes, an invisible force field, and a media campaign that finally exposes the truth and briefly brings the world together in peace and harmony.

Review: Whatever one thinks of Steven Spielberg, his best films have usually understood that “stars “need not dominate the story in order to make it matter. John Miller in Saving Private Ryan, Alan Grant in Jurassic Park, and Martin Brody in Jaws are all memorable, but none overwhelms the larger drama. They give the audience someone to follow while the spectacle does its work.

Disclosure Day never establishes that connection. It takes nearly a third of the film simply to understand who Daniel Kellner and Margaret Fairchild are, what they want, and why we should care about them. By then, the movie has already spent much of its energy withholding information rather than creating suspense.

The gaps are not intriguing; they are distracting. Fairchild complains to her husband about being stuck in Kansas City, then he disappears from the film. Kellner’s relationship with Blankenship (Eve Henson) is left so vague that it is difficult to know whether it is romantic, professional, or merely another plot thread the screenplay has misplaced.

Eventually, the film becomes a version of Fast & Furious with better actors, more expensive effects, and considerably less interest in its own characters.

A disappointing effort from a great director.

Paul Kelly was born in Brooklyn, New York, and grew up in Westchester County. Like many of his generation, he was surrounded by stories—on screens, in books, on the radio, even in commercials and sports. Somewhere along the way, he began to see narrative patterns everywhere: in childhood games, teenage crushes, and later, in work itself.

He majored in English and learned how to take stories apart and rebuild them. His professional life—as a training consultant—centered on writing: case studies, role plays, simulations, and other human dramas disguised as business exercises.

When Facebook imposed a 165-character limit on status updates in 2005, Paul began writing movie reviews within that narrow frame. The constraint sharpened his style and his sense of what truly mattered in a story. That same year, he wrote The Seven Slide Solution: How to Tell Your Business Story in Seven Slides or Less, a guide to communicating ideas with clarity and persuasion.

Paul describes himself not as a film critic but as a story reviewer—someone more interested in how stories work on us than in whether they “work”.

Because the invasion must be launched from the sea, weather conditions could mean the difference between triumph and catastrophe. Unfortunately, the forecast is not encouraging.

Enter Group Captain James Stagg (Andrew Scott), Britain’s leading meteorologist, carrying the personal endorsement of Winston Churchill. A stubborn Scotsman with little patience for bureaucracy, Stagg arrives at Eisenhower’s (Brendan Fraser) headquarters and immediately finds himself at odds with the prevailing mood. He and his team have just four days to produce a reliable forecast for the planned invasion.

Nearly everyone opposes him: an American rival who enjoys Ike’s confidence, senior officers eager to get the war moving, and even his heavily pregnant wife. History tells us that Stagg ultimately prevailed. The question is how.

Review: I knew I was going to like this film during the opening credits. Right up front appeared the words: “This is a true story.” Not based on, inspired by, or suggested by. A true story. Filmmakers rarely speak so plainly.

Even the most consequential historical events contain smaller dramas that reveal character, courage, and commitment to truth but are often lost in the larger narrative. Films such as Hidden Figures, The Imitation Game, and On the Basis of Sex attempt to recover those forgotten stories and, in many cases, correct a historical oversight.

Too often, however, such films try to accomplish two things at once: celebrate an individual’s achievement while simultaneously delivering a broader indictment of sexism, racism, class prejudice, or some other societal failing. The balance is difficult to maintain. Many filmmakers spend so much time prosecuting the social injustice that they lose sight of the individual whose story they set out to tell.

Pressure avoids that trap.

Stagg is already a respected scientist. He is recognized, valued, and listened to—even if not particularly liked. The obstacles he faces are not rooted in discrimination but in something far more universal: institutional inertia, professional rivalry, uncertainty, and fear of being wrong when the stakes are unimaginably high.

Based, as many fine films are, on a stage play, Pressure relies heavily on language, argument, and performance rather than spectacle. The acting is uniformly excellent. Andrew Scott is a force to be reckoned with, conveying both intellectual certainty and personal doubt. Brendan Fraser is a pleasant surprise as Eisenhower, projecting warmth, intelligence, and the burden of command. A special treat is Damien Lewis as Field Marshal Montgomery, whose confidence borders on recklessness.

My only criticism involves the decision to include several gory flashbacks and archival scenes of failed amphibious assaults. I understand the purpose. The filmmakers want us to appreciate what is at stake. But the tension was already there. I would have been perfectly content to remain in Ike’s situation room, watching intelligent people wrestle with an impossible decision while history waited outside the door.

Paul Kelly was born in Brooklyn, New York, and grew up in Westchester County. Like many of his generation, he was surrounded by stories—on screens, in books, on the radio, even in commercials and sports. Somewhere along the way, he began to see narrative patterns everywhere: in childhood games, teenage crushes, and later, in work itself.

He majored in English and learned how to take stories apart and rebuild them. His professional life—as a training consultant—centered on writing: case studies, role plays, simulations, and other human dramas disguised as business exercises.

When Facebook imposed a 165-character limit on status updates in 2005, Paul began writing movie reviews within that narrow frame. The constraint sharpened his style and his sense of what truly mattered in a story. That same year, he wrote The Seven Slide Solution: How to Tell Your Business Story in Seven Slides or Less, a guide to communicating ideas with clarity and persuasion.

Paul describes himself not as a film critic but as a story reviewer—someone more interested in how stories work on us than in whether they “work”.

The detective is burdened by something in their past: widowhood, a dead child, a scandal, an addiction, unexpected parenthood, depression, or some combination thereof. Their subordinates are fiercely loyal but invariably wet behind the ears. Together, they investigate a crime that is usually solved, or nearly solved, in the first half of the episode. The second half is devoted to wrestling personal demons.

It is almost as if the producers employ two separate writing staffs—one in charge of the crime drama and another in charge of the soap opera—and let them compete for screen time.

Review: It is not entirely clear why this lack of originality has become so pervasive in British crime drama. I first became aware of—and initially welcomed—the trend in Prime Suspect (1991–2006). Helen Mirren’s Jane Tennison was “damaged,” but largely by the stresses and sacrifices of her profession. That was the story.

The lesson producers appeared to take away was not that damage could emerge from a compelling story, but that damaged protagonists were compelling. It was a short leap from there to pre-damaging the detective before Episode One. Enter Jimmy Perez, Tom Mathias, Catherine Cawood, Helen Weeks, and an army of similarly burdened investigators.

Agatha Christie and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle would likely be baffled by the trend. Poirot’s psychology was not the mystery. Holmes’s emotional wounds were not the plot. The crime came first. Character illuminated the mystery rather than competing with it.

Today, the formula often feels reversed.

Sociologists and anthropologists can debate the deeper cultural forces at work. That is above my pay grade. My suspicion is that the explosion of streaming channels deserves some of the blame.

In marketing, there is a concept known as over-distribution. A product becomes available through so many channels that it loses its distinctiveness. Think of Polo appearing in outlet malls, BlackBerry being sold through every conceivable intermediary, or Revlon migrating from elegant department store counters to warehouse clubs. The product becomes ubiquitous—and therefore ordinary.

Streaming services have followed a similar path. Most have little meaningful point of difference. They are all trying to be the next-generation supermarket, stocking everything from shoot-’em-ups to prestige dramas to romantic comedies. In that sense, Netflix increasingly resembles Kroger. Both offer vast catalogs of products, both compete on breadth rather than distinctiveness, and both want consumers to believe that whatever they might want is somewhere on the shelf. The problem is that the shelves of the major streamers now look remarkably alike. The “products” may be television series rather than breakfast cereal, but the assortment strategy is strikingly similar.

This creates what psychologists call the paradox of choice. More options do not necessarily produce more satisfaction; beyond a certain point, they produce fatigue, indecision, and disengagement. Faced with endless choice, viewers increasingly perceive the offerings as interchangeable.

And perhaps they are.

A young cinephile I know recently told me, “I don’t watch series anymore. There are just too many to choose from.”

That strikes me as less a personal preference than a storm warning.

One hopes the streamers are listening.

Paul Kelly was born in Brooklyn, New York, and grew up in Westchester County. Like many of his generation, he was surrounded by stories—on screens, in books, on the radio, even in commercials and sports. Somewhere along the way, he began to see narrative patterns everywhere: in childhood games, teenage crushes, and later, in work itself.

He majored in English and learned how to take stories apart and rebuild them. His professional life—as a training consultant—centered on writing: case studies, role plays, simulations, and other human dramas disguised as business exercises.

When Facebook imposed a 165-character limit on status updates in 2005, Paul began writing movie reviews within that narrow frame. The constraint sharpened his style and his sense of what truly mattered in a story. That same year, he wrote The Seven Slide Solution: How to Tell Your Business Story in Seven Slides or Less, a guide to communicating ideas with clarity and persuasion.

Paul describes himself not as a film critic but as a story reviewer—someone more interested in how stories work on us than in whether they “work”.

Synopsis: George (Hugh Jackman) is presented as a humble shepherd quietly tending his flock somewhere in the rolling countryside. Divorced from traditional family structures — note that immediately — with one child in America and another in South Africa, George instead devotes his emotional energy entirely to the sheep. He names them. Reads to them nightly. Mostly detective stories, which itself raises questions. He medicates them, monitors them, regulates their diets, controls their information intake, and maintains complete authority over the pasture ecosystem.

The film calls this “kindness.”

One morning George is found dead outside his Airstream trailer under highly suspicious circumstances. Local law enforcement appears either incompetent or intentionally disengaged. The sheep themselves launch an investigation despite possessing no formal investigative training, legal standing, or opposable thumbs.

And yes — the sheep speak. The movie treats this as perfectly normal, which frankly may be the most psychologically manipulative part of the entire enterprise.

Review: Now look. A lot of naïve viewers are going to wander into this thing thinking it’s some harmless family mystery about friendship, justice, and loyalty.

That’s the sales pitch.

What this actually is — and I’m just asking questions here — is a slickly produced piece of soft-conditioning propaganda wrapped in adorable wool.

First: sheep. Why sheep? Because for thousands of years sheep have symbolized passive populations conditioned to obey authority figures without resistance. That’s not my opinion. That’s anthropology. Sociology. History. The whole thing.

George represents exactly what Michel Foucault warned about with “pastoral power” — systems that don’t dominate people through overt force alone but through emotional dependency disguised as compassion. “We feed you. We protect you. We tell you bedtime stories. Why would you ever want freedom?” That model exists everywhere now. Bureaucracies. Media systems. Academic institutions. The managerial state.

And yes, the dynastic regime of North Korea understands this perfectly.

But the film goes further.

The flock itself functions like a fully operational DEI committee with hooves. Merino sheep. Shetlands. Suffolks. Jacobs. Every breed carefully assembled into a suspiciously harmonious multi-wool coalition as though nature itself were a campus orientation seminar.

We’re told this is “diversity.”

Really?

Online critics — and I’m not saying they’re wrong — have pointed out that selective breeding exists for a reason. Suddenly this movie arrives insisting all distinctions are oppressive social constructs invented by shepherd supremacy culture.

Convenient timing.

And then there are the “winter lambs,” the fragile underclass the flock simultaneously fears, pities, and elevates into moral symbols. The film practically screams at viewers to embrace instability as virtue.

Meanwhile, the actual productive members of rural society — the meat processors, landowners, and industrial operators who create jobs and sustain local economies — are portrayed as sinister looming threats simply because they believe sheep should eventually contribute economically instead of attending emotional processing circles forever.

Classic anti-capitalist framing.

The film’s real achievement is how relentlessly it escalates paranoia while pretending to oppose paranoia. Every odd detail becomes evidence of hidden systems. Every disagreement becomes oppression. Every fence becomes fascism. By the end the sheep are basically conducting cable-news panels in a field while rearranging conspiracy charts made of hay and twine.

And somehow audiences are calling this “heartwarming.”

No. It’s ideological programming with lantern lighting and a folksy soundtrack.

A dangerous film.

Tucker Carlson contributed reporting.

Paul Kelly was born in Brooklyn, New York, and grew up in Westchester County. Like many of his generation, he was surrounded by stories—on screens, in books, on the radio, even in commercials and sports. Somewhere along the way, he began to see narrative patterns everywhere: in childhood games, teenage crushes, and later, in work itself.

He majored in English and learned how to take stories apart and rebuild them. His professional life—as a training consultant—centered on writing: case studies, role plays, simulations, and other human dramas disguised as business exercises.

When Facebook imposed a 165-character limit on status updates in 2005, Paul began writing movie reviews within that narrow frame. The constraint sharpened his style and his sense of what truly mattered in a story. That same year, he wrote The Seven Slide Solution: How to Tell Your Business Story in Seven Slides or Less, a guide to communicating ideas with clarity and persuasion.

Paul describes himself not as a film critic but as a story reviewer—someone more interested in how stories work on us than in whether they “work”.

Clark and Floyd become friends. Clark introduces him to a sex app—Down To F*#k. Floyd experiments with a few men but quickly loses interest. At the same time, Clark begins an affair with Carol. When Floyd finds out, he doesn’t object so much as ask to observe. The arrangement holds briefly, until Floyd is found dead at a local swim club.

A police investigation follows, slowly uncovering the trio’s behavior while narrowing in on Floyd’s apparent murder.

Review: The setup suggests erotic intrigue but settles into something flatter—a study in low-grade dissatisfaction. The characters feel more like types than people. Floyd is defined by low self-esteem and confused ambition, chasing business success while overlooking the value of his more humane work. Clark is the effortless charmer, a man unused to friction. Carol is stuck in between—loyal to Floyd’s decency, but worn down by his lack of traction.

Framed this way, the trio comes off as symbolic rather than real. That distance drains the story of any real erotic charge. Allegory rarely carries much heat.

The police function mostly as observers, circling behavior they’re not equipped to interpret. Their investigation proceeds, but without much urgency or insight.

It’s not without ideas, but it moves heavily. More obligation than engagement.

Paul Kelly was born in Brooklyn, New York, and grew up in Westchester County. Like many of his generation, he was surrounded by stories—on screens, in books, on the radio, even in commercials and sports. Somewhere along the way, he began to see narrative patterns everywhere: in childhood games, teenage crushes, and later, in work itself.

He majored in English and learned how to take stories apart and rebuild them. His professional life—as a training consultant—centered on writing: case studies, role plays, simulations, and other human dramas disguised as business exercises.

When Facebook imposed a 165-character limit on status updates in 2005, Paul began writing movie reviews within that narrow frame. The constraint sharpened his style and his sense of what truly mattered in a story. That same year, he wrote The Seven Slide Solution: How to Tell Your Business Story in Seven Slides or Less, a guide to communicating ideas with clarity and persuasion.

Paul describes himself not as a film critic but as a story reviewer—someone more interested in how stories work on us than in whether they “work”.

Ryland Grace (Ryan Gosling), a middle school teacher with elite credentials and a damaged reputation, is recruited to help solve the crisis. Despite his reluctance, he is sent into space as mission scientist. His two crewmates never wake from suspended animation.

Alone, he encounters an alien ship on a similar mission with a single surviving crew member. He names the creature, Rocky. Fear gives way to cooperation as they work to save their worlds.

Review: Sci-fi typically splits between the Star Wars model (spectacle, good vs. evil) and the Star Trek model (exploration, restraint). This film sits outside both.

There are no villains—unless astrophage counts. No prime directive. Just a problem and two imperfect problem-solvers. Grace struggles with basic tasks. Rocky is no prodigy. The film leans into limitation rather than heroism.

It avoids moralizing, violence, and even strong language. The focus is on curiosity and cooperation.

The influences—Ray Bradbury, Stanley Kubrick, Robert Zemeckis—are evident without becoming derivative. It invites a second viewing simply to catch more of them.

Gosling carries the film largely alone and sustains interest without spectacle or conflict.

A restrained, respectful entry.

Recommended.

Paul Kelly was born in Brooklyn, New York, and grew up in Westchester County. Like many of his generation, he was surrounded by stories—on screens, in books, on the radio, even in commercials and sports. Somewhere along the way, he began to see narrative patterns everywhere: in childhood games, teenage crushes, and later, in work itself.

He majored in English and learned how to take stories apart and rebuild them. His professional life—as a training consultant—centered on writing: case studies, role plays, simulations, and other human dramas disguised as business exercises.

When Facebook imposed a 165-character limit on status updates in 2005, Paul began writing movie reviews within that narrow frame. The constraint sharpened his style and his sense of what truly mattered in a story. That same year, he wrote The Seven Slide Solution: How to Tell Your Business Story in Seven Slides or Less, a guide to communicating ideas with clarity and persuasion.

Paul describes himself not as a film critic but as a story reviewer—someone more interested in how stories work on us than in whether they “work”.

The search moves through familiar wine capitals before landing in Georgia, where a small, fractured family vineyard holds the answer. Camille schemes to force the wine into an international competition despite missing the deadline—undermining her own brand and, in the process, the life’s work of her fiancé. The fallout is swift: professional exile and personal collapse.

Issei, increasingly disillusioned, withdraws to Japan—less a parallel journey than an exit ramp—seeking resolution with a past that has always defined him.

They reunite only at the end, scattering their father’s ashes. Closure by gesture, not by drama.

Review: Season one worked because it understood its engine: two rivals bound by blood, intellect, and resentment, forced into proximity by a game only one could win. Wine was the medium—but tension was the product.

Season two dismantles that engine.

Camille and Issei spend most of the series apart, which drains the story of its central voltage. What replaces it—a protracted detour into a Georgian family feud—feels small, repetitive, and dramatically inert. Three episodes are spent circling a conflict that never earns its weight.

Worse, the series abandons its most compelling contrast: European instinct versus Japanese precision. That cultural tension—subtle, intelligent, and rare—was the show’s identity. Here, it’s largely absent.

The narrative choices compound the problem. Camille’s deception is less tragic than arbitrary, engineered to create consequences rather than arising from character. Issei’s withdrawal removes him from the board entirely.

And the ending—meant to suggest resolution—lands as absence. No real confrontation. No earned synthesis. Just a symbolic act standing in for a conclusion.

This isn’t a misstep. It’s a retreat.

Season two takes a series built on rivalry, intellect, and sensual detail—and replaces it with distance, repetition, and diminished stakes.

A rare case where a show doesn’t evolve. It simply lets go of what made it work.

Paul Kelly was born in Brooklyn, New York, and grew up in Westchester County. Like many of his generation, he was surrounded by stories—on screens, in books, on the radio, even in commercials and sports. Somewhere along the way, he began to see narrative patterns everywhere: in childhood games, teenage crushes, and later, in work itself.

He majored in English and learned how to take stories apart and rebuild them. His professional life—as a training consultant—centered on writing: case studies, role plays, simulations, and other human dramas disguised as business exercises.

When Facebook imposed a 165-character limit on status updates in 2005, Paul began writing movie reviews within that narrow frame. The constraint sharpened his style and his sense of what truly mattered in a story. That same year, he wrote The Seven Slide Solution: How to Tell Your Business Story in Seven Slides or Less, a guide to communicating ideas with clarity and persuasion.

Paul describes himself not as a film critic but as a story reviewer—someone more interested in how stories work on us than in whether they “work”.

Undeterred, Marty pursues the World Championship with the moral restraint of a bulldozer.

Along the way he impregnates a neighbor’s wife (Odessa A’zion), seduces a fading movie star (Kay Stone, played by Gwyneth Paltrow), drifts into dubious business dealings with the actress’s husband (Kevin O’Leary), loses a gangster’s beloved dog, hustles money wherever he can find it, and fends off constant interference from his needy mother (Fran Drescher) and over-protective uncle (Larry “Ratso” Sloman).

Review: Marty belongs to the Walter White / Travis Bickle school of ambition: pick a goal and ignore the wreckage.

In short — a classic sociopath.

He is difficult to like and harder to empathize with.

American culture loves the rags-to-riches story but rarely tallies the emotional and social wreckage along the way. Watching Marty raised an uncomfortable question: How far would I go to get something I really wanted? And the follow-up question: Have I ever wanted anything that badly?

The film benefits from unusually rich supporting characters. The most interesting dynamic is between Kay Stone — older, famous, career sliding downhill but still living well — and Marty, a hungry climber desperate for recognition. Their scenes together carry the movie.

Most sports films track an athlete from childhood to glory. Marty Supreme makes a more interesting choice. It drops into the story during the awkward middle stage — when talent is obvious but success still hasn’t paid the rent. Marty is gaining recognition but still can’t afford a decent suit. I can’t think of another sports movie that begins there.

The film isn’t flawless. The direction can feel frenetic, and Chalamet occasionally seems too conscious of playing the fast-talking New York smart-aleck. Paltrow is excellent. Kevin O’Leary — essentially playing himself — is a pleasant surprise. Fran Drescher, as Marty’s long-suffering mother, is more striking here than she ever was as The Nanny, freed from the armor of makeup and hair.

Will it become a classic? Probably not.

But compared with much of what passed for film in 2025, it earns its two hours.

Paul Kelly was born in Brooklyn, New York, and grew up in Westchester County. Like many of his generation, he was surrounded by stories—on screens, in books, on the radio, even in commercials and sports. Somewhere along the way, he began to see narrative patterns everywhere: in childhood games, teenage crushes, and later, in work itself.

He majored in English and learned how to take stories apart and rebuild them. His professional life—as a training consultant—centered on writing: case studies, role plays, simulations, and other human dramas disguised as business exercises.

When Facebook imposed a 165-character limit on status updates in 2005, Paul began writing movie reviews within that narrow frame. The constraint sharpened his style and his sense of what truly mattered in a story. That same year, he wrote The Seven Slide Solution: How to Tell Your Business Story in Seven Slides or Less, a guide to communicating ideas with clarity and persuasion.

Paul describes himself not as a film critic but as a story reviewer—someone more interested in how stories work on us than in whether they “work”.

The unit is chronically understaffed, perpetually tired, and operating under constant strain. Still, relationships take root: a forty-something former social worker paired with a widower, a grizzled veteran saddled with an earnest trainee, a hard-edged streetwise officer matched with a risk-averse partner, and others. Everyone is conventionally attractive in their own way—even the veteran who seems almost contractually obligated to die in the first season.

Review: This is a surprisingly American take on a street-level police drama, more ADAM-12 than Prime Suspect. Sirens wail, cars race through narrow streets, and guns are drawn with a frequency uncommon for British television, which usually favors cozy murders or cerebral detectives over kinetic urgency.

The ensemble cast is generally convincing and gives the producers ample latitude to play god—sparking romances, extinguishing them, indulging sexual tension, inflicting death, and applying unrelenting stress. Before long, however, the series slips into soap-opera rhythms.

For all its energy, Blue Lights never quite captures the grinding misery of Belfast the way The Wire or Homicide: Life on the Street did for Baltimore. It’s watchable and intermittently engaging, but probably not sufficient reason, on its own, to subscribe to BritBox.

Paul Kelly was born in Brooklyn, New York, and grew up in Westchester County. Like many of his generation, he was surrounded by stories—on screens, in books, on the radio, even in commercials and sports. Somewhere along the way, he began to see narrative patterns everywhere: in childhood games, teenage crushes, and later, in work itself.

He majored in English and learned how to take stories apart and rebuild them. His professional life—as a training consultant—centered on writing: case studies, role plays, simulations, and other human dramas disguised as business exercises.

When Facebook imposed a 165-character limit on status updates in 2005, Paul began writing movie reviews within that narrow frame. The constraint sharpened his style and his sense of what truly mattered in a story. That same year, he wrote The Seven Slide Solution: How to Tell Your Business Story in Seven Slides or Less, a guide to communicating ideas with clarity and persuasion.

Paul describes himself not as a film critic but as a story reviewer—someone more interested in how stories work on us than in whether they “work”.

Lorenz Hart (Ethan Hawke), Rodgers’ longtime lyricist and collaborator, has left the premiere early, dismissing Hammerstein’s lyrics as banal and giving himself a head start on his drinking. He is plainly devastated by Rodgers’ decision to move on.

At the bar, Hart entertains the bartender, the piano player, and the coat-check girl with witty anecdotes that barely disguise his bitterness. He speaks tenderly — and unrealistically — of his love for a Yale undergraduate (Margaret Qualley), half his age, who loves him back — just not in the way he hopes.

As the guests and the reviews drift in, it becomes evident that Rodgers and Hammerstein have a triumph on their hands. Hart, meanwhile, is left alone with the knowledge that he has been replaced.

Review: Lorenz Hart is presented here as a deeply damaged man — alcoholic, emotionally adrift, unsuccessful in love regardless of gender, needy, and self-deceiving. It becomes difficult not to feel for him — but equally difficult to remain with him for long.

The script seems intent on circling his humiliation rather than illuminating it. The result feels less like tragedy than confinement — a long evening at a bar listening to someone rehearse his grievances without quite arriving at insight. One begins to wish, gently, to be somewhere else.

The film remains stubbornly fixed in Hart’s present condition. We are given little sense of how he became this man or of the larger arc of his life beyond the unspoken inevitability of decline. It is dramatically static — all atmosphere, little movement.

Ethan Hawke’s performance is, without question, committed. The physical transformation is striking — the comb-over, the pallor, the shrinking posture. He seems almost to diminish in stature beside Margaret Qualley, Andrew Scott, and the looming presence of Oscar Hammerstein. Hawke gives the character texture and fragility that the script does not always provide.

Director Richard Linklater sets himself a difficult challenge: constructing a biopic around a figure many viewers know only vaguely, if at all. Unlike films about Ray Charles or Judy Garland, there is no ready-made cultural framework for the audience to lean on. That burden falls entirely on the storytelling.

If the aim is to reintroduce Hart as a brilliant poet and showman, focusing almost exclusively on what may have been the worst night of his life feels like a narrow doorway through which to ask us to enter. We see the wound but little of the vitality that once animated it.

Hawke’s performance alone may justify a viewing — particularly for Netflix subscribers. The rest of the production, however, feels as though it needed a broader canvas and a touch more generosity.

Paul Kelly was born in Brooklyn, New York, and grew up in Westchester County. Like many of his generation, he was surrounded by stories—on screens, in books, on the radio, even in commercials and sports. Somewhere along the way, he began to see narrative patterns everywhere: in childhood games, teenage crushes, and later, in work itself.

He majored in English and learned how to take stories apart and rebuild them. His professional life—as a training consultant—centered on writing: case studies, role plays, simulations, and other human dramas disguised as business exercises.

When Facebook imposed a 165-character limit on status updates in 2005, Paul began writing movie reviews within that narrow frame. The constraint sharpened his style and his sense of what truly mattered in a story. That same year, he wrote The Seven Slide Solution: How to Tell Your Business Story in Seven Slides or Less, a guide to communicating ideas with clarity and persuasion.

Paul describes himself not as a film critic but as a story reviewer—someone more interested in how stories work on us than in whether they “work”.

Saoirse (Róisín Gallagher) is now a high-profile crime writer with a mouth that runs slightly ahead of her judgment. Dara (Caoilfhionn Dunne) works in IT, which in television shorthand means she can access anything anywhere in under twelve seconds. Robyn (Sinéad Keenan) is a restless wife and mother, the emotional ballast—until she isn’t.

They descend on a small village in Donegal to pay respects, only to develop the sneaking suspicion that their friend Greta may not, in fact, be dead. Their search is fueled not solely by grief but by self-interest: years ago they witnessed Greta commit a horrific crime. If she resurfaces, so might the truth.

What follows is a brisk shuffle through the crime-series playbook: secrets, suspects, shadowy motivations, danger with the edges sanded down, and a polite dusting of humor.

Review: I began this series alert and oriented. By episode four, I was checking my own pulse.

I don’t believe dementia is contagious, but this show tests the theory. I found myself repeatedly asking, “Who is this character and why is she here?”—a question that should not accompany a plot allegedly designed to generate suspense.

We are introduced to a woman who runs an Underground Railroad for abused women. Admirable. She is also, inexplicably, a psychotic killer. Less admirable. And for reasons unexplained, she appears to be dressed for a Davy Crockett cosplay convention. No one comments. We move on.

A deceased journalist’s son appears, bearing an uncanny resemblance to how his father looked at the same age—less genetic plausibility, more cloning experiment. Again, no one blinks.

Nearly every episode plants a dramatic seed that never sprouts. A glance, a threat, a cryptic aside—each offered with the solemnity of significance and then abandoned like a half-written Post-it note. It’s not ambiguity; it’s narrative litter.

To its credit, the show resists the temptation to traffic in leprechauns or banshees. Ireland is presented without caricature, and there’s a liberal sprinkling of Gaelic to remind us where we are. The landscape does heavy lifting. It deserves better colleagues.

The performances are committed. Gallagher, in particular, brings a volatile energy that hints at a sharper series lurking beneath this one. Dunne and Keenan do what they can with characters that oscillate between archetype and afterthought.

Which leaves the lingering question: Is it me, or is Netflix slowly mistaking quantity for coherence?

I’m open to the possibility that I missed something. I’m less open to the idea that eight episodes of confusion are a sophisticated artistic choice.

A mystery should unsettle. It should not require a medical consult.

Paul Kelly was born in Brooklyn, New York, and grew up in Westchester County. Like many of his generation, he was surrounded by stories—on screens, in books, on the radio, even in commercials and sports. Somewhere along the way, he began to see narrative patterns everywhere: in childhood games, teenage crushes, and later, in work itself.

He majored in English and learned how to take stories apart and rebuild them. His professional life—as a training consultant—centered on writing: case studies, role plays, simulations, and other human dramas disguised as business exercises.

When Facebook imposed a 165-character limit on status updates in 2005, Paul began writing movie reviews within that narrow frame. The constraint sharpened his style and his sense of what truly mattered in a story. That same year, he wrote The Seven Slide Solution: How to Tell Your Business Story in Seven Slides or Less, a guide to communicating ideas with clarity and persuasion.

Paul describes himself not as a film critic but as a story reviewer—someone more interested in how stories work on us than in whether they “work”.

The refusal is earned. Gustav largely abandoned the family when Nora and her younger sister Agnes (Inga Ibsdotter Lilleaas) were children. Their mother unraveled and died too young, leaving Nora to raise Agnes—a task she performed with something close to heroism. Agnes has since built a functional family of her own and serves, even now, as the quiet adhesive holding this fractured unit together. Nora, by contrast, carries the residue: intimacy that curdles, panic that arrives unannounced, anger that has calcified into identity.

Spurned by his daughter, Gustav casts a young American actress, Rachel Kemp (Elle Fanning), in the role meant for Nora. The decision creates a tense geometry: two sisters and an outsider who, by stepping into the art, steps into the family.

Review: It would be easy to frame this as the swan song of a fading auteur clawing at immortality. But Gustav is not the gravitational center. The film belongs to the women orbiting him—and resisting his pull. Nora manages her rage like a chronic condition. Agnes practices reconciliation as if it were a moral discipline. Rachel, luminous and eager, becomes a kind of “ideal” daughter—devoted, receptive, unburdened by shared history.

The casting is impeccable. Reinsve and Lilleaas convince utterly as sisters; their scenes together carry the film’s emotional voltage. You believe their shared childhood without being shown it. Fanning, trading on a physical openness that reads as innocence rather than naïveté, makes Rachel’s devotion to the “great man” both credible and faintly unsettling. If you’re looking for catfights or easy villainy, you’ll be disappointed. The rivalries here are interior.

Much of the action unfolds indoors, as if no one will be allowed outside until the emotional debris has been sorted. In true Scandinavian fashion, there is brooding—long, searching looks into the middle distance as characters audit their souls.

A few quibbles. The intermittent blasts of contemporary music feel imported from another film, jarringly modern in an otherwise restrained chamber piece. And the abrupt black screens between scenes suggest an eye toward commercial breaks rather than artistic flow.

Still, these are irritants, not injuries. Sentimental Value understands where its power lies and resists the temptation to oversell it. It is less about forgiveness than about proximity—how close we can stand to those who made us, and how far we must sometimes move to survive them.

Paul Kelly was born in Brooklyn, New York, and grew up in Westchester County. Like many of his generation, he was surrounded by stories—on screens, in books, on the radio, even in commercials and sports. Somewhere along the way, he began to see narrative patterns everywhere: in childhood games, teenage crushes, and later, in work itself.

He majored in English and learned how to take stories apart and rebuild them. His professional life—as a training consultant—centered on writing: case studies, role plays, simulations, and other human dramas disguised as business exercises.

When Facebook imposed a 165-character limit on status updates in 2005, Paul began writing movie reviews within that narrow frame. The constraint sharpened his style and his sense of what truly mattered in a story. That same year, he wrote The Seven Slide Solution: How to Tell Your Business Story in Seven Slides or Less, a guide to communicating ideas with clarity and persuasion.

Paul describes himself not as a film critic but as a story reviewer—someone more interested in how stories work on us than in whether they “work”.

Review: There is something about Shakespeare. In Central Park or in a high-school auditorium, I can barely endure it. I gladly read him—the language is scrumptious, the wisdom enormous, even the iambic pentameter hums. But staged or filmed, I instinctively scan for the exit.

Thankfully, this production is not a polemic on the modern psyche. Still, the first two acts are nearly suffocating—bleak, shadowed, with multiple scenes (including a birth) staged deep in a forest where sunlight never quite penetrates.

The central thesis: Hamnet’s death inspires Shakespeare to write Hamlet. An odd hypothesis, given the play’s enthusiastic catalogue of murder—poison, stabbing, a poison-tipped sword, drowning. The bodies stack up. The modern equivalent might be grieving a lost child by writing a slasher film—Halloween, the original Michael Myers outing. By my count, Hamlet wins the body tally, 9–5.

The film functions largely as a literary exercise. There is virtually no historical evidence describing the marriage—no contemporary accounts of their relationship. Agnes becomes a blank slate, a projection of the novelist’s and director’s imaginations.

The cinematography is luminous, and Jessie Buckley is mesmerizing—I couldn’t look away. Yet the production never quite rang true. As with Hamlet itself, I felt an obligation to admire it, as though resistance implied deficiency.

By all means, see it and support the effort. I simply expected more.

Paul Kelly was born in Brooklyn, New York, and grew up in Westchester County. Like many of his generation, he was surrounded by stories—on screens, in books, on the radio, even in commercials and sports. Somewhere along the way, he began to see narrative patterns everywhere: in childhood games, teenage crushes, and later, in work itself.

He majored in English and learned how to take stories apart and rebuild them. His professional life—as a training consultant—centered on writing: case studies, role plays, simulations, and other human dramas disguised as business exercises.

When Facebook imposed a 165-character limit on status updates in 2005, Paul began writing movie reviews within that narrow frame. The constraint sharpened his style and his sense of what truly mattered in a story. That same year, he wrote The Seven Slide Solution: How to Tell Your Business Story in Seven Slides or Less, a guide to communicating ideas with clarity and persuasion.

Paul describes himself not as a film critic but as a story reviewer—someone more interested in how stories work on us than in whether they “work”.

Review: Movies and murder mysteries feel seasonal. Like pumpkins or cranberry sauce, they belong to fall. So when a competent, adult-aimed thriller shows up in January, I’m inclined to treat it kindly. His & Hers earns at least that courtesy.

Pairing a detective with an investigative reporter is a tidy premise. They pursue the same truth for different reasons and through different moral filters. The show leans hard into misdirection and McGuffins—sometimes too hard—but the excess has its uses. It creates a low-grade atmosphere of mistrust and unease, the kind that keeps you mentally circling the characters instead of settling on them. The flashbacks to the high-school years, and the casual cruelty of the “mean girls,” are engineered to tempt the viewer into thinking some version of they had it coming, which is always a dangerous and narratively useful impulse.

The series looks good. The casting is mostly solid, anchored by Tessa Thompson’s contained, watchful performance. Jon Bernthal, though, is a more complicated proposition. His “good-ol’-boy” detective in the middle of a multiple-homicide investigation sometimes feels like Billy Bob Thornton playing the Pope—an interesting choice, but one that strains credibility. It’s hard to imagine this Jack surviving long in a real-world task force. But realism is rarely the point. Mood is.

With the usual Netflix caveat about length and narrative padding, there are certainly worse ways to spend a few winter evenings. We took it two episodes a night over three nights. It held. It didn’t haunt. It didn’t embarrass itself either. In January, that almost counts as a recommendation.

Paul Kelly was born in Brooklyn, New York, and grew up in Westchester County. Like many of his generation, he was surrounded by stories—on screens, in books, on the radio, even in commercials and sports. Somewhere along the way, he began to see narrative patterns everywhere: in childhood games, teenage crushes, and later, in work itself.

He majored in English and learned how to take stories apart and rebuild them. His professional life—as a training consultant—centered on writing: case studies, role plays, simulations, and other human dramas disguised as business exercises.

When Facebook imposed a 165-character limit on status updates in 2005, Paul began writing movie reviews within that narrow frame. The constraint sharpened his style and his sense of what truly mattered in a story. That same year, he wrote The Seven Slide Solution: How to Tell Your Business Story in Seven Slides or Less, a guide to communicating ideas with clarity and persuasion.

Paul describes himself not as a film critic but as a story reviewer—someone more interested in how stories work on us than in whether they “work”.

Leonard makes beautiful bespoke suits. Which means his first and best customers are gangsters—specifically the Boyle family. The operation is nominally run by the patriarch Roy Boyle (Simon Russell Beale), assisted by two lieutenants: Francis (Johnny Flynn), whom Roy all but lifted from the gutter, and Richie (Dylan O’Brien), his own son and a chronic disappointment. The younger men detest one another in the precise, industrious way only criminals and siblings can.

As gangsters are inclined to do, the Boyles turn Leonard’s shop into a parasite’s nest—using it as a drop box for numbers runners and a neutral ground for business better conducted nowhere at all. With police pressure mounting and a rival gang encroaching on Boyle territory, the tailor shop becomes the unlikely center of every personal, criminal, and existential conflict. Leonard and Mabel must draw on everything they know—and much they don’t—to avoid being swallowed by the chaos they’ve been quietly serving.

Review: This small 2022 gem somehow slipped past me until a friend recently pressed it into my hands. I’m glad he did. The Outfit is close to a perfect synthesis of film elements—writing, casting, direction, production design, cinematography, performance—all pulling in the same, disciplined direction.

Director Graham Moore (who also co-wrote the screenplay) builds the film around Rylance’s still, watchful center, supported by a cast of largely unfamiliar faces (to me, at least), including Irish and Irish-American actors who give the Boyle crew an unpolished credibility. Nobody feels imported. Nobody feels ornamental.

What struck me most was the restraint. The film behaves as if the crew set up the lights, went out for a long lunch, and trusted the actors to carry the day. No chase scenes. No explosions. No slow motion. No digital hysteria. And yet it is never slow. I was alert—leaning forward—from the first stitch to the last.

For perspective: this film reportedly cost around $5 million. The three highest-budget films of 2022—Avatar: The Way of Water, Jurassic World Dominion, and Top Gun: Maverick—cost a combined $880 million.

If my math is even roughly right, you could make 176 Outfits for the price of those three movies. That’s more than three a week. One every two days. About 352 hours of modestly scaled, carefully made entertainment. Nearly fifteen days of grown-up pleasure.

Which would make writing these reviews much easier.

But there’s no accounting for taste.

Paul Kelly was born in Brooklyn, New York, and grew up in Westchester County. Like many of his generation, he was surrounded by stories—on screens, in books, on the radio, even in commercials and sports. Somewhere along the way, he began to see narrative patterns everywhere: in childhood games, teenage crushes, and later, in work itself.

He majored in English and learned how to take stories apart and rebuild them. His professional life—as a training consultant—centered on writing: case studies, role plays, simulations, and other human dramas disguised as business exercises.

When Facebook imposed a 165-character limit on status updates in 2005, Paul began writing movie reviews within that narrow frame. The constraint sharpened his style and his sense of what truly mattered in a story. That same year, he wrote The Seven Slide Solution: How to Tell Your Business Story in Seven Slides or Less, a guide to communicating ideas with clarity and persuasion.

Paul describes himself not as a film critic but as a story reviewer—someone more interested in how stories work on us than in whether they “work”.