I did not get the chance to watch it when it was first released, nor did I see the original version. But watching this 2025 remake made me wonder: is the film inspired by the character Fuller, or is Fuller written in a way that reflects the film’s larger motive?

Because both seem to aim at manipulating others, including the audience. And both the film and Fuller do it seamlessly.

From the way Teddy is introduced, the way he interacts socially, the way he influences his cousin Don, and the way he becomes obsessed with kidnapping the CEO of the company he works for because he believes she is an alien, the film constantly pushes us in one direction: into Teddy’s mind.

Even the reasons Teddy gives Don, when Don naively questions whether Fuller is really an alien, make Teddy sound completely made-up like someone who is simply lost inside conspiracy theories. Anyone watching would easily believe that these two men are just deranged, confused, and driven by online delusions. Their objective, and the logic behind their actions, seems to come straight from internet conspiracy culture.

Even the reminder countdown to the lunar eclipse, shown alongside Flat Earth imagery, made me think that we were watching a serious satire shaped through Teddy’s conspiracy-filled worldview.

Who would not think that? The way the characters are constructed, from the beginning until the final act, pushes the audience to read the film exactly that way.

Missed Hints:

The biggest hint, and probably the one no one would see coming, was the knee adjustment of Fuller. It was brief but it felt strange enough to briefly recall the scene from “The Substance” (2024). But it is also the sort of moment most viewers would probably brush aside and move on from. It felt weird, bit gore, yes, but only in a normal-cinema-weird kind of way. Compared to Teddy’s obsessive belief that Fuller is Andromedan, that moment felt far less extreme. Up to that point, the film stays close enough to reality that the very idea of a humanoid alien does not feel convincing. So the audience naturally keeps refusing Teddy’s perspective.

Another major hint comes when Fuller wakes up for the first time in the basement. She seems unusually controlled in her emotions. Looking back, or on a rewatch, it becomes much clearer how calm she is in handling the situation and confronting Teddy and Don.

If someone woke up after blacking out and discovered that their hair had been cut off, the expected reaction would usually be panic, frustration, fear, tears, or at least visible shock. But Fuller remains calm and composed. On a first watch, that can seem like the behaviour of someone who is simply bossy and used to being in control after years of authority. But on a rewatch, once we know that she is in fact an alien, and more specifically an empress, that calmness reads very differently. She does not panic because she is never truly powerless.

Until Fuller enters the closet in the final act, no one could have predicted her next move. Why does she return to her office limping? What is the number she enters into the calculator? Is it real, or is it still part of an act meant to convince poor Teddy? Teddy dies because of the bomb he strapped to his own body, but what would have happened if he had not been wearing it? Was Fuller actually planning to send him to the mothership? And if so, how would she have explained Teddy’s disappearance to her employees and everyone else around her?

All of these questions remain unanswered, leaving the audience in even greater confusion.

The Last Act of the Film: The Last Act for Humans

When Fuller escapes from Earth and returns to the mothership, she pulls the plug.

All the humans die.

Only the humans.

Once Fuller accepts Teddy in the basement after escaping her chains, she begins to behave as though she truly is the queen of the Andromeda galaxy.

At first, one might assume that this is simply an act of frustration, a response to being held in the basement for three days by a lowlife like Teddy, forced to accept that she is an alien, and having her hair cut off. That sense of superiority seems to diminish Teddy and allows her to take control of the dynamic.

But that reversal of roles is not just psychological.

It is the moment when Fuller’s real self begins to emerge. She had been skilled at hiding information and staying in character, but once she escapes and learns the full extent of Teddy’s conspiracy-driven research, something in her shifts.

Fuller is no longer just reacting to captivity. She is confronting Teddy from a position of truth, telling him that humans have failed and are no longer worthy of survival.

So, was Teddy right from the start?

And did our tendency, as an audience, to look down on people who believe things they find online make us dismiss Teddy not as someone worth taking seriously, but simply as someone deranged? Is that what the film is really suggesting?

His attempt to save his mother, while believing Fuller was an alien, should perhaps have earned our sympathy. Instead, because that same belief ultimately leads him into manipulation and destruction, it earns him almost none.

The fall of society is inevitable. We do not need aliens to wipe us out. We are already more than capable of doing that ourselves, perhaps even more effectively than any alien civilisation we have imagined but never seen. Anything that begins must end: entropy.

What “Bugonia” (2025) manipulates most effectively is how we judge belief, delusion, and truth itself. But then again, what is reality, or truth, anymore?

It is a self-destructive bomb built to make a statement; by the end, it almost tears itself apart so that statement can explode in full colour.

It is not just a film. It is a statement.

In that sense, it is one of the most crucial works of this decade, because it tells the world, with urgency and pain, what these people are forced to go through. It does not merely dramatise oppression; it makes that oppression felt inside a home, inside a marriage, inside the fragile structure of a family. That alone makes it important.

But as a film, as cinema, it falters for me toward the end.

For most of its running time, I was ready with a one-word Letterboxd review: Masterpiece. Then the final stretch arrived, and something in it broke for me. Suddenly, the film began to resemble something closer to the ending of “The Shining” (1980) followed by a car chase, and I found myself asking: Why? Why this turn? Why this register? Where does this transformation come from? Instead of surprising me but it made confused.

Maybe it is just me?

But I do not think the film earns that shift as fully as it wants to. What makes the first two hours so strong is the way the father is drawn. He is not introduced as a simple monster. He is not shown, at least at first, as a man whose cruelty completely defines him. Yes, the family lives under his control because they live under his roof. Yes, he is distant, authoritative, and shaped by patriarchy. But the film also shows him as a man with hesitation, with conflict, even with empathy. He is someone caught between conscience and the regime. He is not free. He is complicit, but he is also trapped. That complexity matters.

In the early passages, he feels less like evil itself and more like a survivalist: a man who has bent himself so deeply to the demands of the state that he can no longer tell where duty ends and humanity begins. He talks things through with his wife. He does not act as a one-note tyrant. In fact, the wife often seems more practical, even more willing, in encouraging him to accept the role required of him. That dynamic is what makes the film so interesting. It is not simply about a bad man ruling over innocent women. It is about how power enters a family and rearranges everyone within it.

The gun is one of the clearest examples of this. He receives it from the government for protection. He is almost excited by it, proud enough to show it to his wife. Later, we see that he is careless with it, leaving it behind in the bathroom, where his wife finds it and returns it to the drawer where he normally hides it. The gun is not just a weapon; it is an object that exposes the instability of the household. It sits between authority, fear, masculinity, and paranoia.

The daughters, meanwhile, are not fully aware of what their father really does. He spends little time with them. He is emotionally unavailable, physically distant, and present mostly as an authority figure. So of course they do not move toward him with warmth. They relate to him through absence and control. But even then, the film keeps suggesting that beneath all this, he is not irredeemably hard. He is someone shaped and softened, then hardened again, by the machinery of the state.

That is why the dinner confrontation works so well. It is one of the film’s best scenes because it allows ideology and emotion to collide finally. The father is disappointed by the elder daughter; the daughter is disappointed by the father. But this is not just a family disagreement. It is a generational conflict. One side belongs to a generation that learned to bend in order to survive, to remain silent in order to feed a family, to obey because obedience was the cost of staying alive. The other belongs to a younger spirit, more rebellious, less willing to internalise fear, and perhaps more capable of imagining resistance because it has not yet been worn down by the same compromises. That difference matters too.

The daughters’ views on freedom, religion, expression, and personal life should absolutely be respected. But the film also makes clear that this tension is not only about a father restricting his children. It is about a whole structure of culture and power pressing down on everyone. Which is why, at times, the daughters’ confrontation with him feels less like a confrontation with one man and more like rebellion aimed at the nearest visible symbol of a much larger prison.

And that is where my struggle with the film begins.

The father’s arc in the third act begins to move away from the compromised, frightened, morally damaged man the film had so carefully built, and toward something closer to a straightforward psychopath. He becomes consumed by the missing gun, and the film pushes him into a space of near-horror. But I kept asking myself whether the film had earned that escalation.

Why does the youngest daughter hide the gun? Had the father ever threatened them with it before? Had the film established that she saw him as capable of that kind of direct violence? The daughters did not even know about the gun until they encountered it themselves. So when the youngest later behaves as though she is confronting a monster, I do not feel the completion of a psychological arc. I feel the script moving in a direction that the earlier characterisation did not fully justify.

That is my main problem with the film.

The mother and elder sister defending themselves makes sense. Of course it does. They do not want to be treated like prisoners for an act they did not commit. They do not want to remain trapped under suspicion, surveillance, and patriarchal control. The film is powerful in showing how a household can become a miniature version of a regime. The father, even when soft-spoken, embodies authority, hidden misogyny, and the insistence that obedience must come before trust.

But the film also shows him as genuinely devastated by the possibility that his own family is plotting against him. And from his perspective, the missing gun is not a small matter. It is tied to his work, his social standing, his survival, his safety, and possibly his freedom. If it disappears, everything around him begins to collapse. His reputation is at risk. The trust he had in his family over decades is being questioned. His address and identity may be exposed. Strangers may follow him. He could lose his position, and perhaps even go to prison.

So when he demands that the gun be returned, I found myself asking: is that not, at some level, a reasonable demand?

This is where the film becomes most difficult and most interesting. The father is not innocent. But neither is he always irrational. The women are not wrong to resist him. But neither are all their choices fully convincing. The family is breaking, but it is breaking inside a system far more violent than any one of them. That is the tragedy the film understands beautifully for most of its duration.

Even the tension over the daughters’ appearance and freedom sits inside this contradiction. A father allowing nail polish or dyed hair would not necessarily protect them from being attacked in public. The regime would remain what it is. Society would remain what it is. In that sense, part of his authoritarianism can also be read as fear, as an attempt, however warped, to protect them from a world he knows is merciless. That does not excuse him. But it complicates him.

The same is true of the marital bond. One of the film’s most painful ideas is the way suspicion enters the space between husband and wife. The moment he doubts her, even for a second, the marriage begins to corrode. Once interrogation enters the home, trust cannot remain intact. This is one of the film’s most devastating insights: authoritarian systems do not only imprison bodies; they infect relationships. They make intimacy unstable. They turn the family against itself. And in that sense, “The Seed of the Sacred Fig” (2024) is an extraordinary political statement.

It shows how a regime can push ordinary people into moral disfigurement. It shows how power does not remain at the level of law or state violence, but travels downward into the private sphere, poisoning tenderness, parenthood, marriage, and belief. Few films in this decade have felt this urgent in what they are trying to say.

Which is exactly why I wish the third act had trusted its own realism more.

Because for me, that final shift damages the precision of what came before. It pushes the father too far into symbolic monstrosity and weakens the painful ambiguity that made him such a compelling figure. The youngest daughter’s final action feels less like the culmination of what the film had been building and more like an abrupt leap into another register altogether.

So I remain torn.

As a political act, this film is essential.

As a statement to the world, it is brave, necessary, and deeply important.

It deserves to be seen, discussed, and remembered. But as a film, I do not think it entirely survives its own final movement. For two hours, it builds toward a masterpiece. In the final act, it loses some of the truth and complexity that made it powerful in the first place.

Still, even with that flaw, I cannot deny its importance.

This is one of the defining cinematic statements of the decade. It is a film made with urgency, anger, and risk. And perhaps that is why I am harder on it: because for so long, it felt like it was reaching greatness.

There are filmmakers, and there are directors.

One is driven primarily by an inner creative urge, ready to go to any extreme to express something that feels inevitable. The other may be driven by passion too, but often by fame, awards, money, or a combination of all three.

There is nothing wrong with being either. There is nothing lesser about being a director, and nothing automatically superior about being called a filmmaker. Both make cinema. Both can entertain, move, and educate audiences, though often on different levels and for different reasons.

This generation, shaped by endless consumption, is cursed and blessed at the same time. We consume everything together, all at once, across platforms and forms. But we also have access to more kinds of storytelling, and to more extremes of art, than any generation before.

So why is there so much debate around “The Odyssey” (2026) already before the film is released?

The story the film wants to say is at least 2,000 years old. It has been retold in many forms across centuries. The real question, to me, is not whether Christopher Nolan can do something unique with this material. Of course he can. The more interesting question is: why return so directly to one of the most foundational myths in Western storytelling? Why this story, and why now? Yet the public conversation has barely stayed there. Instead, in recent weeks, much of the discourse has been consumed by arguments over casting, and the noise around it has spread everywhere.

But first, two basic truths:

First, this is mythology.

Second, this is cinema.

It is not a documentary, and it is not a historical reconstruction. It is an interpretation. That is what artists and directors have always done with myth: they reshape it through the lens of their own time, interests, and ambitions.

If a film based on a real historical figure radically altered reality, then outrage would make more sense. But “The Odyssey” (2026) is not that kind of text. It belongs to a tradition of retelling. That should invite debate about vision, interpretation, and meaning, not just surface-level outrage. And yet the casting has become the centre of the conversation.

Maybe controversial casting does help generate attention. Maybe it helps a film stay culturally dominant, win awards, and make money. But does Nolan really need that strategy?

Before “The Odyssey” (2026), there was “Oppenheimer” (2023). That film became one of the defining cinematic events of 2023. It won awards, dominated discussion, and cemented itself in popular culture. Cillian Murphy’s image still circulates online in memes and edits. But the major criticism around “Oppenheimer” (2023) was not really about who was cast. It was about perspective. Many questioned whether the film minimised the suffering of Japan and instead framed the moral weight of the bomb through the inner torment of the man who helped build it. Yes, the film was titled Oppenheimer, after all; not Japan, not Hiroshima and Nagasaki, not The Millions of Lives Destroyed by Nuclear Violence. That debate was about the politics of perspective.

So why does “The Odyssey” (2026) provoke a different kind of outrage? That is the question worth asking: Representation.

Representation in mainstream cinema is important for those who work in that industry, but its value to communities is often reduced to just online discussion, symbolic visibility, and cultural conversation among friends and families. Yes, cinema can influence society, but simply hiring diverse actors does not automatically solve structural issues. Casting a Black woman as a Greek queen does not take away anyone’s income or prevent anyone else from surviving.

That is why reducing the discussion to “accurate casting” versus “forced casting” feels shallow. The more interesting debate is whether Nolan’s choices serve the film artistically. Do they deepen the myth? Do they bring new meaning? Do they justify this retelling?

Because that is the real question that should have been behind The Odyssey: Did this film even need to be made?

Not in the industrial sense. Not because Nolan can make it, or because audiences will watch it, or because studios know his name guarantees attention. But in the artistic sense. Did this story demand to be told again in 2026? Did Nolan find something in it that speaks to our time, our anxieties, our moral confusion, our longing for home, identity, and survival?

If the answer is yes, then the film will justify itself.

If the answer is no, then all that remains is spectacle: an expensive retelling of a story that has already outlived empires, languages, and generations. And perhaps that is why the debate feels so heated. When a filmmaker like Nolan chooses a myth this old, people do not just expect competence. They expect necessity. That is the burden of retelling “The Odyssey” in 2026. Maybe mainstream directors will eventually realise that increasing representation in casting does not automatically strengthen a film, and that this subject needs to be handled with more care and nuance.

Personally, after watching “The Return” (2024), I had very little interest in another retelling, and I have felt the same even after seeing the posters and trailers. “The Return” (2024) was minimalist and artistic enough to make the retelling worth experiencing.

Read “The Return” (2024) review: https://medium.com/@ajayrahuluk/the-return-2024-review-a-minimalistic-adaptation-of-a-mythical-journey-e7c91c03a829

Still, Nolan may bring something new through his interpretation. We will have to wait and see what this new retelling offers.

It could either become another sensational success for Nolan and his team or continue to be heavily criticised. Nevertheless, for those who care about IMAX films, this will be a treat, and cinema theatres need to live long. To stop consuming AI and live through some human experience, if a retelling can help make that happen, I am buying tickets.

For the past two years, almost every news channel in Tamil Nadu seems to have uttered the name “Vijay” at least once a day, or at the very least once every couple of days each week. Debates, analysis shows, and videos across news channels and social media have consistently and heavily criticised him.

Recently, one prominent news channel revealed that it had reached its highest digital viewership. Surely, Vijay is one of the main reasons. The “Vijay mania” is real, and its impact is massive. Say anything good or bad, it does not matter. The moment you talk about Vijay, viewership is almost guaranteed.

Different types of critiques against Vijay

If you have followed Tamil mainstream news channels consistently by now, you would have understood that no one is truly unbiased these days.

Even journalism is biased, because it is meant to bring out only “truth”. Journalism naturally leans towards the victims and towards the truth. But the journalism being practised right now in Tamil Nadu, much like in the northern states or in the West, is heavily biased towards political parties.

Today, it is difficult to name journalists whom one can genuinely follow or listen to with trust. The betrayal by reporters and journalists has become the norm. They present themselves as neutral until they gain fame and attention, and then suddenly shift towards one side without even officially admitting it.

Why would they kill their own work ethic?

Because of the pressure and influence they receive from Dravidian parties that were founded half a century ago. If businesspeople and political parties can buy journalists, are they still journalists?

In fact, a political party openly running its own newspaper or media outlet is far better than these journalists who have not come out of the closet yet. Why? Because at least then it is obvious to common people that they are watching a political party’s news, not factual or unbiased journalism.

How mainstream media values news is a separate discussion altogether. For them, news is a product, and they give attention only to what has selling value. If an issue has less attention value, it will not even get a slot on the show. That opens up another larger discussion about people’s consumption habits, shrinking attention spans, and the economics of media itself.

Why does TVK bother others?

For months now, these analysts have branded TVK and Vijay as “elite politics.” But if a politician meeting people at his convenience is enough to earn that label, then what do we call those who are paid by different political parties to sit on television, attack TVK, and still present themselves as “journalists”?

What qualifies them to be journalists? What credibility do they really have? If journalists are free to judge politicians the way they want, who is going to judge these journalists?

The bubble

Even if these analysts have studied all forms of “-isms” and can regurgitate theories and facts from across the globe even in their dreams, can they force people to make a decision just because they say so?

Is that not against democracy?

Democracy, mixed with capitalism and globalisation, is leading us towards a consumer society that moves with mob mentality, shaped by popular information more than independent thought. Most experienced journalists come from a different generation. They see the youngsters’ wave towards Vijay, and it bothers them. They think the crowd attracted by Vijay is not driven by ideology, and so they dismiss it as a depoliticised crowd. But they are not ready to debate why half-century-old parties failed to politicise an entire generation in the first place.

In fact, these people are not depoliticised. They avoided politics because of how dirty it had become under those two major political parties. People distanced themselves from politics and focused on themselves, and that is part of the growth we have seen so far.

Now, with Vijay’s arrival, people are once again questioning authority. They want to see the change they have longed for. Vijay carries a socialist atmosphere around him and around his party. People with an unfiltered mind see him as a wave. People with an agenda see him as a threat.

Vijay is criticised even by his own fans and supporters, and most of the time, he seems to listen and respond accordingly. Is that not what leadership is supposed to be? Instead of generations of one family controlling power, or alliances formed for personal gain while people are left with nothing more than rising dissatisfaction. A government is meant to give people what they deserve and uplift them. But these parties behave as if they are giving from their own pockets.

Popularity can be good or bad for a society, but who gets to decide that? Only time can tell. Vijay is popular. Using that popularity to gain authority is his call. If he comes to power and chooses to govern the way he wants, we will know whether it was good or bad only by the end of his term.

The rise of the political analyst

The amount of momentum these political analysts have gained in recent times, especially after the arrival of politician Vijay, has helped them brand themselves as the go-to people for news media shows. These analysts have data, yes, but often it is the kind of data that supports the parties with whom they are connected.

Every other journalist now seems eager to gain popularity by attacking Vijay or by taking a stand against what is already widely accepted.

Because “thinking out of the box” has now become an exercise for a few to prove they are different, simply by running in the opposite direction from where everyone else is going.

They can sit and speak their opinions for as long as they want. They can stoop to degrading women and youngsters as much as they want. But to a common person who believes Vijay represents a living image of the better society they have only dreamed of and never experienced before, all of this sounds hollow.

And if Vijay breaks this trust, he too will be replaced. People still have the power, even though consumption continues to govern them.

One thing is certain: Vijay has already given many people in Tamil Nadu sleepless nights. Now the only thing left is to wait until May 4 and see whether those sleepless nights will continue for the next five years.

I was in the process of completing all the natural-disaster films made so far, covering everything from widely known titles to lesser-seen films. Then I came across a Nicolas Cage film.

My excitement to watch a Cage film increased immediately. I was not expecting a miraculous work of craft, just some good “Cage” entertainment. But while watching it, that excitement from the beginning started dropping slowly toward the end, and by the time the film finished, it felt like defeat.

The film wanted to ride on three different lanes and could not stick to one at a constant pace. Because of that, I could not decide whether I should focus on the characters or the fiction elements in the film. If the film had stuck with one of its three polluted, mixed genres, this would have been on many lists of the “best science fiction films of this century.”

1) Knowing (2009): Supernatural Mystery

The film opens with a backstory that becomes the base of the entire narrative. It plants an idea that feels closer to horror than to straightforward supernatural drama. At times, it even resembles the atmosphere of “Dark Water” (2002).

In this film, Koestler’s son finds Lucinda’s buried letter after 50 years, and what unfolds from that point sounds far more interesting to read about than to actually watch in this film. It could have been shown in a more sequential way: how Koestler discovers the letter, studies it, and begins to find the pattern hidden in the numbers.

If that had been convincingly built and revealed by the end of the first act, the level of trust and believability would have increased. In supernatural mystery or horror, what matters more is not how fictional the story is, but how convincingly it is told. In “Knowing” (2009), it starts to build that fundamental but fail to complete it properly.

2) Knowing (2009): Science Fiction As Cosmic Disaster

We have all been taught in school that it takes around 8 minutes for light to travel from the Sun to the Earth. Imagine the distance; no one can actually process the scale between celestial bodies out there. It is impossible for our human brains. In the third act, the film brings in the most important celestial body for Earth and life itself: the Sun.

“Sunshine” (2007) had already gone the extra mile and literally traveled into space to restart it. So perhaps any drama surrounding the same source of light in the solar system might not have appealed enough to the writers, and they decided to use this idea as yet another sub-plot instead of making it the film’s main focus.

But the film still has Cage delivering cool lines and shows a middle-aged man maintaining a depressing, melancholic vibe with his child, while trying his best to save him. Most mainstream films end with either a happy ending, or at least with the lead managing to save himself and his loved ones. Very few show the protagonists losing: the dark ending.

In “Knowing” (2009), Cage goes to see his mother and father, with whom he has not spoken in a long time. He visits them with his sister in the final moments before the solar flare hits Earth and wipes out all living organisms. That situation alone could have carried an entire act of the film, but it is shown only in the finale. Still, for a brief moment, it brings out the true disaster-film vibe.

That level of panic and uncertainty in society, once it starts losing its momentum, is entertaining to watch these days, especially after seeing so many post-apocalyptic films, series, and games. It is another subject altogether to discuss the current and growing generation’s urge to experience an apocalyptic world, whether virtually or in real life. That could be a concern. But showing a society’s downfall on the big screen, along with the personal choices and emotional impact that characters go through come with it, would push us toward discussing the worst possible scenarios humans could ever face and how to prepare for them.

“Knowing” (2009) had the potential to explore this area more deeply.

3) Knowing (2009): Alien-Contact Science Fiction

Those unidentified people who whisper into the boy’s ear turn out to be aliens from another world! Surprise!

Once the boy is chosen, the aliens take him along with Lucinda’s daughter. Only when the children are taken to another world does the film reveal what it is aiming for: they are seemingly the Adam and Eve of a new beginning. I am not sure how the filmmakers convinced themselves that this biblical reference would be the cherry on top of the cake. The cherry is indeed visible, but it is not on top of the cake.

I had watched the series “Dark” before this film, even though “Knowing” (2009) was released almost a decade earlier, and those whisperers in ths film reminded me of the three different versions of Noah in “Dark” Season 3. It is only revealed at the end of the season who those three men of three different ages really are, but the intrigue around their motive and origin hangs over the story the whole time. That same level of intrigue does not get created in this film, because the mixture of events is already forcing the film to struggle just to hold itself together.

Now that the film is made and years have passed, nothing much can be fixed. But considering the potential and intention behind it, this could have been far more entertaining and might even have become a cult film.

Rating: 4/5

Watching space films in cinemas or on television when I was a kid never fascinated me much. I mostly took them for granted. At the time, I was far far more concerned about getting good grades and sneaking out to play with friends. But Andy Weir’s “The Martian” (2015) sparked my curiosity toward reading and learning more about science fiction, especially after Christopher Nolan’s “Interstellar” (2014), which deepened my interest in cosmology and quantum mechanics.

Ever since then, the craving to watch something related to space has been long overdue. Thankfully, many video essays and podcasts have partially filled that void over the years, but the cinematic experience itself felt absent for quite some time. There have been a few space-related films and shows, but many of them failed to reach the bar set by earlier classics.

When I first heard about Andy Weir’s next book, I was immediately excited. The news that Sandra Hüller and Ryan Gosling were attached to the film adaptation pushed that excitement to another level. The casting in the film felt justified, as both actors embody the spirit of the characters described in the book. Even the way Rocky looks, did not feel artificial. The other characters come in for few minutes but make a good impression.

In the novel, the nuances surrounding each step taken by Ryland Grace in the spaceship are both humorous and meticulously detailed. But cinema functions differently. Those same details often pass in a matter of seconds, montage sequences, as the film must condense the entire story into less than three hours.

The book’s narrative constantly moves back and forth between events in space and those unfolding on Earth. The film, however, spends the majority of its time in space. This feels like a wise decision. Regardless of whether mainstream audiences have read the book or not, they naturally expect only visually fascinating moments from a space film. If the writers had devoted more screen time to explaining the research and practical difficulties taking place on Earth between Grace and Stratt, it might not have been engaging as it is now. The tone of the story itself is quirky and emotional rather than driven by heavy, serious drama.

As a film, viewers who have not read the book might actually enjoy it even more, particularly the relationship between Grace and Rocky. That dynamic forms the emotional core of the film. Around it orbit several fascinating subplots: stars being consumed by Astrophage leading to mass extinction in few decades, the terrifying premise of a one-way mission, and impossible journey of an astronaut traveling nearly twelve light-years from Earth. But the audience response was clearly centred on the interactions between Grace and Rocky.

Their exchanges consistently drew giggles and bursts of laughter throughout the theatre. At the same time, the film captures several brief deeply emotional moments that can unexpectedly break your composure. I could genuinely feel people around me reaching for tissues, clearing their noses and throats at least three separate times during the screening.

The visual effects are great and are best experienced on an IMAX screen. However, much of the film rests on the shoulders of Ryan Gosling and the alien from another solar system. Gosling brings Ryland Grace to life with conviction, makes me wonder whether Andy Weir wrote the character with Gosling in mind.

Stratt’s involvement in the film feels a bit more understated than in the book. Even so, with the limited screen time she has, Sandra convincingly does justice to the role through her performance. I know Lionel Boyce from “The Bear”, and the initial interactions between him and Grace provide some enjoyable comic relief within the film’s fast-paced storytelling.

The film almost reaches a natural ending just before the final act, where it could have concluded. However, it continues in order to cover the remaining events from the book. But the messages reaching Stratt and Grace teaches to students, not the ones in the earth but to Eridians gives a comfort and satisfaction before leaving the Cinemas.

Project Hail Mary (2026) does not fall into infotainment or experimental but delivers what it is capable of, purely a satisfyingly entertaining film.

I often feel that I belong to a group of viewers who are acutely aware of our era’s relentless content consumption and how it has gradually alienated generations from the experience of “cinema”.

Television series, limited series, anime, cartoons, and even YouTube video essays have become the modern evolution of cinematic storytelling. Whether we like it or not, cinema, in its traditional form, has begun to resemble an ancient ritual. Many films are running in the Cinemas but only a couple of them get the attention and audience it deserved. The decline is not solely the result of these new forms of media. Another reason is that we have, in many ways, exhausted the well of originality. After decades of witnessing the same narrative spectacles from the asteroid destroying Earth, till the underdog rising to become the man he always dreamed of being, very little truly surprises us anymore.

We have experienced nearly every emotional register and its inevitable outcome. Every conceivable situation has been dramatised, romanticised, from the most comforting happy endings to the bleakest unimaginable conclusions.

Even if series and any form of video content had never become this popular, cinema would still have been drifting toward this exhaustion.

The slow death is not only to Cinema but to everything.

HBO and ME

I must confess that I am a sucker for HBO series, particularly the limited ones. Yet I cannot hide the fact that my primary allegiance is still to cinema.

I belong to this generation, and although my interest in films began in theatres, I have no resistance to lengthy storytelling. To me, many limited series feel like films that have been carefully disassembled into multiple parts; allowing the characters to explore a bit further than the limited runtime of ~ 2 hours. That description is not entirely accurate for every limited series, of course, but it is the way I prefer to perceive them.

Platforms like Netflix and Prime now produce content that stretches across multiple seasons, and with that extension comes a peculiar routine: we watch the same characters repeatedly make the same poor decisions, gives us dopamine satisfaction and disappointment, season after season.

Somewhere in the back of our minds, a small alarm begins to ring. Am I suggesting that cinema or limited series do not influence us? Partially, no.

I know a friend who watches only a small number of films but rewatches them frequently. He hesitates to step into another man’s life through a new film because he fears the psychological intrusion of another character’s arc. It is an unusual thought, but not an unreasonable one. After all, even with the people closest to us, we do not observe them twenty-four hours a day. There are natural distances in life.

There must be moments when we let go of what we love. It is something we practice, willingly or not, in real life. Yet with entertainment, we rarely practice restraint.

We never say stop. We always want more content.

Atlanta, Barry, The Bear, The Pitt, The Studio...

When the first season of “Atlanta” (2016) arrived, it felt like tasting a fruitcake I had never encountered before. The craftsmanship was unmistakable. Every episode, every minute, felt like a declaration from its creators that they possessed absolute command over originality.

When artists become entangled in ideological agendas, whether left or right, their work often drifts more toward politics rather than art. But “Atlanta” (2016) remained funny, strange, political, and brilliant. The later seasons were just as strong as the first, yet they shifted into an entirely different gear. The show became denser, more surreal, and more interpretive. Many viewers could not grasp everything it attempted. In that sense, it reminded me of “Arrested Development” (2003): a show so relentlessly packed with jokes that audiences could never fully absorb them all.

Then there is “The Bear” (2022). When it first appeared, it felt electrifyingly fresh. The word “Cousin” quickly became a pop-culture meme. Even “The Pitt” (2025) seems partially inspired by its frantic rhythm and emotional claustrophobia. But when a series continues beyond its natural endpoint, the narrative begins to strain. New characters appear simply to expand emotional arcs. None of this was something the series truly demanded.

Audiences will always ask for more. That is inevitable. But imagine if “The Bear” (2022) had ended with its first season. The lingering thirst to revisit that world would have pushed audiences to rewatch Season 1 repeatedly, while perhaps inspiring them to explore entirely different stories elsewhere. Sometimes restraint is what immortalises a work. “Mindhunter” (2017) still sits on the list of every cinephile I know. Even today we crave more episodes, and many still refuse to forgive Netflix for canceling it.

Even “Barry” (2018) felt incredibly refreshing in its first season, a story about a hitman who takes up acting as a way to hide from his own identity, infused with subtle, deadpan dark humor and carried brilliantly by Bill Hader. Yet I could not continue with the following seasons.

And then there is Season 2 of “House of the Dragon”. What exactly was that season trying to achieve? Season 1 did some justice to “Game of Thrones”, even making interesting structural choices by placing half the episodes in the past and allowing the latter half to focus on the characters as adults. But the entirety of Season 2 could have been condensed into one or two episodes before moving forward to the story that truly mattered. After all, this is mainstream television. We are not Béla Tarr.

That is how art should function.

Give the story exactly what it deserves, and then let it retire at the precise moment when the audience is willing to follow it one mile further.

We only crave to descend deeper into the rabbit hole when our curiosity begins to control us.

Look at what Marvel is attempting with “Doomsday”. From a business standpoint, bringing Robert Downey Jr. and other Marvel characters back into another colossal project will almost certainly generate a billion dollars at the box office. But will it ever recreate the cultural momentum that “Infinity War” (2018) or “Endgame” (2019) achieved? Fans will undoubtedly go wild seeing RDJ return in a Marvel film but how many times can he appear before the novelty fades and audiences quietly move on?

Our collective concentration span is already deteriorating. LLMs, AI-generated videos, and the endless stream of content have created a constant state of consumption. Yet films were never meant to be merely consumed. They were meant to help us explore the world and ourselves.

Cinema must continue to thrive and inspire. Long-form storytelling should absolutely exist, but with a sense of threshold. The goal should be to challenge audiences with the depth of content, not with the sheer quantity of it.

Celebrating films in cinema should always take precedence over criticism. Even if mainstream films dominate the list of re releases, the sheer number of audiences walking back into theatres deserves appreciation. The collective experience of watching a film on the big screen is something that must be valued. Yet nostalgia is a resource that can eventually deplete, and a vacuum of fatigue is not a distant possibility.

Re-releasing films in Tamil Nadu is not a new phenomenon. In earlier decades, several substandard theatres that struggled to attract audiences often resorted to screening soft porn films or re running films from the 1970s and 1980s to sustain themselves. Re releases were largely seen as a survival tactic rather than a celebratory event.

However, after the monumental success of “Ghilli” (2004) in its re release, which astonishingly outperformed many original films of the year, Tamil producers and theatre owners were compelled to monetise the trend to its fullest potential. What was once a peripheral practice suddenly transformed into a calculated commercial strategy.

It arrived unexpectedly and altered the exhibition landscape overnight. This phenomenon is not exclusive to Tamil cinema. Globally, when the Academy Awards season approaches, Oscar nominated films are screened again in theatres to reach a wider audience.

Films from the 1980s and 1990s return to cinemas to commemorate their fortieth or fiftieth anniversaries. There are also dedicated and widely celebrated theatres that specialise exclusively in screening old or previously released films, such as the Prince Charles Cinema in London, which has cultivated a loyal audience by curating repertory screenings and nostalgic favourites year round. When the interest to revisit and re experience a film emerges organically, it not only attracts a new generation but also rekindles nostalgia among older viewers.

However, after “Ghilli” (2004), several films attempted re releases, and none could replicate the magnitude of its reception.

Atlee is consistently trolled for allegedly drawing inspiration from other films. Yet what he crafted for Vijay was uniquely tailored to him and suited him impeccably. The emotional cadence, the heroic elevation, and the balance between mass appeal and sentiment were calibrated specifically for Vijay’s screen persona.

Following the introductory chapter and the transition into the flashback, “Theri” (2016) shifts into a brief investigative segment revolving around a missing woman last seen leaving her office. Vijay Kumar resolves the case within ten hours of it reaching his desk, reinforcing his portrayal as an officer of remarkable efficiency.

The film itself is an intricate amalgamation of multiple threads stitched together with precise balance, and the investigative strand forms a vital component of this tapestry. Investigation thrillers rarely fail to captivate audiences. Literary icons such as Agatha Christie bestowed immense stature upon this genre. That brief investigative portion in “Theri” (2016) subtly indicated that Vijay possessed the calibre to anchor a full fledged film rooted entirely in the investigative genre.

Robert Downey Jr. demonstrated his versatility by embodying the iconic detective in both of Guy Ritchie’s Sherlock Holmes films. Vijay, who has effortlessly shared screen space with comedians while retaining command over his presence, could seamlessly inhabit a similar role and render it convincingly in a Tamil adaptation.

There have been numerous Tamil versions and reinterpretations of investigative narratives over the decades. Reiterating the same template may not always guarantee novelty. However, the recent spin offs of “Knives Out”, headlined by Daniel Craig and directed by Rian Johnson, have generated renewed momentum for the genre. This resurgence reaffirms that well crafted investigative stories continue to resonate with mainstream audiences.

In the latter half of “Theri” (2016), there is another compelling episode where Vijay Kumar assumes an almost spectral aura. The re-introduction of Vijay Kumar in that sequence sends a chill through the viewer for a fleeting yet powerful moment. The comparison may appear ambitious given the atmospheric standard achieved by “Bramayugam” (2024), yet the dimly lit police station, Vijay Kumar’s imposing presence, and the authority he commands collectively function as a glimpse of his potential to thrive in similarly intense and genre driven narratives.

We have witnessed fleeting glimpses of a James Bond like persona in his recent films, shades of sophistication and calculated composure embedded within commercial frameworks. One can imagine Vijay embodying characters akin to Benoit Blanc from “Knives Out” (2019) or Sherlock Holmes, or even venturing into extreme experimental territories such as “Bramayugam” (2024). Realistically, such transitions may never materialise, especially after his confirmation that he is stepping away from cinema.

Unlike several mainstream stars who struggle to convincingly demonstrate versatility across varied skill sets, Vijay proved his range emphatically in 2012 itself. In the same year, he delivered “Nanban” (2012) and “Thuppakki” (2012), two films that demanded entirely different tonalities and performances. He did not confine himself to formulaic mainstream entertainers, but he consistently believed in entertaining cinema. That belief ensured a loyal mass following, substantial remuneration, and enduring popularity. He has never been entirely risk averse.

“Beast” (2022), for instance, was an experiment within the framework of a Vijay film. Anchoring a narrative around a hostage crisis and heist set inside a sprawling supermall was a considerable gamble for a star of his stature. “Leo” (2023), though inspired by the novel A History of Violence, adhered firmly to its genre sensibilities. How many mainstream Tamil films remain committed to a specific genre instead of reverting to the conventional underdog commercial template starring big stars? “Nanban” (2012) itself was an experiment for Vijay for multiple reasons. Re-creating and localising a celebrated film like 3 Idiots required conviction and restraint. He embraced the challenge and reshaped the character in his own idiom. Remarkably, audiences never questioned his age in the film. We believed him as a college student, even though he was in his late thirties at the time. I can go on.

Nevertheless, we were fortunate to witness moments of subtle restraint intertwined with electrifying heroic elevations. Those understated performances and triumphant sequences shaped our childhood, infused theatres with collective euphoria, and etched memories that will endure far beyond the lifespan of re releases and trends.

“Theri” (2016) is one of Vijay’s recent decent entertainers.

Rating: 3.5/5

Back in 2022, I had trouble explaining the title of “Everything Everywhere All at Once” (2022) to friends my age. At the time, the name itself sounded confusing, almost like a joke. But once it became popular and started winning major awards, I noticed that almost everyone had seen the film.

Likewise, today I found myself struggling to explain the title of “Good Luck, Have Fun, Don’t Die” (2025) to one of my colleagues. The person genuinely asked me, “Are these three different films?” I had to clarify that it is just one film and that it is currently playing in cinemas.

A man from the future tries to fix the past to repair his own future. Believe it or not, I had just finished the much hyped series “Dark” (2017) the day before watching this. When season one of “Dark” (2017) came out, most of my friends would not stop talking about it. I deliberately skipped binge watching it. I am sometimes one of those people who knowingly avoid something even while fully aware of its greatness.

I have seen people do this to remain part of a minority clan, wanting to feel special for discovering and experiencing something on their own, or for gaining access to it before it becomes mainstream. I am not that extreme all the time, but there is a certain satisfaction in owning the experience yourself and then becoming the one who spreads the word about how great a film or series truly is.

Why do repeating superheroes and recycled history continue to work, while futuristic fantasies risks often struggle to entertain?

Unlike stories rooted in the present or the past, the future carries limitless possibilities. That freedom is also its danger. When creativity stretches too far beyond realism or scientific grounding, the content begins to feel detached. Audiences who have consumed every possible genre and variation become selective. They may forgive exaggeration in a superhero film or a historical epic, but when it comes to speculative futures, they hesitate. And unlike streaming platforms, you cannot scroll past a film in a cinema. You either commit to the experience or you do not. Many choose not to risk it.

Yet Gore Verbinski manages to present his version of the future without losing control of the narrative. The threat of AI is not new and has been explored in many forms over the years, but he packages it with energy and personality. This is the same filmmaker who balanced spectacle and CGI so effectively in the “Pirates of the Caribbean” series, which still remains a benchmark for high budget blockbusters. Here, he does not attempt to reinvent the genre entirely, except for one outrageous humongous cat that almost feels brain-rot attention for the brainrotter generation.

From a writing perspective, the film builds emotional weight through the backstories of four individuals. Each arc adds a layer and gives the chaos some grounding. The final twist is not predictable, yet it feels clever rather than shocking for the sake of shock. The surprise works because it carries a strange familiarity, as though we have experienced this level of narrative playfulness before in other strong science fiction stories.

Structurally, the film unfolds almost like four chapters centered around its four leads, with Sam Rockwell operating as the connective force. He appears in the same costume throughout, a visual cue tied to his time travel mechanism that activates whenever he presses the red button he constantly holds in his hand. At this stage in his career, such eccentric and high energy roles feel effortless for him. Alongside him, Haley Lu Richardson, Juno Temple, Zazie Beetz, and Michael Peña form a well balanced ensemble that sustains the film’s fast paced momentum.

However, the film clearly targets audiences who have already consumed everything from “Black Mirror” (2011) to “Dark” (2017). In doing so, some of its preachier warnings about deadly and uncontrollable AI do not feel entirely fresh, even if the concerns themselves remain valid and unsettling.

In the end, “Good Luck, Have Fun, Don’t Die” (2025) is good and fun, and occasionally very clever. It may not redefine futuristic storytelling, but it understands the pulse of today’s anxiety driven world. For viewers willing to take the risk of stepping into yet another time bending narrative, it offers enough chaos, humor, and heart to make the trip worthwhile.

It has the same flavour as “Everything Everywhere All At Once” (2022). Perhaps there could be one more film in development to complete this unofficial, unnamed trilogy.

Rating: 3/5

“Family”, human existence revolves around this word, yet in the modern world, we barely have the time to truly be there for it.

Many countries across Asia, Africa, and the South America are still bound by the codes of principles that families have carried through generations. Some of these values feel conservative, mostly due to religious sentiments, while others are simply impractical in contemporary society. Yet, we can neither abandon them completely nor live with them peacefully 24×7.

Brendan Fraser, post “The Whale” (2022), lands in this heartwarming drama. But there’s an odd feeling that lingers throughout the film. I’m not entirely sure where it comes from, perhaps because the story is set in Japan. Because the film strongly reminds me of other Japanese or Asian films from this century. The empathy the film asks us to feel doesn’t come across as artificial, yet it also feels less organic. The film quickly establishes who Phillip is as a character, but the narrative keeps roaming without direction until it finally settles and takes off. Maybe this is a creative choice, not to repeat how other films staged before.

Hikari’s work here does not remind me of “BEEF” (2023). Ironically, the Netflix series was the main reason that influenced me to watch this film in the first place. When the series came out, it felt so random for Netflix. Occasionally this streaming service manages to impress cinephiles with quality content that echoes the good old days of HBO, along with some strong offerings from Hulu, Apple TV and others. The cinematography is so rich and nicely staged.

The cinematography in this film is rich and thoughtfully staged. At this point, almost everyone seems to be consciously adapting A24 and Wes Anderson–influenced visual styles, making it hard for any well-composed cinematography to feel truly irrelevant today. That said, I still believe that modern 4K films, no matter how polished they look, cannot recreate what cinema achieved decades ago — the texture, the imperfections, and the emotional weight that time itself seems to have gifted those films.

Fraser, as a sad American in Japan struggling with his acting career, looks oddly fitting and even funny at times, as he adapts to the role with ease But the performances by Takehiro Hira, Mari Yamamoto, Akira Emoto, and Shannon Gorman outshine him.

One standout moment occurs when the actors from the rental family take a risk by helping Phillip with his deportation issue. The sudden shock and situational humour in that sequence worked far better, wish the film had more such moments scattered throughout. Still, some moments manage to leave a brief smile on our faces.

At its core, the film aims to question and reflect on human emotions rooted in family values. The idea that someone who uses these emotions to run a “family” business is also an actual consumer of the same system serves as a subtle reminder: no one is immune to stress and pain. The modern way of healing what we go through emotionally cannot be temporarily solved by manipulating emotions. This sounds very relevant in the modern society.

Loss, grief, and depression are inevitable parts of life, and we speak about them far more openly these days, often because they attract attention. While this is a positive step toward acknowledging trauma, it also offers instant and easy ways to momentarily waver from pain. This is no different from what humans do daily, turning to drinking, drugs, or social media addiction to ease the pain, even if only for a few fleeting moments.

It makes me wonder how people lived centuries ago, when their lives revolved largely around hunting and cultivating crops. Perhaps the same technology that allows us to earn more money and live increasingly sophisticated lives these days bring with it unwanted stress and constant overthinking.

There exists a very thin line between two extremes. On one end of the spectrum is the idea that nothing truly matters when compared to the vast scale of the cosmos. On the other lies the importance of emotions, and the reason we must acknowledge and validate them. The former may offer calm and peace to those free from financial worries, while the latter often resonates with those who navigate countless problems in everyday life.

Nevertheless, emotional validation both for ourselves and for others remains intrinsic if we are to build a more compassionate and understanding society.