If you don’t have overly high expectations, Venom works well as efficiently executed entertainment.

A cunning criminal, Müller, and his partner Louise plan to kidnap ten-year-old Philip for ransom—he’s the grandson of Howard Anderson, a wealthy owner of an international hotel chain. To carry out the plan, Louise gets a job as a housemaid at the Anderson residence and convinces the family’s chauffeur, Averconnelly, to help her and Müller abduct the boy. On the day of the operation, Philip goes to a pet store to buy a non-venomous snake but, due to a fatal mistake, ends up with a deadly black mamba. When he returns home, the kidnappers are waiting, but their plan quickly unravels: Howard unexpectedly shows up at the estate, and the snake bites Louise and escapes into the ventilation system. Louise dies, and Müller and Averconnelly take Philip and his grandfather hostage. Meanwhile, the snake mix-up is discovered—the pet store owner notifies the police, who arrive at the Anderson home.

Venom is an adaptation of Alan Scholefield’s 1977 novel. Originally, the film was directed by Tobe Hooper, known for The Texas Chain Saw Massacre (1974), but after four weeks he was fired by the producers and replaced by English director Piers Haggard, best known for the folk horror The Blood on Satan’s Claw (1971). The cast included Klaus Kinski (Müller), Oliver Reed (Averconnelly), Sterling Hayden (Anderson), Nicol Williamson (Bulloch), and Susan George (Louise). Kinski chose Venom over Steven Spielberg’s Raiders of the Lost Ark (1981)—he was offered the role of Toht—solely because he was paid more, and he considered the Raiders script idiotic. On set, he constantly clashed with Reed. On one occasion, Reed rocked Kinski’s trailer, shouting, “You Nazi bastard!” It’s no surprise that Haggard—whom Kinski referred to as “a pair of long john straps”—said the nicest actor on set was the snake.

For some reason, Venom premiered first in Japan (November 1981), then in the US (January 1982) and the UK (March 1982). It was a box office failure: with a budget of seven and a half million pounds, it grossed just over five million dollars worldwide. The reviews weren’t great either. Roger Ebert wrote, “The plot is ridiculous, but then again, that’s obvious. We don’t necessarily want to believe thrillers—we just want to be engaged and scared. Venom doesn’t do that.” Vincent Canby asserted that “if Venom doesn’t end up being the stupidest movie of 1982, you can bet it’ll be close.” Haggard later defended himself, saying he took over from Hooper after only ten days of preparation and couldn’t make changes to the script that he believed would have improved the film: “And you can tell. It’s not my film—it’s something in-between. […] It wasn’t a happy time.”

Both critics and Haggard himself were probably a bit too harsh on Venom, as it’s not as bad a film as it might seem. While the plot is admittedly nonsensical, the execution is very competent. In fact, the craftsmanship is solid: cinematography was handled by Gilbert Taylor, the brilliant British cinematographer known for films like Stanley Kubrick’s Dr. Strangelove (1964), Repulsion (1965), Cul-de-Sac (1966), Roman Polanski’s Macbeth (1971), and Richard Donner’s The Omen (1976). Equally impressive is Michael Kamen’s subtle score. What lifts Venom far above typical B-movie fare is the stellar cast—especially Kinski, Reed, and Hayden—and Haggard was skilled enough as a director to steer the absurd plot with a steady hand. The film even brings to mind Mikhail Bulgakov’s brilliant novella The Fatal Eggs, though I doubt that was an intentional influence. All in all—it’s worth a watch.

“My father always saw it as a gift from God. The fact that I can see music.” For Lionel Worthing, sound holds a force and symbolic meaning of incredible power. He assigns specific colors to notes picked up in the smallest details of his surroundings, thus adorning his bleak and seemingly hopeless world. A simple boy from Kentucky, who under normal circumstances—following local traditions passed down through generations—would have spent the rest of his days running the family farm and sipping whiskey at nearby pubs in the evenings, has no intention of following the path set by the labor of his ancestors. His ability to interpret melodies and express them with a warm, heart-soothing gentleness will one day open the doors to an international career. But before his name becomes revered by young American musicians studying his compositions and famous academic papers, director Oliver Hermanus—whose film The History of Sound is competing for the Palme d’Or at Cannes this year—takes us on a sentimental journey filled with folk classics in search of a place where Lionel can, free from social stigma, fight for his second greatest love. And as one might guess, even from a fragmentary plot summary of this latest film starring Paul Mescal and Josh O’Connor, the path to a happy ending will not be easy.

Nostalgia and sentimentality, expressed through meticulous attention to detail, and thus transporting the viewer into the symbolic realm of the main characters’ love story, are present in nearly every gorgeously stylized frame of The History of Sound. Even before we dive into the emotional sphere of two musicians discovering their life’s desires—Lionel (Paul Mescal), a gifted singer, and David (Josh O’Connor), a captivating composer—it’s the atmosphere soaked in pastel shades of brown, the era-accurate costumes, and phenomenal set design that seamlessly draw us into two worlds of 20th-century America.

The first is provincial Kentucky, which Lionel desperately longs to escape, much to his family’s dismay. The second is the New England Conservatory in opportunity-rich Boston, which not only offers him a path to fulfilling his musical aspirations but also a chance for emotional fulfillment he likely never could’ve had in his prejudiced hometown. So when he hears a song in the college pub that once warmed his parents’ long autumn evenings, he immediately seeks out the source of those memory-laden sounds. That’s how he meets the charming David, with whom he instantly forms a soulful connection.

Without fireworks or fairytale-like embellishment, using minimal dialogue and the magic of glances and subtle gestures, the two artists fall for each other and finally begin to live life to the fullest. But it will be a while before we see their first kiss or intimate moment on screen. Hermanus deliberately avoids excessive nudity or overtly passionate scenes—the chemistry between Mescal and O’Connor lies in what’s left unsaid and fleeting.

The dark reality of World War I abruptly interrupts their poetic love story—David is drafted, and Lionel decides to return home. From that point on, The History of Sound resonates with the sound of loneliness more than anything else. Whether it’s Lionel longing for David’s return from Europe, or in 1920, when David reappears in Lionel’s life and proposes a journey to collect folk songs as a form of redemption for lost time, a single glance from the haunted musician expresses a vast trauma from years of isolation and emotional burnout, which ultimately shatters any hope for a fairytale ending.

The History of Sound is a decades-spanning exploration of the metaphysical essence of music and the folk sounds of 20th-century America. It’s also a timeless, visually stunning tale of a love born in the wrong place at the wrong time. For Oliver Hermanus, this is his first full-length film with a star-studded cast to premiere at Cannes. Based on a short story by Ben Shattuck—where folk tales meet touching melodrama—he creates a contemplative, impressionistic narrative about loss, longing, and the inner torment of lovers unfulfilled by life and thwarted by the harsh realities of postwar America.

In this folk-infused, mystically atmospheric (thanks to Alexander Dynan’s masterful cinematography) film, Hermanus’ fascination with queer cinema (comparisons to Brokeback Mountain are common) is evident, as is inspiration from recent auteur works like Aftersun by Charlotte Wells and Manchester by the Sea by Kenneth Lonergan. Josh O’Connor and Paul Mescal deliver powerful performances that are sure to make waves this awards season—just like the film’s entire visual aesthetic, which acts almost as an independent character, imbuing the story with mystique and emotional grandeur.

Hermanus’ new queer classic is arguably the most tenderly crafted, Oscar-ready work at this year’s Cannes Festival—and yet it doesn’t diminish its chances in the Main Competition. While at times one might wish to see more dramatic depth from The Crown star O’Connor or tear-jerking intensity from Paul Mescal, in The History of Sound, what remains unspoken and symbolic speaks louder than words—reflecting the restrictive era in which the protagonists lived, and one still resonant today. The emotional weight of this heartrending story can be unbearable at times—which only confirms how deeply The History of Sound embeds itself under your skin and will undoubtedly leave many in tears.

A series. About zombies. First associations? Of course The Walking Dead, but in my opinion, it’s at best an average production—getting weaker, more banal, more formulaic, and more irritating with each season. Still, it is the first genuine series about the living dead, which on one hand follows a well-trodden path—this year marks 57 years since the release of Romero’s still magnificent Night of the Living Dead—but on the other hand, the aesthetics of classic horror have rarely made their way to the small screen, especially not in such a literal, bloody form as in The Walking Dead. That’s why it’s hard not to appreciate this production, not to take an interest in it—especially if we’re fans of this noble subgenre and excitedly devour every available work that plays with zombie themes. In the Flesh.

So forget for a moment about AMC’s American production and turn your eyes and ears to what the British have to offer. Those familiar with and watching Channel 4, BBC, or E4 productions know well that recent years have brought a whole slew of television shows that—in terms of ideas, execution, engagement with genre clichés, and simply moral courage—can serve as a model of what contemporary series should look like. Black Mirror, The Shadow Line, Luther, Misfits, Sherlock, Skins, Orphan Black, Utopia—the list of unconventional and extremely intriguing productions is even longer, and I am very glad that In the Flesh—a zombie series—perfectly fits the high expectations that a devoted serial viewer places on English productions.

What’s it about? First and foremost, the twist of the entire story, which in the first minutes turns all previous experiences with the world of the living dead upside down. We’re shown a kind of hospital where zombies are… being treated. This means, simply, that the epidemic that caused the reanimation of the dead and all the tragedy that followed was stopped by humanity. Like plague, cholera, tuberculosis, typhus, and other diseases that once ravaged mankind, the rot plagued the human race for several years—until a cure was discovered, allowing zombies (though no one actually calls them that) to return to the world of the living while being—most intriguingly—still technically dead. Literally—still not alive. Memory, emotions, senses—all of it begins to function again under therapy, in a corpse that biologically stopped developing at the moment it emerged from the grave.

In the Flesh doesn’t delve into the history of the epidemic: it doesn’t mention media frenzy or explore the global status quo. We are placed far from politics, big cities, and collective experience. We follow the story of one character—a teenager named Kieran Walker, who returns to the world of the living, that is, to his village of Roarton in Lancashire, in the north of England. The place Kieran comes from plays a significant role in In the Flesh, as it determines all future events, and it is in confrontation with this place that the characters are drawn.

Roarton is home to few people—it’s a truly small town, surrounded by woods, bathed in fog and eternal drizzle. The harsh climate has instilled in the local community a resistance not only to the dreary weather but also to anything that might threaten them, cut off as they are from civilization. In other words, it’s about mechanisms typical of closed groups: moral conservatism, the strong role of religion, respect for tradition, honor, hard work, and sacrifice for the good of the community. We saw this already in Breaking the Waves by Lars von Trier, where Bess is confronted by members of a Scottish village—condemnation of difference, defense against the unknown, the incomprehensible. While the Danish film leans toward pure psychodrama with a defined goal (and a similar device is used in Dogville), In the Flesh doesn’t aim quite so high, though sociologically it’s very similar material for analysis.

Kieran Walker returns to Roarton and quickly realizes that he, a rotter who’s undergone therapy, is not welcome in his own home. His parents hide him because they know the village’s leaders won’t show mercy to their son—those like him, sick murderers, were eliminated, removed in order to protect everyone else. Pride, medals, respect—that’s what the partisans boast about, and the end of the war doesn’t have to mean tolerating that which is no longer… human? Alive? Feeling? After all, they’re rotten, powdered corpses who at any moment could start hunting innocent victims again. So—despite a government campaign supporting the return of the dead to the living—Roarton resists the new law.

I’d like to write “Until…”, but the series doesn’t offer that kind of hope. This is not a friendly, optimistic story of conversions to the good side of the force—full of growing kindness, acceptance, and other such feel-good nonsense expected from uplifting tales. In the Flesh is rather brutal in its portrayal of the feelings of societies like Roarton; it’s a portrayal that is realistic, sober, and not overdone. At times I felt that the creators, despite crafting TV bad guys, were trying to justify the protagonist’s antagonists—if only through the fact that their reactions are so… human. Fear? Certainly. But above all, they are motivated by an ingrained sense of responsibility for the community they are part of and have wholly devoted themselves to—both now and during the Rising, the battle against the undead.

This collective portrait is complemented by equally complex depictions of the living dead. They are not impersonal zombies, but thinking, feeling beings who are aware of who they were (mindless monsters), what they are responsible for (often the deaths of their neighbors), and who they are now (half-dead beings with what is called PDS—Partially Deceased Syndrome).

Moreover, the main character’s story—Kieran’s—is very intriguing and surprising: his difficult relationship with his family, the delicately and non-explicitly presented gay subplot, and his life before resurrection. An ambiguous figure, rather passive, withdrawn, not shaping the reality around him, nor seeking Great Meaning in his existence here and now. He, the other zombies, the other living humans—each is someone, looking for something, driven by something, with needs, with secrets. How different this is from all those comic book-style stories, led by The Walking Dead, where zombie play is predictable—in both the building of the post-apocalyptic world and the behavior of people toward each other and the dead.

It was brilliantly conceived by Dominic Mitchell, a 34-year-old, relatively inexperienced screenwriter, for whom this was his first real television experience. He had previously written plays (as nearly every British screenwriter seems to begin in theater), until the opportunity arose to participate in a sort of seminar/course/casting organized by the BBC in northern England—called Northern Voices—for talented young writers with ready-made ideas. Mitchell was assigned a mentor—John Faye from the acclaimed Torchwood—and for nearly a year he refined the story of In the Flesh, creating the so-called series bible. It was a perfect experience, he said in an interview. It cemented all the knowledge in my head, filled in the story—because so much had happened before and during the Rising.

The result? Glowing reviews in the media and a BAFTA  for Best Mini-Series of 2013, as well as a nomination for Luke Newberry for Best Leading Actor. Of course, the production’s success quickly led to the commissioning of another season—for the BBC, it’s a matter of prestige and another major success in their portfolio; for Mitchell, it’s an opportunity to expand the universe he created. Anyone seeking interesting television experiences should turn their attention to this modest, unconventional production. I wholeheartedly recommend it—not only for zombie lovers, but for all seekers of good series.

Sometimes the little finger on the hand decides the whole life. One morning you abruptly wake up from your sleep and wave your hand away from the insistent rays of the sun, but one of them hits your eyes with all its strength. The intertwined fingers suddenly ceased to be an impenetrable monolith. You mobilize all your muscles just to get that one finger back into place. It does not return. Maybe it’s nothing, after all, a bad day happens to everyone. But you have a feeling that this is not a one-off prank of a tired organism, but a cursed prophecy that cannot be prevented in any way. After all, no one has yet discovered the needed medicine, much less invented a time machine. A few months later, the doctor hands you a leaflet – that’s all he can do for you. You see fake smiles glued to the faces of the sick and you know for sure: the world has just ended. But is it really over? A great documentary by Davis Guggenheim proves that Michael J. Fox is alive and – against all odds – doing quite well. This does not mean that Still is clear of painful moments. You can’t and shouldn’t make Parkinson’s a feel-good movie. It’s hard not to hold your breath when, in one scene, the shockingly clumsy Michael suddenly collapses onto the pavement. However, the terror does not last long. The disease limited Fox’s movements but did not take away his comedic timing. “You’ve brought me to my knees,” he throws enthusiastically at a passing woman, turning his weakness into a joke. He doesn’t always keep his cool. There are also moments in this documentary when even the always outspoken actor lacks words and his eyes glaze over with tears. The director allows these moments to resound without drowning them out with a comic punch line. At the same time, the film is by no means a poor tearjerker. Michael doesn’t want to feel sorry for himself. He prefers to tell about the most interesting moments of life with his characteristic lightness and sense of humour.

The Guggenheim keeps up with Fox. Still doesn’t let you wink at all. Whoever was afraid of a boring enumeration of details from the actor’s life will be pleasantly surprised. Weaved from intriguing digressions and sincere reflections, Michael’s story is usually heard off-screen, and on the screen it is accompanied by creatively juxtaposed fragments of films with Fox’s participation. This formula wears off over time, but at times the Guggenheim manages to achieve phenomenal results. The most intense part of Michael’s career, when he worked simultaneously on the sets of Back to the Future and the hit sitcom Family Ties, finding maybe 3 hours of sleep in the meantime, is depicted in a gripping sequence of scenes edited as if we were watching a real survival thriller. workload. Nothing would capture the mad rush for Hollywood success better than this equally crazy montage.

After watching snippets of Fox films on Still, it dawned on me how much physical intensity there was in his roles. His bursting energy has become his trademark, which is why the original title of the documentary is quite paradoxical. Michael from an early age did not resemble a sedate oasis of peace, but an untamed urchin. He never sat still, he was always on the go. He passed on this childish verve to his characters, and then with it he would burst the screen. Today it is still in motion, but of a completely different kind. Movement uncontrolled and devoid of vitality. The one where the disease imprisoned him.

In the film’s most poignant scene, the Guggenheim asks Fox to show his joy. The actor tries to smile, but fails at all. Not even a grimace appears. The face remains exactly the same as before, hidden under a Parkinsonian mask. However, this mask, fortunately, does not cover the man. Michael J. Fox is an actor and Parkinson’s patient, but above all, he is a man who wants to enjoy life as long as possible without taking himself and his limitations too seriously. That is why the most beautiful moments in Still are the moments of family bliss, when the actor, his wife and daughters talk, play puns, and laugh together. Also from Michael and his clumsiness. It’s not easy to laugh in the face of a hopeless illness, but Fox can keep his distance. Finally, in one of the scenes, he convinces himself that he is a “tough son of a bitch”. After seeing Still, I have no reason not to believe him.

Before it premiered, I had been waiting for Mute  ever since the first enigmatic still from the film debuted online. First of all, the world depicted in the photo clearly suggested references to sci-fi classics, with Blade Runner at the forefront. Secondly, I had mostly seen Alexander Skarsgård deliver strong performances in supporting roles, so I was curious to see how he would handle the lead in a high-profile title. Duncan Jones’s latest work turned out to be everything I expected of it—but only to a very small extent…

On a visual level, Mute is indeed a truly Blade Runner-esque spectacle, with both beautiful and terrifying landscapes of a futuristic city (in this case, Berlin), and dark alleys lit only by neon lights. As in Scott’s cult classic, it seems to be perpetually nighttime, and evil and corruption ooze from every crevice of the city. But how much longer can we really get excited by flashy yet derivative and unoriginal visuals? Duncan Jones clearly invested a lot of time in building Mute’s futuristic world, but he’s not a visionary capable of crafting a fully original universe. What we see on screen is full of quotations and references, including nods to the aesthetics of noir cinema—because while Blade Runner was classified as neo-noir, Mute could serve as a textbook example of that very convention. There’s a suited protagonist (even with classic suspenders!), a dark cityscape, smoke, cigars, guns, and a woman at the center of Jones’s narrative. In truth, though, the genre dressing in Mute proves entirely unnecessary—the story is constructed in such a way that the futuristic setting has little to no bearing on its final shape.

Narratively, the film by the Moon director is at best banal—a mute bartender, who lost his voice in a childhood accident, searches for his beloved who suddenly disappeared under mysterious circumstances. During his investigation—tedious and underwhelming—he uncovers a few details about Naadirah’s (Seyneb Saleh) life, while also making some very dangerous enemies. Chief among them is Cactus Bill (a phenomenal Paul Rudd), a former soldier and surgeon in the service of local criminals, aiding in torture and other equally pleasant tasks. He turns out to be the key to solving the film’s central mystery, even though on the surface he has nothing to do with the mute bartender. The story in Jones’s film is not very engaging and lacks significant twists—neither the main character’s journey nor his relationship with the blue-haired Naadirah (a possible nod to Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind?) is particularly compelling. The most striking character is Cactus Bill himself—a mad, ruthless brute who will do anything to get what he wants. Paul Rudd, in a highly unusual role for him, outshines every other member of the relatively small cast, including Skarsgård. For Polish viewers, there’s also the curiosity of Andrzej Blumenfeld’s appearance as… a Russian thug (he even gets a few lines).

I’m not fond of the word “hollow” —it sounds awful and is definitely overused. But in this case, I’m inclined to use it, because it’s hard to find a better description of Duncan Jones’s film. Mute looks stunning, sounds great (Clint Mansell’s music!), is excellently (Rudd) or at least decently (Skarsgård) acted, but it suffers from what plagues many Netflix productions—mediocrity. Behind its beautiful visual facade, there’s no interesting substance to justify the creation of yet another visual clone of Blade Runner.

If someone were planning a trip to London and happened to watch an episode of Luther, they would face quite the dilemma: go or stay in the safety of home? Because England’s capital, in Neil Cross’s story, is a city full of madmen, deviants, and psychopaths. The only person who can save innocent people is the brilliant detective John Luther. The BBC series won the hearts of fans and critics over its three years on air, and the actor playing the lead role, Idris Elba, was honored with a Golden Globe in 2012 for creating an unforgettable portrait of the London detective.

An actor made for crime dramas

Idris Elba, or more precisely Idrissa Akuna Elba, was born on August 8, 1972, in London. At first, nothing suggested he would pursue acting. At the age of 16, he dropped out of school and joined the National Youth Music Theatre. Not long after, he began working as a DJ in London clubs under the name Big Driis. Interestingly, even today Elba is an avid musician and music producer, exploring the realms of soul and hip-hop. The results? Several EPs, a track in American Gangster, and one in Tyler Perry’s Medea Goes to Jail.

At the same time as his musical pursuits, he was trying to break into television—he began attending casting calls for TV programs. He got his first serious role in 1995 in the series Bramwell. From then on, he began taking guest and supporting roles. In 2001, he decided to seek his fortune across the Atlantic. From the start, he landed roles in crime-themed productions. He made a guest appearance in the popular series Law & Order, and a year later he was cast in The Wire as the famous Stringer Bell—in the excellent HBO series that lasted five seasons and about which Variety magazine wrote: When the history of television is written, few shows will match The Wire—a series so extraordinarily deep and ambitious it can only be savored by a select few. Elba also tried to make his mark on the big screen and in TV movies. He had to wait until 2005 for his first notable recognition. That year brought two films that undoubtedly had a major impact on his career—Sometimes in April and The Gospel. Both productions were very well received by critics and audiences, and Idris himself was nominated for the Black Reel Awards, a statuette awarded to talented Black actors.

Then came high-budget productions like American Gangster, with Russell Crowe and Denzel Washington in the lead roles. Interestingly, the soundtrack for this film was created by Jay-Z, and Elba co-created the intro for the entire album. The British actor also worked with the American rapper’s wife, Beyoncé. They both appeared in 2009 in the (rather weak) thriller Obsessed. Also in the same year, he appeared in the American version of The Office, where he played none other than Michael Scott’s boss.

But 2009 was exceptional for another reason. It was then that he received the offer to play the lead in the British mini-series Luther. Needless to say, accepting the role of the London detective was a stroke of genius and gave Idris Elba the ticket to appear again in a Ridley Scott film (Prometheus) and Guillermo del Toro’s Pacific Rim. But more importantly, in 2011, he was nominated for a Golden Globe for his epic portrayal of John Luther, and a year later, he took the statuette home.

What is Luther actually about? John is a very skilled detective who can enter the criminal’s mind and perfectly predict their next move. In every case, he is helped by his partner, Justin Ripley (Warren Brown). Together they solve very difficult and diverse cases. Luther often has to resort to unconventional methods to catch murderers, which brings him many problems right from the beginning of the series. Additionally, the first season features a well-developed storyline about Luther’s marriage (with a strong ending). In the second season, the creators decided to test the main character by confronting him with the demons of his past. In the third season—perhaps the weakest—Luther faces accusations about his methods.

A combination of Columbo and Holmes

The creator of the series, Neil Cross, is a young writer and screenwriter who has shown a fondness for crime stories from the start of his career. He began as a novelist with Always the Sun, a dark tale about a murderer that was warmly received by readers and adapted for television in 2001 under the same title. Cross emphasizes that when writing a book or script, he always wants to maintain realism so that the viewer or reader feels fear from the very first moments. While writing the script for Luther, he kept all those aspects in mind—and it shows: the investigation is painstaking, full of bureaucracy, and the background of the story isn’t artificially glamorized.

As TV history shows (The Mentalist, Sherlock), the detective character is most important. He is the one who draws the viewer’s attention, he is the smartest, and he is the one who must catch the bad guy. When creating the character of John Luther, Cross drew inspiration from two legendary detectives—Sherlock Holmes and Columbo. On the one hand, he is brilliant and able to anticipate events; on the other, he is full of empathy and compassion for the victims. Another element borrowed from the American detective series is the so-called inverted mystery, in which the viewer first sees the criminal and the way the crime was committed, and only then follows the solving of the case.

Let’s pause on the character of Luther himself. We meet him at a very difficult moment in his life. He’s dealing with both personal and professional problems. He tries to prove that his separation from his wife and suspension from work haven’t affected him, but at the same time, it’s clear he is fighting an inner battle with his own weaknesses. Moreover, when John solves a case, he becomes emotionally connected to it—each death, each killer, affects his personality and psyche. When I watch American crime shows (The Mentalist, CSI: Miami), I get the feeling that the detectives do show empathy for the victims, but only for one episode. In later episodes, it seems like all previous cases are forgotten. John Luther is different—more human and perhaps more real to the viewer.

Psychopaths vs. Luther

Of course, Luther is not built solely around its main character. As in any good crime story, the protagonist’s opponents must also be of a high caliber. Standing out above the rest is Alice Morgan, played by Ruth Wilson—an incredibly intelligent and cunning woman who becomes more than just a common sociopath that Luther needs to bring to justice. Plot twists are very well integrated into the narrative, often shocking and driving new, unexpected developments. The simplest and at the same time most difficult of these devices is killing off a secondary or even main character. It’s simple because it affects other characters and often provokes unexpected reactions. But on the other hand, producers fear that the audience has become attached to a character and that their death may result in losing viewers. Luther, however, is a mini-series, with each season consisting of only a few episodes. There’s no time to dwell on the loss of a beloved character—we immediately move on to the finale and case resolution.

John Luther in many forms

Entering the world of Luther, one can easily get lost in it. Unconventional cases, well-written characters, and a portrait of London teeming with deviants make it hard to look away. It’s difficult to compare the show directly to Sherlock. While both feature highly distinctive lead detectives, they differ greatly in psychological construction.

The scale of the show’s phenomenon is easy to grasp not only by reading reviews but also comments from ordinary viewers who want more and more of John Luther. In addition to the Golden Globe awarded to Idris Elba, the series received 71  nominations for various awards. 

The final season of Stranger Things is coming soon. Or at least the first part of it. Or the first chapter of the first part of the final season. Who can even keep track of Netflix’s distribution gambit anymore? The important thing is: more episodes are on the way for the streaming giant’s flagship series, which are supposedly meant to wrap up the story. Nearly ten years after the premiere, Mike, Eleven, Hopper and the gang are finally getting a conclusion to their adventure – at least until some Excel spreadsheets suggest it’s time to bring them back for another mission. But before the premiere of Chapter Five of Stranger Things, it’s worth addressing the elephant in the room and asking: is it still worth waiting for new episodes?

The first season from the Duffer Brothers was a real bullseye. Perfectly aligned with the wave of ’80s nostalgia and retro vibes, it was crafted to appeal both to mass audiences and pop culture geeks with its mix of coming-of-age, young adult themes, horror, sci-fi, and genre-savvy pastiche. The debut chapter was a joy to watch – fun, engaging, and delightfully irreverent, blending unpretentious entertainment with formal self-awareness. One could even overlook its blatant capitalization on nostalgia and the marketing flood of consumer-driven content the show spawned.

The second season was a bit weaker – the formula showed signs of fatigue – but the Duffers salvaged it with some successful new characters and a simple yet satisfying extension of the original storyline. Then came a shot of adrenaline in the vibrant, campy, and spectacular third season. Had the creators and Netflix chosen to end it there – respecting the story arc and the closure offered by the third season – Stranger Things would have been a definitively iconic hit. Unfortunately, the marketing machine powered by the Duffer Brothers’ design wouldn’t stop, and three years after Season 3, we got another one (and now, three years later, yet another), which casts doubt on the quality and purpose of Stranger Things.

Split into two parts, Season Four left its mark on pop culture thanks to a few standout scenes – one of which even propelled a long-forgotten Kate Bush song back to the top of the charts. But aside from those brighter moments, it was a weak season, built on forced plotlines and completely lacking any coherent idea of what to do with most of its characters. It didn’t help that the child actors had aged, and for some, growing up painfully exposed their acting limitations. Not to mention Millie Bobby Brown, who – after the acclaim for her first-season performance – clearly started believing in her own talent and charisma, delivering increasingly mannered and self-important performances that became downright irritating by the time the show returned. Whereas Seasons 1–3 had the Duffers’ heart and a vision that managed to shine through the aggressive retro-marketing, Season Four was an obvious cash grab meant to drive views, social buzz, and revenue – with no concern for trivial matters like artistic value or the quality of the core product.

At this point, Stranger Things – driven by an increasingly generic, lazy, and frankly uninteresting plot, demanding attention with the occasional spectacle or audience attachment to underdeveloped characters – is, on one hand, a massive brand, but on the other, a shadow of what it once was. You could say the Duffers’ show has become exactly what it once stood against – a massive corporate juggernaut chasing metrics and charts, while completely losing the love for pop culture itself. The energy and creativity are gone (not to be confused with flashy production), the boldness of Season 3 is nowhere to be found, and all that’s left is calculated fan service and safe plays tailored to predicted social media reactions. There’s little reason to believe Season Five will change that. One can only hope the poor kids of Stranger Things won’t be forced to keep reprising their roles until their hair turns grey and their faces wrinkle.

The End Times, but the nameless Mother (played by Golshifteh Farahani) still has something to fight for. First and foremost, she’s raising her thirteen-year-old daughter Alpha (Mélissa Boros) on her own—a girl turbulently navigating adolescence and drawn to questionable company. Into their already fragile home arrives an unexpected guest: Amin (Tahar Rahim), the mother’s older brother, a drifter, homeless, and utterly ravaged by heroin addiction. He’s a madman—unpredictable, dangerous, maybe even kind-hearted.

The bond between Farahani’s character and Alpha seems unbreakable, despite the frequent, unfiltered outbursts of anger and rebellion from the daughter. They can’t live without each other. The relationship with Amin, meanwhile, is rooted in something once familial, now transformed into a dynamic of caregiving—he’s more patient than sibling. That’s just who Farahani’s character is: if someone’s drowning, she’ll always reach out her hand.

Oh, and one more piece in this narrative puzzle: a strange virus has been rapidly spreading across the world for some time, turning people into stone. The body slowly hardens, taking on a gray hue, until every organ is transformed into lifeless rock.

There are many threads here—intimate ones built on emotional tension, and one with almost global scale. Is Julia Ducournau following up on the momentum of her last film, Titane, which won the Palme d’Or? In some ways, yes: the genre connections are plenty. But more importantly, she’s evolving—as a director and especially as a screenwriter. Alpha is a story dense with events and slowly escalating conflicts, stretched over a two-hour runtime.

Ducournau casts a multifaceted light on the stormy period of Alpha’s adolescence: the tension with her overprotective, professionally hypersensitive mother-doctor; symptoms of depression and all kinds of anxieties; her desire to escape the weight of her mother’s care, clashing with the inability to take her first independent step. Add in school crushes and traumas that result in painful, bloody consequences. Alpha dreams of being the life of the party, but more often than not finds herself cast as the outcast. These are extreme circumstances, but many mothers and daughters may find a resonant perspective in Alpha’s story.

Ducournau also weaves in shorter and longer flashbacks, sometimes almost imperceptibly. They serve various purposes: echoing the present events with a grim refrain, hinting at threads awaiting resolution, or, thanks to the director’s deft staging, merging past and present seamlessly. Farahani could have played the character as exhausted, resigned, or just in need of rest—but instead, the Iranian actress delivers a performance that radiates determination and unwavering strength.

Then there’s Tahar Rahim’s expressive, bold, even flamboyant performance—twisted, whether high or in withdrawal, physically transformed, with madness and absence in his eyes. It’s an acting tour de force: exaggerated, yes, but fitting perfectly within the film’s stylized tone.

Alpha is an ugly film. Unwelcoming, at times repulsive, and not one you’d rush to rewatch. And yet it strikes a wide range of emotional chords, envelops the viewer in mystery, and maintains a constant sense of unease. Ducournau balances precariously between a family drama and a film of impending doom. Alpha practically demands interpretation in light of the health crises of the past forty years. Perhaps it’s an allegory—broad in interpretive scope and rich with historical undertones.

But it is also undeniably a standalone story. A piece of pre-apocalyptic cinema. And sometimes, it’s best to simply stay on the surface of its narrative waters.

This is not just any random television production. It is not particularly well-known, it is not heavily awarded, it does not redefine television. It’s easy to overlook—it climbed to the top of the popularity charts. Most likely, the majority of those reading these words have never even heard of this title. You wouldn’t place Utopia next to Breaking Bad or Mad Men—it’s not a long-running series, even if outstanding, that has been building the network’s prestige for years and creating new stars. But it is also not a series to ignore. What’s more, one would be hard-pressed to find another series so originally twisted and unconventional. That could be said about many British productions in recent years—with Black Mirror, leading the pack—but it’s Utopia that holds the crown for the most unconventional series I’ve seen in a long time.

This is the story of a group of comic book geeks, accidental heroes who—fascinated by a graphic masterpiece titled Utopia—find themselves in serious trouble. An action flick? Certainly, there are a few chases, and the guns go off quite often. A crime story? That too, because there’s a plot that quickly evolves from a micro to a macro scale. A mystery? Absolutely, it’s the most important ingredient—neither we nor the characters know anything at first, and that nothing generates too many strange, unsettling, and dangerous events to ignore. So the unknown must be deciphered, which won’t be easy, because—naturally—there are those who don’t want the secret to come to light. That means conspiracy and a lot of questions (who, what, how, where, when?), for which answers are hard to come by.

On that level, Utopia might sound banal. You can hear echoes of Lost, where the secret was kept hidden for years, only for the resolution to leave everyone deflated, and the predominant sound was one of disappointment—thankfully, the Brits don’t lead us on quite so cruelly. The influence of Conspiracy Theory or the mythological threads of The X-Files is easy to spot—the knowledge of what’s carefully hidden in government drawers is the key to understanding the characters’ troubles. Some readers might also be reminded of Heroes, that sensational trifle spread across many characters—with a comic book in the background, meaning not too serious, easygoing, parodying cultural codes in a pop-cultural way.

However, the creators of Utopia use the comic book motif far more cleverly, blending several artistic forms of expression into a single series—just like in the best comics, where unconventional prose is paired with outstanding visuals. Word, image, sound (onomatopoeia), stage directions, message, a distinctive overall dynamic: these are all elements representative of, among others, Alan Moore’s Watchmen, Art Spiegelman’s Maus, Frank Miller’s Sin City, Marjane Satrapi’s Persepolis, and Thorgal by Rosiński/Van Hamme.

Utopia has a similar identity. I’ve already mentioned the narrative layer, though it’s worth adding that it combines obvious elements belonging to many genres and themes, which is no sin—because the story flows quite smoothly from point A to point B, sticking to a narrative spine, but occasionally allowing for minor digressions. Each character is drawn with a distinctive line: a kid, a fanatical computer geek, a stiff, a rebellious student. They’re being hunted by a taciturn killer. In the background, a lost bureaucrat whose life is turned upside down, and people whose faces mysteriously emerge from the shadows. There’s also the intriguing Jessica Hyde, about whom questions are asked. Each character is excellently portrayed, but taking the spotlight is of course Neill Maskell as the psychopathic killer, and none other than Stephen Rea, whose experience is not to be underestimated.

Add to this the visual layer—carefully composed frames, showing both the grime of London’s streets and the pastoral serenity of the English countryside (where the action eventually leads)—all in proper contrast, light, and surprising perspective. Add precise use of silence, ambiguity, whose meaning is heightened by the incredible, minimalist music by Cristobal Tapia De Veer, somewhat reminiscent of ambient, which builds the dreamlike mood of the whole. Importantly, this atmosphere is often brutally interrupted by extreme violence—elaborate torture, senseless murders, including a school massacre of children. It’s a series that is at times shocking, politically incorrect, playful with violence, crossing boundaries, but at the same time highly stylized, ironic, not entirely serious. A comic book.

Dennis Kelly, the creator of Utopia, did not have the lofty ambitions I’ve somewhat suggested above. The dialogue with the conspiracy thriller genre and the comic-book backdrop is more the result of extraordinary talent and a search for uniqueness in the television world than of fascination with the theme or deep immersion in the fictional world. This acclaimed 42-year-old playwright, responsible for many respected works staged on the most renowned British theater stages and on television, describes himself more as a hired hand—a certain kind of prostitute, as he puts it, who serves willing clients. Kelly’s portfolio includes comedies, crime stories, musicals—all formally different from one another, aimed at different types of audiences.

Utopia is simply a coincidence—he knew Channel 4 was looking for a new series idea after the huge success of productions like Skins, Misfits, Shameless, or Black Mirror. So he sat down, wrote it, sent it, and voilà, Channel 4 funded the production. That’s the short version, of course—the well-known name of the creator certainly played a role, so the decision to greenlight the project wasn’t just a stroke of luck, but rather the result of Kelly’s hard work. Interestingly, the man began proving his worth only after the age of 30—he finished college only then, and before that, he worked regular jobs in supermarkets, in storage or behind the till at Sainsbury’s, joining a writing group (Barnet Drama Centre) by chance, where he developed his literary passions. Just another proof that if you want, and you’re able, and you work hard, you can achieve a lot.

So what determines the quality and uniqueness of Utopia? Dennis Kelly doesn’t take all the credit—though he’s the one in the spotlight when talking about the show’s success. He’s not Vince Gilligan, David Milch, or Alan Ball, who were deeply involved in the productions they created. Kelly, rather modestly, suggests he provided the paint, set up the easel, sketched the outline—but the real painters were the directors (Marc Munden, Wayne Che Yip, Alex Garcia Lopez), who translated the story into the language of film, creating the series’ atmosphere. And when I say atmosphere, I mean ATMOSPHERE, because this is a series with a truly extraordinary mood, and the creators deserve every bit of praise. The unique tone of Utopia, the perfect fusion of image, sound, and story, is no accident—it is the result of a creative brainstorming and a need to offer viewers something fresh and new within familiar frameworks.

Did they succeed? In some ways, certainly. Utopia didn’t break popularity records, but it possesses that mythical something that suggests a lot. Cult status? A big word, the meaning of which has been diluted these days. But there’s something to it. Utopia has something that won’t let it be forgotten.

That something you’ll have to verify for yourselves.

Looking at Richard Linklater’s recent festival premieres—the master of on-screen sentimentality and endlessly fascinating dialogue—it’s clear that the Before trilogy creator has developed a strong affinity for the Hollywood-favored “movies about movies” narrative. This type of storytelling peels back the curtain for everyday viewers to reveal the inner workings of legendary artists who helped shape cinema as we know it today. After Blue Moon, a nostalgic piece in which Ethan Hawke masterfully portrays Lorenz Hart spending his final days reminiscing about the height of his musical career—before he had to confront the exhausting void within and the lack of inspiration—this American director (though “observer of cinema’s phenomenon” might now be a more accurate label) takes us to yet another pivotal moment in film history. Fascinated by the rebellious creativity of Chabrol, Truffaut, Rohmer, and, most importantly, Jean-Luc Godard—the French revolutionaries who unexpectedly transformed modern perceptions of cinema in the late 1950s—Linklater invites us behind the scenes of one of the most iconic films of that era. Breathless, which launched the careers of Jean Seberg and Jean-Paul Belmondo, serves as a kind of cinematic sanctuary for Linklater. He pays tribute to it in every scene of his meticulously documentary-style work, which precisely captures the genius of Godard and his contemporaries. A regular at soirées thrown for France’s artistic elite, Linklater always longed to break free from the limits of being merely a film critic and analyst. As he himself admits, he wanted to express true criticism by creating a cinematic response to the flaws of the era’s filmmaking. He closely follows Godard’s legendary nonchalance, and rather than simply making a film about Godard’s life, he nearly transports us directly into the world of Breathless. Critics of New Wave cinema won’t find here an objective or rational balance between Linklater’s personal reverence and directorial restraint. Nouvelle Vague is very much a love letter to Godard’s artistic ego and to the critics who admired him. Yet it still manages to retain Linklater’s signature reflections on the fantasies and desires of twentysomethings today.

To say that Nouvelle Vague merely draws inspiration from the making of Breathless would be a gross understatement. From its opening moments—shot on black-and-white film—we almost literally recreate not just the production, but the content of the original Breathless, placing Linklater in the role of a vigilant imitator who dances on the edge of cinematic fanaticism for the creator of Contempt and Alphaville. Brilliantly cast Guillaume Marbeck and Zoey Deutch are contemporary echoes of Jean Seberg and Jean-Luc Godard—and easily among the most compelling performances at this year’s Cannes Film Festival.

Their fledgling characters cross paths with true icons of French cinema: Agnès Varda, Juliette Gréco, Roberto Rossellini, and Éric Rohmer, reenacting entries from a cinematic encyclopedia. The issue is that in its effort to honor one exceptional artist, Nouvelle Vague neglects the psychological depth of the other figures—sometimes summarized in just a few sentences, but more often pushed to the margins, overshadowed by the schematic replication of Breathless’s visuals.

This time, Linklater’s dialogues are sharp, abruptly cut by dynamic editing, yet they still carry the situational humor that the American director is known for—along with satire and a witty critique of certain entrenched practices in the film and critical worlds. Films like The Fabelmans, Babylon, and Once Upon a Time… in Hollywood brilliantly sparked this now widespread cinematic trend, and Linklater takes it a step further—crafting a film within a film so flawlessly recreated that only the actors’ faces distinguish it from the reality it’s portraying.

Of course, I understand the outrage from those accusing Linklater of exploiting the legacy of the French auteur and failing to inject Nouvelle Vague with a personal spark. Accustomed to his intimate, sentimental interpretations of modern relationships and family dynamics, we now find ourselves in uncharted waters—devoted more to exploring the legacy of a previous era’s artists than to trailblazing new trends. Still, I find myself embracing this unexpected transformation and the tenderness with which Linklater treats the legacy of a filmmaker who, in a way, motivated him to choose his own career path. This unpretentious observation of a cinematic guru—who remains, without a doubt, Jean-Luc Godard—is a truly fascinating return to the roots of filmmaking. It could prove to be a dark horse at Cannes—and who knows, maybe even in the Oscars race. After all, what resonates more with the often insular world of film critics than a work that explores their own artistic neuroses?