At this moment, like few before him and even fewer after, Cimino could afford to do literally anything. He pulls out a script written at the beginning of the decade for his dream project, depicting a bloody chapter of American history, and convinces United Artists to fund it entirely without supervision. The producers agree without hesitation, sensing another major hit of the season. Convinced of his infallibility, Cimino steps onto the set of… Heaven’s Gate.

1870. The prestigious Harvard University is bidding farewell to another generation of its students. Among them are James Averill (Kris Kristofferson in the role of his life) and Billy Irvine (the much-missed John Hurt)—two best friends who seem to be well-liked stars in vastly different areas of life. Averill is the athletic type—a typical American “golden boy.” Irvine, on the other hand, has the gift of gab—a thinker who poses as the class clown. While James enjoys the farewell party, feeling that the world belongs to him, Billy alone drowns his sorrows over the future, bidding farewell to a paradise lost.

Twenty years later, they meet on opposite sides of the barricade. Averill is now a sheriff in Johnson County (Wyoming, here portrayed by the equally stunning landscapes of Montana and Idaho). He mingles with the working class, is in love with a prostitute (Isabelle Huppert in her first English-speaking role), and defends the interests of the growing number of European immigrants. Meanwhile, Irvine remains among the elite—frequenting the lavish salons of the Cattlemen’s Association, whose members dream of quickly ridding the land of outsiders. To achieve this, they hire another of Averill’s friends, Nathan Champion (the inimitable Christopher Walken)—a ruthless man quick to pull the trigger, though he also has his own interests among the people he is tasked with eliminating. A bloody confrontation is inevitable…

Those even somewhat familiar with U.S. history from the era of the real Wild West (here already yielding to progress) will likely guess that this involves the Johnson County War (1889–1893), which was indirectly featured in earlier classics like Shane and The Virginian. Indeed, the original title of Cimino’s screenplay was The Johnson County War. However, the director ultimately settled on Heaven’s Gate (after a skating rink featured in several scenes—a little piece of heaven), using the war merely as a backdrop for a love story. He selectively uses historical facts to highlight the eternal conflict between the rich and the poor, where those in power dictate harsh conditions, and the rest must adapt or perish. It’s no surprise, then, that his film—a Western and anti-Western in one—is steeped in bitterness to the very end, only seemingly happy on the surface. Nor is it surprising that the production was a complete commercial failure.

The premiere, which took place 45 years ago, was delayed by a full year, primarily due to Cimino’s perfectionism. Nicknamed “The Ayatollah” by his crew, his approach rivaled the obsessive methods of Stanley Kubrick or the then-fresh reports from the set of Apocalypse Now. In fact, the press mockingly referred to the project as Apocalypse Next. Legends surrounded what Cimino did during filming: regularly insulting actors and crew, firing and rehiring staff weekly (a fate suffered by a young Willem Dafoe, whose debut role as Willy was cut entirely), and demolishing meticulously constructed sets were reportedly standard practices.

Cruel treatment of animals—primarily roosters and horses—was another issue, with at least four animals dying during filming. This controversy led to the implementation of animal welfare oversight in the industry, marked by the now-familiar disclaimer, “No animals were harmed in the making of this film.” Cimino’s obsession with perfection extended to the opening scenes at Harvard (actually shot at Oxford and Cambridge), where a massive tree was cut down, chopped into pieces, and transported from another location entirely. Filming took place exclusively on real locations, and like Days of Heaven, many scenes were shot during the so-called magic hour (the brief moment between sunset and nightfall), which only deepened the chaos of the production.

Unstable weather, lengthy commutes to remote locations involving over 2,500 extras, 150 craftsmen, and 80 horse teams; constant on-the-fly script rewrites; and numerous disputes between Cimino and the producers (for instance, over casting Isabelle Huppert, whom UA executives considered too… unattractive). These and other issues meant that after just five days of filming, the production was already four days behind schedule—exactly the length of Sam Peckinpah’s visit to the set (coincidence?).

Much of the crew often spent hours, sometimes days, waiting for their turn. This waiting occasionally stretched to absurd lengths, prompting those involved to seek other challenges. For instance, John Williams, the composer initially attached to the project, withdrew after Cimino fell six months behind schedule. He was replaced by a young David Mansfield, who not only composed the score but also appeared on screen as the cheerful fiddler John DeCory. Meanwhile, John Hurt completed all his scenes for The Elephant Man and then calmly returned to Heaven’s Gate, which was still filming in Rhode Island and Massachusetts.

All these factors naturally impacted the budget, which quickly grew from a “modest” eleven million dollars to four times that amount, resulting in a total expenditure equivalent to today’s 200 million dollars (!!!), making it one of the most expensive investments of its time (though, paradoxically, not for United Artists, whose peak expense during this period was the latest James Bond adventure, Moonraker). This illustrates not only Cimino’s inflated ego—who, by the way, managed to squeeze extra money out of the producers by placing parts of the production on land he owned—but also the immense complexity of the undertaking and the sheer scale of the spectacle. The magnitude is further evidenced by the amount of footage ultimately recorded.

Over nearly six months of filming, nearly half a million meters of 70mm film were used. From this, the director personally, under lock and key and with an editing room protected from producer interference, pieced together a five-and-a-half-hour foundational version of the fresco. This was later trimmed, also by Cimino himself, to 219 minutes (for comparison: The Deer Hunter was 183 minutes long). The studio then further edited the film down to a more audience-friendly two and a half hours. However, such measures did not prevent the movie from becoming a financial disaster, a failure not solely caused by its widely criticized R rating.

To say that Heaven’s Gate flopped at the box office is to say almost nothing. With total earnings of just five million dollars (including subsequent home distribution), it was a true disaster—one of the greatest in the history of cinema. As a result, United Artists was pushed to the brink of bankruptcy and was ultimately acquired by MGM. The failure was so loud and so devastating that for years Heaven’s Gate became synonymous with cinematic disaster in the industry. When similar issues plagued Kevin Costner’s Waterworld in 1995, the press sarcastically referred to it as “Kevin’s Gate.”

Moreover, Cimino’s failure definitively marked the end of the high-budget auteur-driven spectacles of the 1970s, restoring the studio control that remains dominant today. This was the culmination of several other financial misfires from that era, including William Friedkin’s Sorcerer and The Brink’s Job, Steven Spielberg’s war comedy 1941, Warren Beatty’s Reds, and finally Francis Ford Coppola’s One from the Heart. All of these filmmakers were once seen as revelations, delivering masterpieces that were also box office hits. However, each severely strained their reputations with bold, costly projects. Except for Spielberg, none of them managed to bounce back. Yet none fell with as loud a crash as Cimino.

The director was not only forced to bury his next project—a western based on Frederick Manfred’s novel Conquering Horse, telling the story of the Sioux (Dakota people) and planned to be shot entirely in their language (a concept later realized by Mel Gibson in Apocalypto)—but also found himself unable to secure any work for the next five years. From Hollywood’s golden child, he became its most unwanted outcast. Furthermore, every subsequent film Cimino made after Heaven’s Gate also left much to be desired financially. One could even argue that Cimino disappeared overnight into the abyss of the American dream factory.

Cimino also dragged Kris Kristofferson down with him. His position as a leading star was similarly buried, and from that point onward, Kristofferson—who described the role as the hardest and simultaneously the most satisfying work of his career, something he would remain proud of for the rest of his life—was relegated mainly to supporting roles or memorable cameos. Interestingly, all these consequences seemed to bypass the Western genre itself. At the time in crisis, caught between its classical and revisionist forms, the genre only saw a revival in subsequent years, ultimately returning in a blaze of glory thanks to… Costner and his Dances with Wolves.

For the producers of Heaven’s Gate, a consolation prize came in the form of an Oscar nomination for Art Direction—especially when compared to the Golden Raspberry Award bestowed upon the film for Worst Director and several other nominations for this dubious honor. A few positive voices in favor of the production couldn’t mask the overall negative reception, not only among audiences but also critics. American critics were particularly harsh on the film (often even before watching it!), only appreciating it more as time passed. Reception in other countries wasn’t much better, though the further east one traveled from Eden (New York’s Eden, of course), the more favorable the views became.

Especially in France, this work—like nearly all of Cimino’s other films—was loved from the beginning, earning him a Palme d’Or nomination and, years later, the chance to revisit his creation. This resulted in the release of the 2012 director’s cut, with a runtime of 217 minutes—closest to his vision, and given the director’s passing, considered the definitive and sole authoritative version. It was also appropriately restored, refreshed (including color grading), and corrected for technical errors to meet modern standards. And… how beautiful it is.

Abstracting from all the production dilemmas, historical intricacies, and the exceptionally poor reception upon its release, this is a truly breathtaking piece of cinema—rich, colorful, and crafted with extraordinary meticulousness. And it’s not just about the painterly frames of the legendary Vilmos Zsigmond’s camera, the stunning landscapes of wild prairies, and the majestic mountains stretching to the horizon. Nor is it solely about the bucolic and homely charm imbued in the moving picture, tinged with a note of bitterness but also genuine optimism, accompanied by a delightful soundtrack. This music includes The Blue Danube by Johann Strauss and lively performances by a “rural” band featuring the aforementioned Mansfield and T Bone Burnett.

Although the intrigue is relatively simple and the plot is smoothly executed in a classic, experiment-free style—both in form and substance—its universality can captivate, while its calm style—devoid of excessive pathos, fiery speeches glorifying the nation, and waving stars-and-stripes flags—is enthralling. The romantic nature of the story, its setting in a context that is historically relevant to us as well, and the neutrality, even innocence, of the untouched nature surrounding the settlers, creates an unforgettable atmosphere. It adds flavor to the adventure, intensifies emotions—sometimes even generating them in the numerous characters who are driven by it to act. After all, the battle here is about a magnificent land, unspoiled by the sins of civilization.

In this battle, alongside the previously mentioned Hurt, Kristofferson, Huppert, and Walken, the cast includes an ensemble of remarkable actors—perfectly chosen to enhance engagement with the cause (currently relevant, albeit for different reasons). Sam Waterston is superb with his mustache as the villainous Frank Canton, and Joseph Cotten wrings everything out of his modest yet crucial cameo. Jeff Bridges shines, as usual, playing… his own ancestor, John L. Bridges, which he himself suggested to the director. Like Kristofferson, he was also extremely proud of this film. He was the only one from the crew to keep a modest piece of it—a part of the set, a small house, which now stands on his property in Montana.

Ronnie Hawkins, Paul Koslo, Geoffrey Lewis, Richard Masur, Tom Noonan, and Mickey Rourke complete this stellar cast, turning even the smallest roles into fully realized characters—memorable not just because of the familiar faces behind them. This film also marked the debut of notable figures: the distinctive Kai Wulff, one of Hollywood’s go-to Germans (Three Amigos), and Terry O’Quinn, best known today for the series Lost, whose life was literally set on track by this job as he met… his future wife on set. Finally, Brad Dourif is fantastic as the timid, slightly awkward Eggleston, associated with another significant and successful aspect of the film that deserves special mention.

In the multicultural immigrant community depicted in the film, there was also room for Poles (representing the remnants of a homeland that did not exist at that time). Hence, the cast includes Waldemar Kalinowski, Margaret Benczak, and a few other Polish-sounding names. This is hardly surprising, given our significant contribution to building the myth of the United States, and the fact that Poles often appear in Cimino’s films, even in the background. Cimino himself always spoke appreciatively of the Polish people. However, the Polish language has never garnered as much attention in his work as it does here. This is largely due to the well-crafted portrayal of “minor” characters of Slavic origin and the beautifully delivered lines in Polish—most notably by Dourif, who handles the challenge masterfully. In this regard, the film is a true gem in cultivating the Polish image on the big screen, and it serves as the cherry on top of the overall brilliance of Heaven’s Gate.

Of course, the production is not without its flaws. For one, the typical Hollywood approach of loosely interpreting—or even distorting—historical facts (e.g., the real James Averill was hanged alongside Ella in front of their home, and the U.S. Army seen in action here was not part of the bloody conflict but rather its resolution). Additionally, the pervasive presence of smoke or dust in many frames can make the viewing experience challenging, as does the film’s considerable length. The runtime, in particular, can sometimes become a bit taxing and may deter less patient cinephiles.

While there are hardly any scenes that are entirely superfluous or fail to contribute to the plot, and some storylines even feel like they could have been explored further, it’s difficult to shake the impression that the film could have been slightly shorter overall. Despite featuring truly spectacular scenes (as well as sex, blood, and profanity), the director clearly prioritizes exposition over action, focusing on credibility and complex relationships rather than fireworks. He luxuriates in individual shots, breaking the drama and narrative flow of the spectacle, unconcerned with time. But that’s also the nature of this film—poetic, one to be savored in much the same way.

Heaven’s Gate is a film that can be written about, reflected upon, and debated endlessly—a hallmark of the greatest works of cinema. Indeed, since its premiere, countless publications have been devoted to Michael Cimino’s film—essays, articles, books, and even documentaries analyzing the genesis, production, and colossal failure of the entire venture. Yet, perhaps the best summary of the project (and its creator) comes from the film’s editor, William Reynolds:

“Michael didn’t want respect. He wanted admiration.”

The bastard succeeded—though he paid an enormous price for it.

I stumbled upon quite a gem—a true classic: the first full-length anime film by Hayao Miyazaki, released in 1979. Before The Castle of Cagliostro, Miyazaki directed two TV series about Lupin—Lupin III and The New Lupin III—as well as the series Future Boy Conan. This full-length Lupin III is the story of the titular hero—a thief—who, together with his companion, sets out to investigate the mysterious castle of the Cagliostro family. It’s worth mentioning that many have ventured into those parts, but none have ever returned… let alone solved the mystery.

That would be a brief summary of The Castle of Cagliostro. However, such a cursory description of one of Miyazaki’s earliest works would be somewhat unfair, so let’s delve deeper into the story. We’ll discuss the characters and their diversity later, but first, everything begins with Lupin and his companion robbing a casino, only to discover that the stolen money is perfect counterfeits—legendary so-called “goat bills.” The protagonists then set off for the titular Cagliostro duchy, the homeland of these mysterious “goat bills.” Danger being their second nature, they quickly decide to uncover the secret, despite the fact that many have tried and failed. Along the way, they encounter a bride being chased by pursuers; Lupin rescues her, and she gives him a mysterious ring. It soon turns out that the ring is coveted by an evil duke who resides in a nearby fortress-like castle. The duke also intends to marry the rescued bride, locking her in a tall tower. Thus, all clues to the mystery lead to the prince’s castle…

It’s important to note that this is far from the only thread in the plot. Even in the early days of his career in anime, Miyazaki favored complex, intriguing storylines, diverse characters, and plenty of action twists—and the latter is certainly abundant here. The plot also involves Interpol, and the mystery of the “goat bills” (counterfeits) fades into the background when it turns out the real prize is a hidden treasure somewhere near the castle, the object of the duke’s obsession. A few flashbacks from Lupin’s life, classic and excellent Japanese humor, surprises, and unexpected plot twists all combine to create this full-length Lupin III movie.

As for the production, it’s evident that this is an older anime—most notably in the simplified drawings and sometimes economical animation. But, folks, this is a 1979 film, so don’t expect the advanced standards of Japanese animation from the last ten or fifteen years. Older anime has its own charm, and for its time, the animation and artwork are quite good, especially the former—vivid, fast-paced, and deliberately comedic in places, which only enhances the final effect. Connoisseurs of Miyazaki’s later works will undoubtedly recognize character designs that influenced his future creations. However, a character as colorful as Lupin is quite unique; I haven’t encountered such a personality in any of Miyazaki’s later films.

Lupin himself is the essence of this movie—a colorful, cheerful, brave, charismatic character. Slightly cocky but always confident. His profession? A thief—an expert one who can get in and out of any situation. He is a descendant of another famous thief of the same name, hence Lupin III. A flirt, sometimes a bit cheeky, talkative, wild, and flamboyant. I’d say he’s probably the most vibrant character in any Miyazaki film. He’s also pursued by an Interpol inspector named Zenigata, who has vowed to arrest Lupin at all costs. Unfortunately for him, despite his good intentions, Zenigata is sometimes rather clumsy.

As for Lupin’s constant companion, Jigen, not much is known, but it’s clear they’ve known each other for a long time and share mutual trust. Jigen is as wild as Lupin and unafraid of danger. There’s also the enigmatic Goemon, a samurai with incredible skills, who aids the duo in uncovering the castle’s secret. The rescued bride, Clarisse, turns out to be a descendant of the Cagliostro family. Then there’s the mysterious Fujiko, an old acquaintance of Lupin, working undercover in the duke’s estate.

On the antagonist side, the lead character is, of course, the duke himself, blinded by his obsession with the hidden treasure. He underestimates Lupin’s skills, a mistake he’ll regret more than once. The entire movie follows the classic battle of good versus evil. While Lupin is a professional thief, he represents good here, fighting against the evil duke. He fights for Clarisse, much like a knight rescuing a princess locked in a tower. This kind of story isn’t groundbreaking, but let’s not forget that such tales were popular a quarter of a century ago. These plots, actions, and themes had their undeniable charm, which persists even today—and likely won’t fade anytime soon. After all, how can the timeless and universal themes of a story, exploited countless times in later years, ever grow old? Even if not always with great success…

The movie is accompanied by pleasant music composed by Yuji Ono. At this point, Joe Hisaishi wasn’t yet Miyazaki’s regular collaborator, though his music appeared in the director’s next anime, Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind.

The Castle of Cagliostro is a classic tale reimagined in the anime medium. A delightful treat for fans of Miyazaki’s work. While it may not be as brilliant as some other anime I’ve seen, it has a unique charm, and following the fates of the protagonists is an effortless pleasure. An evil duke, a mysterious castle, a princess, a thief and his friends, the eternal battle of good versus evil—these elements never get old, especially when done well. A solid seven out of ten.

I think this is the moment in Kieran Culkin ‘s career when he can finally say he has stepped out of the shadow of his brother Macaulay. This was, of course, a shadow of a purely commercial and iconic nature, making it highly subjective. Kieran’s film portfolio is full of serious, dramatically refined roles that emerged in his adulthood. Macaulay, on the other hand, experienced a boom in popularity as a child, which did not carry through to his maturity. What survived, however, is a legend that Kieran has painstakingly built upon in his career over the years—albeit more slowly and with greater focus on artistic craftsmanship. The Golden Globe for A Real Pain is the first concrete recognition of these efforts in film (he had previously been awarded for his role in the series Succession). However, Kieran earned this recognition through roles like the ones mentioned below.

Fuller McCallister, Home Alone (1990), directed by Chris Columbus

His character is marginal and has little significance to Kevin’s story. However, one might interpret Fuller McCallister’s existence as a way to highlight how little Kevin matters to the entire family, especially on such an important day as their departure for Christmas vacation. Nevertheless, Kieran had already encountered the big world of cinema, barely touching it but learning invaluable lessons for the future—lessons that paved the way for today’s Golden Globe.

Kevin Dillon, The Mighty (1998), directed by Peter Chelson

Perhaps Kieran’s best childhood role, and maybe even one of his best overall? He played a character with a heart too large for his body, both literally and figuratively—a condition that made living in the real world difficult. Kevin created an alternate world for himself, pulling a socially ostracized friend into it, thereby saving not his physical life but his mental and emotional one. The journey with Kevin was portrayed by Kieran with extraordinary sensitivity.

Buster, The Cider House Rules (1999), directed by Lasse Hallström

While this wasn’t a major role, it complemented the array of characters in The Cider House Rules. At this stage, Kieran was still finding his footing as an actor. Perhaps he hadn’t yet realized that he would take on challenging personalities with debatable entertainment value. Note his facial expressions as Buster, his slouched posture, restrained and subdued movements, and the scene where he runs to Dr. Larch, lying in a child’s pose with a mask on—a moment transporting him to a better world.

Igby, Igby Goes Down (2002), directed by Burr Steers

The star-studded cast didn’t help this film financially, and it is rarely referenced now by viewers or critics. Perhaps this is because it’s another story of a cheaper “rebel by choice,” given the tropes commonly used in coming-of-age dramas. However, in Kieran’s filmography, it is an important entry. The tragedy he portrays here has a temporal quality that is not necessarily more mature but distinct—deeply relatable to anyone who wants to experience life intensely.

Jimmy Bartlett, Lymelife (2008), directed by Derick Martini

The film’s main protagonist is Scott, played by Rory Culkin, Kieran’s younger brother. Jimmy’s role should be considered as background support, stabilizing the protagonist’s situation formally rather than thematically. Lymelife is almost forgotten and certainly underrated. Kieran’s role might not be the most colorful, but it’s worth noting that he wasn’t intimidated by his brother’s presence. He focused on his craft, demonstrating professionalism and confidence before the camera—qualities that led to his recent Golden Globe.

Neil, Movie 43 (2012), directed by Peter Farrelly and Elizabeth Banks

One of the short sketches in this outrageous film takes place in a supermarket. Neil, a quirky cashier, has an intense conversation with his ex-girlfriend, unaware of a live microphone nearby. Strong phrases are exchanged, involving hickeys, face drenching, and inserting fingers in unspeakable places. However, Kieran delivers these lines with such commitment and dramatic seriousness that they resonate regardless of the content.

Roman Roy, Succession (2018–2023), created by Jesse Armstrong

A complex role that requires deeper understanding to appreciate. Roman Roy is a sarcastic, defiant, and rebellious individual who has almost pathologically learned to benefit from his own humiliation and the humiliation of others—whether as the perpetrator or victim. Roman delights in degrading others and is vulgar towards those beneath him. Beneath this brash exterior lies deep insecurity caused by his father, which permeates his work, personal life, and sexuality. It could be said that Roman has a father complex, which Kieran portrays with remarkable nuance.

Under the right circumstances and with a bit of luck, one can thus receive substantial compensation in case of an unexpected accident (a concept literally reflected in the original title of Billy Wilder’s film Double Indemnity). The catch is that to gain, one must first lose something—such as a life. However, such risks can be thrilling, making it a game worth playing for many—a tempting opportunity they often succumb to, frequently encouraged by equally money-hungry partners.

That’s precisely what happened with Ruth Snyder and her lover, Henry Judd Gray. In the 1920s, they became (in)famous after murdering Ruth’s husband, Albert, having first successfully persuaded him to take out a substantial insurance policy. They didn’t get a chance to enjoy the extra cash, however, as they were quickly caught and tried. And since this was a time when authorities didn’t handle criminals with kid gloves, it wasn’t long before a photograph of Snyder’s execution on the electric chair at Sing Sing prison made headlines nationwide. The photo even reached the hands of writer and journalist James M. Cain, author of the similarly themed novel The Postman Always Rings Twice, who turned the entire story into an equally popular book. And just like the aforementioned title, Double Indemnity quickly caught Hollywood’s attention.

Specifically, it piqued the interest of master director Billy Wilder, known for his ability to turn almost any material he touched into cinematic gold (not just Oscar-winning, though Double Indemnity did receive seven nominations, becoming his first major success). However, in this case, the filmmaker faced significant challenges, primarily due to the story’s uncomfortable nature in the context of the times. It took Wilder nearly eight years to appease censors operating under the restrictive Hays Code—when he first tried in 1935, it was deemed that the book was simply unsuitable for a film that could be shown to the American public. Furthermore, Wilder’s longtime screenwriting partner, Charles Brackett, refused to collaborate on the script because it made him uncomfortable.

The tumult of World War II eventually shifted ethical boundaries and public sensitivities significantly. But even then—in 1944—Wilder had to put in considerable effort and make numerous changes to his adaptation to gain approval. His efforts paid off handsomely, as the success of Double Indemnity not only helped Hollywood pay its overdue bills but also practically established the narrative standards of film noir.

Although it wasn’t the first noir film (that distinction is usually given to the 1940’s Stranger on the Third Floor, starring the immortal Peter Lorre), it was unquestionably the most significant of its era. It paved the way for future milestones of the genre and its unconventional creators, such as Jules Dassin, Nicholas Ray, and Otto Preminger. It also marked the beginning of inflated salaries for leading actors, with the cast of Double Indemnity costing the studio an astronomical (for the time) $100,000 per head, the highest pay in the industry. Above all, it firmly established the defining characteristics of film noir, particularly the archetype of the femme fatale, masterfully portrayed here by Barbara Stanwyck.

The profound influence of Stanwyck’s performance and the plot of Double Indemnity on later cinematic achievements is evidenced by the fact that, just a few months later, a knock-off film titled Single Indemnity was set to hit theaters. Ultimately, Paramount Pictures, the studio behind the original, managed to block its distribution, and the material shot with Ann Savage and Hugh Beaumont was later reworked into a crime television program called Apology for Murder. Fittingly so, considering that the starting point of Double Indemnity is the confession of a dying criminal, who in his statement does not so much directly apologize to his boss (a flawless Edward G. Robinson as Barton Keyes) for the committed murder as he tries to explain it (to himself as well), inadvertently saving the life of an innocent young man who becomes the primary suspect.

Spoiler alert? Not really, as this is not only the very beginning of Wilder’s film but also a variation of the true story mentioned at the outset, which cinema, as I noted, later adapted in many different ways. Pop culture has processed it so thoroughly that, despite its reliance on several twists, it hardly surprises anymore and is thus difficult to spoil. Its strength lies in its message and (at the time) the innovative style in which it is presented—much like the insurance schemes we’re “tempted” with in real life.

And just as insurance agents embellish the attractiveness of rates and the profitability of signing another policy, Hollywood also embellished the truth. Thus, the not particularly attractive and not very intelligent Ruth became the sexy, cunning, and shrewd blonde bombshell Phyllis Dietrichson (Nirdlinger in the book—on screen, of course, played by Stanwyck). Her rather mediocre accomplice, a married corset salesman (!), transformed into a handsome, strapping bachelor who knew the system inside out, insurance agent Walter Neff (Fred MacMurray, previously known primarily for comedic roles, who was cast only after many other big-screen stars declined, fearing for their image). Interestingly, life once again surprised the filmmakers. Neff—Huff in the novel—was supposed to be named Walter Ness, but it turned out that there actually was an insurance agent by that name in Beverly Hills.

Unsurprisingly, what in reality took the duo seven chaotic attempts and ultimately involved an overdose of chloroform becomes, in the film, a flawlessly executed operation, a bulletproof plan worthy of the best heist movies. It holds as much tension from beginning to end—and even beyond—as the real fun begins only after achieving the goal. Wrestling with one’s weaknesses and newly compromised (not just professional) ethics is one thing, while growing distrust toward one’s partner in crime is another matter entirely. After all, if you’ve killed once for money, why not do it again?

Although Double Indemnity entered theaters amidst scandal—with a full-blown campaign against the film launched in the name of protecting public morality—it quickly became an undeniable hit. Audiences flocked to the box office in droves, ensuring that the $900,000 budget was recouped six times over. The critical reception was also predominantly positive, evidenced by the aforementioned Academy Award nominations (losing to the now largely forgotten, “safe” musical Going My Way by Leo McCarey). However, its reputation and status as a true classic came later. Today, the film is still listed among the best achievements in cinema—not just American but worldwide—and ranks highly in various “best of” lists, from IMDb’s Top 250 to the personal list of the late Roger Ebert. Even on Rotten Tomatoes, it has achieved an impressive 96% freshness rating.

Even Wilder considered it one of the most perfect and polished works he had ever created—despite glaring mistakes like the wedding ring visible on Neff’s finger, doors opening outward, or Stanwyck’s overly artificial-looking wig (all of which the crew noticed too late to correct). Most impressed with Double Indemnity was Cain himself. The writer frequented the cinema, admitting that the moving picture was simply smarter than its literary counterpart and regretting that he hadn’t thought of some of the solutions himself. Ironically, the adaptation of his prose was penned by a fellow writer and crime fiction icon, Raymond Chandler, who always spoke dismissively of Cain’s work.

It was Chandler—the creator of detective Philip Marlowe and author of equally successful books adapted into films like Farewell, My Lovely and The Long Goodbye—who was largely responsible for the film’s sharp, witty dialogues filled with double meanings, delivered with remarkable naturalness by the characters. He also infused the project with the unique atmosphere of 1940s Los Angeles, further highlighted in the finished product by Miklós Rózsa’s dramatic (and by today’s standards, overly dramatic) score and John F. Seitz’s brilliantly shadowy cinematography. According to Wilder, Seitz reached the limit in portraying sunny California as a particularly gloomy and dark place (reportedly, it was sometimes so dim on set that the actors were barely visible).

Chandler, for his part—already seriously addicted to alcohol—constantly infuriated Wilder, subconsciously pushing boundaries in the Hollywood industry. He managed not only to secure complete control over the script and contract terms unavailable to others, especially those like him debuting in cinema, but also to win all disputes with producers and Wilder, with whom he endlessly argued. Uncharacteristically for him, the uncompromising filmmaker bent under pressure and apologized to the writer. He then went on to make The Lost Weekend, a film about an alcoholic writer, where he could vent all his frustrations from the collaboration and “explain Chandler to himself.”

Before that, he captured Chandler on film—his brief cameo as a man in glasses sitting near Keyes’ office now holds historical value, as no other cinematic materials featuring Chandler have survived. After this experience, Chandler rarely returned to film, adding only The Blue Dahlia (written in 1946, reportedly entirely while drunk) and Hitchcock’s Strangers on a Train (1951, and yet another heated clash with the director) to his cinematic repertoire. There was also the screenplay for Universal’s Playback, ultimately unproduced, which became his last completed novel.

As for Double Indemnity, it inspired three separate radio adaptations—each featuring Stanwyck reprising her role—as well as a small-screen version of the same name (1973—notably the same year as the premiere of The Long Goodbye directed by Robert Altman) and three remakes: the little-known Eruption (1977), Bollywood’s Jism (2003), and the excellent Body Heat by Lawrence Kasdan (1981), which simultaneously serves as a homage to the genre classic. In the 1970s, there were plans for a new adaptation starring Robert Redford, but the idea (fortunately?) fell through. However, Steve Martin successfully incorporated clips from Wilder’s masterpiece into his spoof Dead Men Don’t Wear Plaid.

These examples not only demonstrate the film’s enduring popularity but also solidify its position in the cinematic world. They prove its great versatility and timelessness—resistant to both aging and obsolescence. This parable about human greed, the mind’s intoxication by money, and the ease with which we succumb to daily temptations captures sins for which one ultimately pays the highest price. Sins that we seem not to notice or actively ignore out of sheer selfishness. The protagonists of Wilder/Cain/Chandler justify themselves with love while speaking the language of pure desire. They promise loyalty while pulling the trigger without hesitation. And all these shades of life are laid out for us—and for them—beautifully, in black and white.

Movies or series dealing with the theme of espionage generally fall into two categories. Either they are purely entertainment-oriented, where realism takes a back seat to spectacle and fun (or comedic elements), or the creators aim to faithfully portray the specifics of deep-cover agents’ work. The trailers for Black Doves, a Netflix production starring Keira Knightley and Ben Whishaw, suggested it would be part of the former category.

The plot starts intriguingly, though somewhat predictably. In London, just days before Christmas, three people are murdered. One of them, Jason (Andrew Koji), turns out to be the lover of Helen Webb (Knightley), the wife of a prominent politician who is even being considered as a future prime minister. Helen decides to find out who killed Jason. Since she herself works for a mysterious organization and spies on her husband, she has both the skills and resources to take on this task. She is assisted by Sam (Whishaw), a hitman and an old friend who had to flee England years ago. Following the best traditions of the genre, the initially trivial intrigue begins to expand into something much larger.

As I sat down to watch, I hoped the series would evoke the vibe of Guy Ritchie films, infused with a spy-movie flavor. To some extent, Black Doves delivers entertainment that echoes the works of the Snatch director. There’s a touch of London’s criminal underworld, a few quirky characters connected to it (such as two colorful assassins), strong language delivered with a delightful British accent, and some twists and turns—of varying quality. At the same time, the writers, likely trying to add depth to the characters and prevent them from being entirely one-dimensional, gave the main protagonists elaborate personal storylines. And here lies my main criticism of Black Doves: there is simply too much focus on the characters’ private lives, and these segments are not very engaging. As a result, during the first half (the first three episodes), the series struggles with pacing, moves too slowly, and can feel tedious at times. James Cameron demonstrated long ago with True Lies that such elements can be incorporated in an interesting way. Fortunately, in the second half, once the creators have conveyed the key aspects of the characters’ backstories, the main plot finally takes center stage, and the series gains momentum, becoming much more enjoyable to watch.

The acting is excellent. Keira Knightley and, especially, Ben Whishaw embody their characters flawlessly, capturing their emotional states with great nuance. In one episode, there is a scene where Sam confronts someone from his past, and Whishaw’s portrayal of his swirling emotions is simply breathtaking. He is slightly less convincing in moments requiring physical prowess, but this is not a significant enough flaw to diminish Black Doves. Keira Knightley is outstanding as a woman torn between her obsession with finding her lover’s killer and her family life. Adding to the intrigue is the fact that little is revealed about the organization Helen works for, represented by the enigmatic Mrs. Reed (Sarah Lancashire).

Black Doves offers a fair amount of fun, as its strengths ultimately outweigh its weaknesses. It’s best not to overanalyze the plot and simply let it carry you along. Across its six episodes, viewers can expect some action, a touch of brilliant British humor, and a few intense moments. The Christmas atmosphere that pervades the frames adds charm to the whole. Unfortunately, there are moments of dullness, particularly in the slower first half of the season, which requires some patience to get through. A sequel is likely, as most plotlines are resolved in the finale, but a door is left open for further development. And I think I’ll tune in when it arrives.

This is how the production studio PM Entertainment thought about the genre, a studio I’ve been a fan of since childhood, although back then I wasn’t fully aware that such films were part of a broader phenomenon within genre cinema. I know this now and take pride in that knowledge, as familiarity with niche productions provides unique tools for evaluating titles deemed artistically great and/or unimaginably expensive to produce. Above all, it teaches humility—a quality many critics lack when it comes to cinema, especially regarding works that are not just niche but also cheap, trashy, or even targeted at emotionally immature audiences. Such descriptions are often applied to sci-fi cinema. The Sender wasn’t expensive, but it wasn’t exactly cheap either. Eight million dollars was enough for Richard Pepin to deliver nearly an hour and forty minutes of intense action, containing everything a pure entertainment film, one that doesn’t try to overreach, should include.

The first ten minutes of The Sender are not so much science fiction as dizzying action, during which we get a sense of what the plot will be about. There’s a mysterious plane wreck, the defiant, brutal, yet sentimental Commander Dallas (Michael Madsen), his daughter with a unique power enabling interstellar travel, and Colonel Rosewater, who can be considered the chief antagonist—a final showdown between him and the positive heroes is inevitable. Among them is the angelic alien envoy, who, unfortunately, is the least well-executed character. The ethereal blonde alien lacked a personality suited to such intense action, though she certainly tried. Somewhere in the lab is also the brains behind the entire operation and the positive but minor character Ron Fairfax, played by the once-popular and distinctive Robert Vaughn. It was a pleasure to see him again in this role. Overall, for a PM Entertainment production, the director managed to assemble a cast of well-known actors, some of whom have legendary films in their portfolios. This makes The Sender even more noteworthy—a title that has so far garnered 925 ratings on IMDb. It’s hard to say why the ratings are so low overall. Perhaps viewers expected better execution due to the cast. While the film is packed with car chases, plot twists, gunfights, and even aerial combat, the models and props too often feel flimsy and hastily made. Eight million dollars isn’t eighty, so corners were cut. Still, it doesn’t look like cheap CGI, unlike Sky Captain. You can see for yourself what creators managed to achieve with $70 million. Personally, I prefer the better-spent $8 million. Yes, CGI was used in The Sender, but sparingly enough that its low quality doesn’t distract too much. This includes the depiction of the aliens, the spaceship, and the final transfer of the so-called “gift,” which, by the way, is quite touching.

Perhaps viewers also had issues with the story itself. The characters, as is typical of this kind of film, are emotionally simple and easy to read. The dialogue is as straightforward as possible to keep the action flowing quickly. The acting reflects this approach to the script because The Sender isn’t about lofty analyses of human-alien relations. It’s about intense action and a clear message—profoundly humanistic—intended to teach humanity, ironically through an alien civilization, how to treat other species. This is a popular motif, and I’ll admit that sci-fi cinema has used it to the point of exhaustion. Filmmakers continuously imagine that humans are so flawed that advanced cosmic civilizations might take notice and send someone or something to teach us Earthlings that, in our current moral state, no “contact” could ever happen. Yet we have potential. There’s an unrealized goodness within us, hindered by the establishment. This is roughly one of the main motifs in sci-fi films, explored across various titles for decades. Recently, themes of transhumanism and artificial intelligence have joined this. The Sender doesn’t stray from these ideas. And considering it’s a low-budget film that was virtually unadvertised, even in obscure internet corners, the average audience rating feels understandable.

Returning to the question posed in the title of this review: Should sci-fi cinema also be action cinema? I’d answer that for niche, low-budget films, sometimes it should. Intense action often saves such films from being formulaic or downright boring. It effectively masks the shortcomings of the fantastical discourse, as Richard Pepin demonstrates in The Sender. On that note, I recommend you check out this film, which I stumbled upon on YouTube, though in dreadful quality—a combination of poor visuals and more, which you’ll have to judge for yourselves.

The 1966 book Chinmoku by Shūsaku Endō became a major artistic success—widely analyzed for its religious ambiguity and quickly absorbed into other areas of culture. It inspired not only a stage play, a symphony, a libretto, and an opera but also adaptations for the screen. Naturally, the first adaptation came from the Land of the Rising Sun, where a film of the same title was released just five years later. More than two decades later, the Portuguese also turned to the book, creating Os Olhos da Ásia (The Eyes of Asia), though that production went largely unnoticed. A bit earlier, the story of 17th-century Japan as seen through the eyes of Jesuit missionaries caught the attention of none other than Martin Scorsese, fresh off his similarly themed and controversial The Last Temptation of Christ. However, Scorsese had little luck with this new project, Silence, which took nearly three decades to complete and ultimately floundered at the box office.

The story’s premise—based on historical facts only slightly altered by Endō—bears some resemblance to Apocalypse Now (though the author was reportedly also inspired by La Strada). In the bastion of Portuguese Christianity, word arrives that Father Ferreira (Liam Neeson, returning to themes reminiscent of The Mission after nearly three decades), who oversees a mission in distant Japan, has renounced his God and is therefore lost to the cause. Two of his former protégés—Fathers Rodrigues (Andrew Garfield, once again taking on a martyr-like role) and Garupe (Adam Driver)—are sent to find him and salvage the mission. Relying on vague, outdated reports, they venture into an isolated country embroiled in a true war, not knowing what awaits them or what has become of Ferreira. Thus begins not only a journey into the heart of darkness but also into the depths of their own souls.

According to various accounts from those involved in the production, Silence is both the most challenging (primarily due to the weather conditions in Taiwan, where it was filmed) and the best film of Scorsese’s career. At least, that’s what producers Irwin Winkler and Emma Tillinger Koskoff claim. They’re echoed by Neeson, who admitted in an interview that during their second collaboration (after Gangs of New York), Scorsese could be intensely unpleasant, even terrifying. Neeson also lost nearly ten kilograms while playing Father Ferreira, as did Driver, who shed over twenty kilograms during the shoot. Add to this the numerous casting changes over the years—Neeson’s role was initially intended for the inimitable Daniel Day-Lewis, with other parts slated for Gael García Bernal, Benicio Del Toro, and Ken Watanabe—and the endless delays in starting production, scheduling, and securing funding, and a grim picture of the project’s development emerges.

All of this translated into the final product, which is undoubtedly engaging but also exhausting to watch, challenging to interpret, and painfully personal. The nearly three-hour fresco (originally, the material reportedly ran to 195 minutes) can at times feel tedious, drawn-out, and monotonous. It’s no surprise, then, that with a modest $40 million budget, it turned out to be a financial failure. Poor marketing didn’t help—promotion began just a month before the premiere, and the film didn’t enter general distribution until January, which also contributed to its artistic underperformance, a fate it certainly did not deserve.

In some ways, this is a fascinating work that hypnotizes with its ascetic nature and minimalist form and content.

The subject matter alone is already uncomfortable, as Scorsese delves into religion and its significance in human life. The filmmaker, who dedicated the piece to his family and first screened it in the heart of Christianity—the Vatican—is well-versed in the topic. This is not only due to his Italian heritage and earlier works on the subject (such as Kundun) but also because he once attended a seminary and, before fully committing to cinema, seriously considered becoming a priest. As a result, Silence is devoid of platitudes or ethically dubious discussions about one religion versus another. While there is a touch of kitschy symbolism, the director—co-writing the screenplay for the first time since Casino—keeps everything under control, at times teetering on the edge of excessive subtlety.

That said, religion here is essentially just a backdrop. Scorsese shows little interest in Christianity or Buddhism or the philosophies behind them. While we observe certain rituals characteristic of both sides, see their typical elements, and hear specific phrases from their followers, we don’t learn anything new about either faith, nor do we delve into their essence. If not for the historical context, the religions could easily be replaced by any other cult. The key to understanding them here lies in faith itself—what drives it, how strong it can be in an individual, how far one can go for it, and how much one can sacrifice for it. Despite the evocative final shot, Scorsese examines the events and his characters with an almost documentary-like detachment, avoiding a black-and-white division into good and evil.

The Asian aggressors are admittedly drawn with broad, almost caricatured strokes—as in the case of the elderly Inoue, played by Issei Ogata, who could double as a comic book villain. This, combined with their brutal treatment of victims, automatically casts them as the antagonists. However, their actions, morally ambiguous and sadistic as they may be, are not mere whims. Moreover, their reasoning is entirely believable and can easily be applied to other eras and cultural-religious clashes that ended in various purges. It’s an age-old truth about the impossibility of understanding across divisions and prejudices—depicted by Scorsese with the skill of a true master.

On a fundamental level, Silence is an incredibly beautiful, visually stunning work.

This is due in large part to the irreplaceable Thelma Schoonmaker (with her practically invisible, perfect editing), the austere, contemplative score by Kathryn and Kim Allen Kluge, previously unknown to wider audiences, and the picturesque cinematography by Rodrigo Prieto (The Wolf of Wall Street, Passengers)—the only member of the crew to receive an Academy Award nomination.

However, the real driving force of Silence lies in its outstanding performances. This applies not only to the leads, with perhaps Garfield’s best performance of his (still young) career, but also to the farthest reaches of the cast (where Ciarán Hinds appears in a brief role)—especially the Asian ensemble, led by the aforementioned Ogata, Yōsuke Kubozuka (the drunken Kichijiro), and Tadanobu Asano (the cunning translator).

Sometimes, silence is the deadliest sound. That’s the film’s tagline, and the creators took the title to heart. The slow pacing, relationships between characters built on simple dialogues, glances, or other nuances; ethereal music enhanced by the sounds of crickets or the rustling wind; gloomy weather amplifying the dominance of cold tones (with the presence of fire filling the frame with warmer hues)—all contribute to a film where much happens, but never too quickly. Emotions run high, but they rarely explode outright. Tears are lost in falling rain, and screams are drowned out by waves crashing on rocky shores. Stoic calm is maintained even in numerous acts of violence, which appear disturbingly aesthetic, like living works of art. Paradoxically, it’s this conspiracy of silence, sadistic persistence, and consistent self-destruction that electrifies the most.

It’s incredibly difficult to definitively assess Scorsese’s film because, contrary to appearances, it defies categorization or neat labels. It’s undoubtedly a good, meticulously crafted, high-caliber work of cinema. But it’s also a film that grows on you over time. It’s specific, deeply artistic, sometimes even poetic—in short, it’s for the patient viewer. This is not a film one revisits often (if at all) or fondly remembers or casually recommends. Despite its faint glimmer of hope, Silence doesn’t offer spiritual solace or satisfying conclusions. It’s oppressive, heavy, and even mentally exhausting—a film where the devil is in the details, and its power lies in its expression and the precision of its message.

The Year 1974. A then-unknown Swedish band, ABBA, wins the Eurovision Song Contest—a time when the competition still held considerable prestige—ushering in perhaps not global madness but certainly a phenomenal musical phenomenon. Simple, catchy songs with surprisingly thoughtful lyrics, sung with full commitment by two charming women who spoke little English (Anni-Frid Lyngstad and Agnetha Fältskog), and composed by two extraordinarily talented young men (Benny Andersson and Björn Ulvaeus), remain as popular as ever, even more than forty years later, at parties of all kinds—not just retro-themed ones. ABBA was, and still is, a product that consistently delivers profits. Although the band lasted only ten years and disbanded in 1982, their work continues to be mined for new inspiration. In 1999, a quarter-century after the wild success of “Waterloo,” a musical Mamma Mia! based on ABBA’s hits premiered in London’s West End.

British theater director Phyllida Lloyd decided to use ABBA’s biggest hits to tell a simple story: a young woman on the eve of her wedding wanting to connect with the father she never knew. The problem? According to a diary she found in her mother’s attic, there are three candidates for the role—an Englishman, an American, and an Australian—who all arrive on a dreamy Greek island to confront their memories and navigate an unexpected present. Naturally, the musical was a resounding success. It remains the highest-grossing musical theater production globally and is still performed today—it premiered at the Roma Musical Theatre in Warsaw just last year. So it’s no surprise that Phyllida Lloyd also agreed to direct the film adaptation of Mamma Mia!.

Nearly a decade after the stage premiere, the film hit theaters, featuring an all-star cast: Meryl Streep, Pierce Brosnan, Colin Firth, Stellan Skarsgård, and Amanda Seyfried. A somewhat surprising choice of actors for a musical.

As mentioned, anything under the ABBA brand is destined for success. Film producers thus felt free to make an unusual move: casting actors in leading roles who—putting it mildly—weren’t exactly musically trained.

This, of course, doesn’t apply to the incredible Meryl Streep, who—according to legend—could play even a chair, let alone something as straightforward as singing. Already hailed as the greatest actress of all time, Meryl Streep shines in Mamma Mia! like the brightest star she is. She sings, dances, jumps into the water, and electrifies the screen with her boundless energy. She looks as though she stumbled onto the set by chance, in the middle of more serious work, and decided to join the party Lloyd had organized for her stars.

Her male co-stars, however, are a different story. Playing Donna’s former lovers and candidates for young Sophie’s father are Pierce Brosnan, Colin Firth, and Stellan Skarsgård. All are excellent actors, of course, but vocally they pale in comparison to Streep, the musical’s central figure. The greatest challenge fell to Brosnan, whose vocal parts as Sam Carmichael were the most demanding. He managed, though not without effort, as evident in his solo moments. This is particularly noticeable in his duet with Streep, S.O.S. Nevertheless, regardless of vocal impressions, Brosnan’s earnest performance of “When you’re gone, though I try, how can I carry on?” likely touched more than a few hearts.

Firth and Skarsgård, as Harry Bright and Bill Anderson, have slightly easier roles. Firth sings his parts with the charm of a campfire leader—his voice not particularly strong but pleasant enough. Skarsgård fares decently as Bill as well. Interestingly, the filmmakers seemed particularly keen on casting him, even changing Bill’s nationality from Australian to Swedish. This decision makes sense, considering how much of Mamma Mia! relies on the cast’s comedic chops. And in this area, all three men excel, complementing each other beautifully. Brosnan has long shown he doesn’t take himself too seriously, Firth humorously contrasts his English reserve with comedic gags, and Skarsgård, with his honest hedonist’s demeanor, brings a touch of madness and adventure to the mix.

Amanda Seyfried, as Sophie, also deserves mention. Playing a young woman sheltered by her mother on a small Greek island, Seyfried convincingly portrays her character with wide-eyed naivety and a girlish smile. Her vocal performances, delivered with ease and confidence, prepared her well for the bigger challenge she faced shortly after Mamma Mia!—the film adaptation of Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables.

ABBA’s greatest hits, woven into a simple, delightful story, make Mamma Mia! a celebration of life. A life that’s unreal, bathed in sunshine on a paradise island, flowing with music and dance. Even financial troubles are depicted as fleeting concerns, more worthy of laughter than serious worry (you get the sense that the mention of money problems exists only to justify the inclusion of the fantastic number Money, Money, Money). The ensemble number to Dancing Queen, where the island’s women join in a joyous march to the beach, either gets you off the couch or, at the very least, has you tapping your foot along to the beat. Despite small obstacles and minor doubts, the story dances its way to the wedding finale (though Lloyd couldn’t resist adding a small twist). Mamma Mia! is a classic romantic comedy, spiced with music beloved by generations.

Reportedly, when Björn Ulvaeus first heard Meryl Streep perform The Winner Takes It All, he called her a miracle. How, then, to describe the fact that the legendary ABBA members—at odds for years, to the point of refusing to appear together in public—reunited, all four of them, at the Swedish premiere of the film? Without a doubt, Mamma Mia! carries a spark of magic.

Born in the 1840s, this lawman (but also a farmer, gold prospector, avid gambler, and even… saloon owner) has appeared countless times in various forms on both the small and big screen, with more films directly about him than you could count on both hands. It’s no surprise, considering that as one of the greatest legends of the Wild West, Earp was also among the few who lived to see the dawn of the motion picture era. Moreover, he spent his final years in California, occasionally serving as a historical consultant to budding directors like John Ford. Hollywood has frequently attempted to capture his colorful life on celluloid. However, these efforts have most often focused on the famous gunfight at the O.K. Corral and Earp’s time in Tombstone, a town as legendary as he is.

It is precisely this period of Earp’s life—similar to the one depicted in the City Without Law series—that George P. Cosmatos’ film focuses on. The director of Cobra—recommended for this project by none other than Sylvester Stallone—had a relatively small hand in the project’s success, which turned out to be his last significant work (and his penultimate film overall). Nevertheless, his name is prominently featured in the opening credits. And he isn’t alone there, as Tombstone boasts a lineup of true legends and heavyweights of the silver screen. The most striking feature, of course, is its star-studded cast.

Who isn’t in this film?

In addition to the perfect Wyatt Earp played by Kurt Russell and Sam Elliott and Bill Paxton as his brothers Virgil and Morgan (for some reason, the presence of Warren and James Earp during these events was ignored), the screen is graced by stars at the height of their form. These include Val Kilmer (as Earp’s friend, the gunslinger Doc Holliday), Powers Boothe and Michael Biehn (leaders of the gang known as the Cowboys), Charlton Heston, Jason Priestley, Jon Tenney, Stephen Lang (who allegedly spent much of the shoot drunk as a skunk), Thomas Haden Church, Michael Rooker, Billy Bob Thornton, Tomas Arana, Robert John Burke, Billy Zane, John Corbett, Terry O’Quinn, and Frank Stallone. The roster is rounded out by the lovely Dana Delany and  Joanna Pacuła as Holliday’s lover, Big Nose Kate. The cherry on top is the voiceover narration by Robert Mitchum himself, whose on-set accident ultimately ruled out his participation as the patriarch of the Clanton family (though his son, Christopher Mitchum, appears). In a fascinating detail, the film even features Wyatt Earp—a descendant of the legendary lawman—playing Billy Claiborne.

Granted, some of these actors were little-known or completely unknown at the time. Nonetheless, each of them has their moment to shine, significantly enriching the story and enhancing the already excellent film. Thanks to the superb acting, Tombstone comes alive and captivates. Even the most minor characters are distinctive, with unique personalities and traits that make them memorable and easy to place in the narrative, even if we don’t know their names.

Furthermore, even though the film is essentially a showdown between Russell, Kilmer, and Biehn—with Kilmer, undoubtedly, stealing the show with what is likely a career-defining, yet criminally underappreciated performance—no one in the ensemble allows themselves to be overshadowed. Beyond adding color to the production, they bring necessary emotion and convincingly portray the complex relationships among the characters—both romantic and filled with animosity. This complexity is another of the film’s strengths, making it far more nuanced and mature than the average blockbuster.

The film strikingly balances the boundaries of law, good, and evil. While we sympathize with Earp and his family and root for him as he hunts down the Cowboys, the conflict is well-grounded and doesn’t boil down to simple good versus evil. Earp’s friendship with Holliday—beautifully depicted, though slightly idealized—raises moral questions. Compounding this are numerous situations where Earp, ostensibly retired from law enforcement, loses control over events he himself instigates. While it’s easy to dislike the Cowboys, it’s equally easy to understand them. These are multidimensional characters, carrying similar burdens to Wyatt and Doc, fleeing their demons, and challenging to decipher, with their own justifications and flaws. The ethics of their actions are frequently questioned, and the boundaries between right and wrong often blur. As a result, the conflict looms large from the opening credits, with no clear winners or losers, regardless of how many bullets fly. Everyone suffers, especially the innocent bystanders.

Of course, some aspects of Earp’s life have been polished or altered for the sake of greater drama. However, the filmmakers have still crafted a highly entertaining film, arguably the most faithful to historical records (which described the gunfight as a slaughter, a massacre, and vigilante justice meted out to defiant members of the gang). The film feels authentic, though one suspects the truth—if it ever existed—has long been lost to the relentless passage of time and successive reinterpretations. Despite numerous production challenges, Tombstone astonishes with its cohesiveness. Even if it doesn’t fully realize its potential and feels somewhat fragmented, it leans much closer to brilliance than disappointment.

Putting aside rumors that John Carpenter was close to directing; that veteran composer Jerry Goldsmith was initially set to score the film (he wrote his final western score a year later for The Ballad of Little Jo); that Richard Gere nearly played Earp, Willem Dafoe nearly played Holliday, Mickey Rourke turned down Johnny Ringo, and Glenn Ford was allegedly cast as an elderly Sheriff White (though the real White was much younger)—none of that matters in the end. What does matter is that Tombstone had a rightful “father” in Kevin Jarre. The man, unrelated to the famous musicians, was not only the screenwriter but also initially the director. Predictably, artistic differences with the producers—likely over the film’s shape and length—led to his dismissal.

Tombstone was initially much longer than the two-hour version released in theaters.

Although a director’s cut with four additional minutes was released on DVD years later, it hardly captures Jarre’s vision of an epic saga detailing the lives of everyone involved in the events. Instead, Jarre was replaced, and Kurt Russell took over directing duties temporarily, fearing the project might be shelved. By the time Cosmatos arrived to trim the script and focus on the Earp family, Russell had already directed much of the footage. How much of this is true remains unclear, especially since most of those involved have since passed away.

Jarre, known for Glory and later The Mummy, died of heart failure in 2011 . Cosmatos, who dedicated Tombstone to his wife, who died during production, succumbed to lung cancer in 2005. Goldsmith, esteemed cinematographer William A. Fraker (whose vibrant cinematography brings the film to life), and several studio executives have also passed. Yet fragments of unused scenes linger in trailers, and Jarre’s vision can be tasted in Giles Tippette’s novelization of the screenplay.

All of that ceases to matter when you experience the finished product. The film, in which Biehn and Paxton share the screen for the fifth and final time (memorable and often confused as the marines from the Aliens sequel), is a rare example of cinema that, despite its flaws and inconsistencies, simply works. Almost everything here clicks and runs like clockwork. It entertains, intrigues, and engrosses. You might have some serious reservations about Tombstone, yet each time you watch this masculine ethos unfold, it’s as gripping as the first time and tastes just as satisfying. Who knows, perhaps with repeat viewings, as you catch more details in the background and delightful touches like subtle bloopers or nuances, the film might even feel better than before. And yet, it’s not a revolution in the genre, a masterpiece, or an artistically refined work. Narratively and technically, it’s simply solid, skillful craftsmanship.

Still, it leaves the impression of being exceptional in its own way. The atmosphere certainly benefited from shooting on location in the real town of Tombstone, though it was slightly enhanced for Hollywood’s needs. The crew complained about the intense heat, which they endured while wearing layers of ornate period costumes, and the abundance of scorpions. But their effort and sacrifice (Val Kilmer, during his final scene, lay on an ice-packed bed to better convey his character’s deathly state) paid off. And not just financially, as the film grossed over twice its $25 million budget.

Although it’s hard to find major, significant industry awards associated with this production, critics quickly recognized the work of Cosmatos and company, calling it, for example, “one of the greatest westerns ever made.” Over time, the status and reputation of Tombstone—as the last truly great, dignified western in history—only grew. This, in turn, threw Kevin Costner and Lawrence Kasdan’s far more ambitious version into the shadows, as their Wyatt Earp, released less than six months later, was considered a boring failure. Not entirely justly, but that’s another story…

In the meantime, if you’re looking for a way to begin your journey into the genre or simply need an idea for a movie night, look no further. Tombstone speaks for itself with Doc Holliday’s immortal words:

I’m your huckleberry!

An erotic thriller is a rather rare genre in modern cinema. The golden age of this genre dates back to the increasingly distant 1990s, which operated under different rules in terms of industry dynamics and societal discourse. Today, in the post-#MeToo era, amid ongoing social and sexual scandals, there is a much more cautious approach to depicting erotic fantasies on screen. However, this doesn’t mean the genre is dead—over the last decade (and a bit beyond), there have been several successful productions labeled as “erotic thrillers” that prove: a) it’s possible, b) it can be done well, c) erotic thrillers don’t have to rely on sexist clichés, and d) the genre still holds subversive potential (see Paul Verhoeven’s Elle or Park Chan-wook’s The Handmaiden). Enter Halina Reijn in 2024, with her film Babygirl contributing to the conversation.

In line with Alfred Hitchcock’s classic rule, Babygirl starts with a bang—an orgasm, to be exact. Though it’s only for one half of the naked duo of Nicole Kidman and Antonio Banderas. After her expressive spasms, Kidman’s character sneaks off to another room to finish the act solo, indulging in rather crude porn featuring themes of (male) dominance. This opening sets the tone for the film and returns, paraphrased, in its closing scenes. The core of the story revolves around the pursuit of fulfillment by a middle-aged woman confined by societal roles as a career-driven woman, mother, and wife. Romy, the protagonist, has long suppressed her hidden desires and fantasies until an opportunity arises to explore them. This opportunity comes in the form of Samuel, a brash, self-assured, and reckless intern who joins her company. The two soon engage in a game of blurred lines between desire and power.

The premise of Babygirl is almost classical, yet Reijn’s film is not as straightforward as it may initially seem—or at least tries not to be. The director of the ironic slasher Bodies Bodies Bodies doesn’t settle for a simple tale of forbidden desire, instead intertwining multiple layers of meaning in Romy and Samuel’s story. Most intriguing is the meta-level, comparing the dignified, mature Nicole Kidman (turning 58 this year), an Oscar-winning actress who has graced red carpets for decades, with her on-screen lover, the energetic Harris Dickinson (turning 29 just four days after Kidman), riding the first wave of his career. The commentary on femininity and the female body becomes especially poignant in one of Babygirl’s boldest scenes, where Kidman’s character undergoes cosmetic procedures. At that moment, the film reflects on the cult of beauty and youth, with its erotic suspense posing the perverse question of sexual “expiration dates.” Unfortunately, this thread is introduced but not meaningfully developed.

Instead of delving deeper into the themes of age and societal roles, Reijn eagerly shifts to a narrative about women in corporate power structures. The insights Babygirl offers in this regard can be summarized with a paraphrase from Boys Don’t Cry: to be a CEO in New York, you must be like a shark, or the other sharks will eat you. Romy is a shark—capable and resourceful. But what if, behind this tough-woman facade, she harbors desires to be dominated? The answer, according to Reijn, lies in confronting Romy with the forbidden fruit that is the cartoonishly roguish intern. Their attraction relies more on vibes and the insistent magnetic gaze of Kidman, captivated by a boy who… knows when to give a dog a treat. Once their romance is hurriedly and sketchily established, Babygirl proceeds along a rather predictable erotic thriller path—concealed passion threatens to destroy the protagonist’s carefully organized life.

Reijn aims to construct a multifaceted narrative centered on power and the perverse allure of reversing it. The problem is that Babygirl lacks a cohesive concept tying its elements together. Abrupt tonal shifts—ranging from unsettling to campy—undermine its coherence. Promising threads are either cut short or capped with a standard quip before transitioning to the next chapter of this erotic saga. A disorientingly eclectic soundtrack further adds to the chaos and detracts from any consistent atmosphere.

Reijn attempts to subvert the genre’s conventions, reversing traditional power dynamics between the desired and the desiring. However, it becomes unclear who should embody which role, leading both Romy and Samuel to circle within surprisingly tame erotic games. Samuel, despite Harris Dickinson’s solid performance as the domineering seducer, is inconsistently portrayed: sometimes a ruthless manipulator, other times a fetishized object of desire, and then an emotionally conflicted boy. This muddled characterization results in a disappointingly bland male lead cobbled together from incompatible archetypes. Ironically, this reduction of the male character to a shallow figure mirrors the stereotypical treatment of female characters in similar narratives—a potentially deliberate choice, but the film offers little evidence to support this interpretation.

Babygirl suffers from a lack of narrative cohesion and fully realized characters. Both Romy and Samuel feel more like archetypes than genuine, flesh-and-blood individuals. The film doesn’t signal whether it aims for symbolism or realism, leaving it stranded somewhere in between.

Despite a strong performance from Dickinson (Kidman’s role is somewhat weaker, though still noteworthy among her recent work), clever editing, and Jasper Wolf’s striking cinematography, Babygirl misses the mark. It could have been a modern reinterpretation of the genre, a thought-provoking exploration of gender roles, or simply an engaging psychological story about desire. Instead, Reijn tries to juggle all these ambitions, ultimately failing to fully deliver on any of them.