The Life and Times of An Unusual Person

Remember how the first Alienoid felt like getting hit by three different movies at once? well, the sequel just dropped and honestly, it's like the filmmakers actually sat down and figured out what they were trying to say.

the setup that pays off

Return to the Future doesn't waste time apologizing for its predecessor's chaos. Instead, it leans into everything that made the first film interesting and gives it structure. The movie opens with the aftermath of the first film's cliffhanger, and immediately you can feel the difference - there's purpose here, a clear direction even as timelines continue to collide.

The Goryeo Dynasty warriors are still dealing with alien technology they barely understand. The modern-day characters are still trying to prevent a catastrophic future. But this time, these parallel stories aren't just happening simultaneously - they're actually building toward something cohesive.

finding heart in the madness

What really surprised me was how much the sequel commits to its emotional core. The first film introduced us to Guard (the alien robot) and his relationship with the child he's protecting, but it was mostly setup. Here, that relationship becomes the emotional anchor of the entire story. There's genuine weight to their scenes together, and when the stakes get raised, you actually feel it.

The historical characters, particularly the Taoist sorcerers and bounty hunters from the Goryeo period, get much better development this time around. Their motivations are clearer, their relationships more defined. When they face off against threats from both their own time and the future, it matters because we understand what they're fighting for.

spectacle with substance

Let's talk about the action sequences, because they're genuinely impressive. Choi Dong-hoon clearly learned from the first film's somewhat scattered approach to set pieces. The final battle is a masterclass in controlled chaos - yes, there are still swords clashing with laser weapons, mystical spells colliding with alien technology, but it's choreographed in a way that you can actually follow what's happening and why.

There's one sequence in particular, set in the Goryeo palace, where warriors wielding enchanted blades face off against futuristic drones. The cinematography captures both the beauty of the historical setting and the jarring wrongness of advanced technology in that space. It's visually stunning but also thematically resonant - the past and future literally at war.

the complexity that works

The time travel mechanics are still complex, but the sequel does a much better job of explaining them without drowning you in exposition. Information is doled out through action and character discovery rather than lengthy explanatory monologues. When revelations hit about how the timelines connect, they feel earned rather than convenient.

That said, this is still a dense movie. There are subplots involving alien prisoners, competing factions in both time periods, prophecies, and technological MacGuffins. But unlike the first film, which sometimes felt like it was juggling more than it could handle, Return to the Future manages to keep most of these plates spinning successfully.

room for improvement

It's not perfect. Some storylines still feel rushed, particularly in the modern-day timeline, which sometimes gets overshadowed by the more visually interesting historical sequences. A few character motivations could use more clarity, and there are moments where the pacing drags as the film tries to service all its various plot threads.

But these feel like minor stumbles in what is otherwise a significantly more confident film than its predecessor.

the verdict

Alienoid: Return to the Future is what happens when filmmakers take constructive criticism to heart. It maintains all the wild genre-blending ambition of the original while adding the narrative structure and emotional depth that were missing before. It's still unabashedly weird, still willing to throw historical drama, alien invasion, time travel paradoxes, and robot parenting into a blender and see what comes out.

But this time, it feels like everyone involved knew exactly what kind of movie they were making and committed fully to that vision. The result is a sequel that not only improves on the original but actually makes you appreciate what the first film was attempting to build.

If you watched the first Alienoid and thought, "This has potential but needs work," the sequel delivers on that potential. If you haven't seen either, you'll probably want to watch them together - they really do function as one long story split across two films.

Korean cinema continues to prove that taking big swings and embracing genre chaos can lead to something genuinely special when done with skill and conviction. Return to the Future is messy, ambitious, and ultimately rewarding - exactly what a sequel to Alienoid should be.

Let me set the scene for you.

A woman in a goth aesthetic walks into Bangalore. She works night shifts at a café. She keeps to herself. Her neighbor's cat is afraid of her. And when a group of guys try to kidnap and kill her? They don't know what's coming.

Because Chandra isn't running from the dark She is the dark.

India Just Got Its Own Cinematic Universe. And It's Wild.

You know how Marvel started with Iron Man in 2008 and nobody fully understood what they were building? Dulquer Salmaan's Lokah is designed to be exactly that — a full-fledged Malayalam superhero cinematic universe, rooted in local culture, folklore, and mythology. This is Chapter 1. The beginning. The origin story.

And honestly? What an origin story to start with.

So Who Is Chandra, Really?

She's a mysterious, goth-influenced woman who just moved to Bangalore, working night shifts at a café. Across the road from her apartment live Sunny and Venu, two aimless bachelors.

Think of Sunny as the Peter Parker of this story. The ordinary guy who accidentally gets pulled into something way bigger than him. He's charming, a little clueless, and very relatable. You're basically watching the movie through his eyes.

But the real story? It's Chandra's.

Centuries ago in Kerala, Neeli belonged to a forest tribe banned from entering the king's temple. After children from the tribe accidentally stole a sacred charm, the king ordered a massacre of their entire community. While hiding in a cave, Neeli was bitten by bats from a shrine and transformed into a yakshi. She watched her family get executed before slaughtering the king's men with her newfound powers.

She's not a superhero born in a lab. She's not bitten by a radioactive spider. She's a yakshi, a figure straight out of Kerala folklore, who has been wandering the world for centuries, carrying centuries of grief and power. That backstory hits different. It's not just cool. It's earned.

The Villain You Love to Hate

Every great superhero story needs a villain that makes you genuinely uncomfortable. Inspector Nachiyappa Gowda fills that role perfectly.

He's a corrupt, conservative policeman who openly condemns alcohol and drugs while running an organ trafficking ring behind the scenes. He's the type of guy who preaches morality in public while doing the worst things in private. You've seen the type. In real life, in the news, everywhere. That's what makes him scary.

And then things get worse for him, in the most satisfying way possible. After a run-in with Chandra, Nachiyappa begins turning into a yaksha himself, unable to control his thirst for blood. The villain becomes a monster. Literally.

The Vibe? Neon, Mythology, and a Little Bit of Chaos

The neon-dominated visual palette is incredibly appealing, and paired with Jakes Bejoy's music score, the film has a real pulse to it. It feels alive. It feels like Bangalore at night — loud, layered, and full of secrets.

When Chandra is at full strength, the movie is unstoppable and genuinely delicious to watch. The action scenes have real weight. This isn't the clean, bloodless superhero punching you're used to from Hollywood blockbusters. Chandra bites. It's messy. It's brutal. And it's genuinely exciting.

Is It Perfect? No. But That's Okay.

Let's be honest. The first half is a bit slow. The film takes the scenic route instead of diving straight into the action. If you're someone who gets bored easily in setup phases, you'll feel it.

Some of the humor doesn't always land either. A few scenes try too hard to be funny and end up being just... fine.

But here's the thing. This is a first chapter. It's doing the heavy lifting—building the world, introducing the rules, setting up the players. The fact that it's also entertaining and emotionally resonant at the same time is genuinely impressive. Lokah may borrow familiar superhero beats, but its spirited execution, engaging performances, and rooted world-building make it an exciting first step in a larger saga.

The Bigger Picture

The film became the highest-grossing Malayalam film ever. The first Malayalam film to cross the ₹300 crore mark globally. The highest-grossing female-led Indian film.

Those aren't just numbers. That's people showing up. That's audiences saying, yes, we want this, give us more.

After years of watching Hollywood recycle the same origin stories, there's something thrilling about a universe built on yakshis, Kerala folklore, and neon-lit Bangalore streets. Lokah Chapter 1 feels like a strong step towards showing how Malayalam cinema can make its mark in the pan-Indian space without losing what makes it uniquely its own.

Final Verdict

Lokah Chapter 1: Chandra isn't flawless. But it's alive. It has soul. It takes something deeply rooted in Indian mythology and turns it into something that could sit comfortably next to any big superhero franchise without losing what makes it uniquely ours.

Kalyani Priyadarshan as Chandra is a force. The world is fascinating. And the ending leaves you genuinely hungry for Chapter 2.

India's cinematic universe era has officially begun. And it started with a yakshi in a neon-lit city, biting villains and carrying centuries of history on her back.

We are so here for it. 🌙

Rating: 7.5/10 — Messy in places, magical in spirit.

You know those movies you randomly hit play on at 2AM, expecting absolutely nothing and somehow end up finishing with a stupid grin? Yeah, Cold Storage (2026) is exactly that kind of ride.

So here’s the deal. A shady, long forgotten facility. A parasitic fungus that clearly did not get the memo to stay contained. And a bunch of night shift workers who signed up for boredom, not biological horror. What starts as just another slow shift quickly turns into a full survival situation.

Then you’ve got Liam Neeson, calm and gritty, carrying that “I’ve seen worse” energy like it’s nothing. Paired with Joe Keery, who reacts like any normal person would. Confused, panicked, and throwing in a bit of sarcasm when things get out of control. Odd pairing, but it clicks.

Let’s be honest, this is not some deep or layered masterpiece. If you expect tight logic or perfect storytelling, you are setting yourself up. The plot gets wild. The science is questionable. But the vibe stays fun.

It is chaotic, a little dumb, sometimes over the top, but in a way that works. You stop asking questions and just go with it.

That is the real charm here. Cold Storage knows exactly what it is. It does not try to be smarter than it needs to be. It just delivers a fun, easy watch.

so here's the thing about eko that nobody's really talking about.

it's not just a thriller. it's a meditation on the terrifying overlap between protection and possession. and it uses dogs to tell this story, which is either genius or completely unhinged, and honestly? i'm leaning towards genius.

the setup (no spoilers, i promise)

you walk into the theater expecting another malayalam thriller. maybe something competent, maybe something forgettable. the high range mist rolls in through the cinematography. there's a man. there are dogs. there's something off about the whole situation but you can't quite place it yet.

and then the movie just... sits with you.

on loyalty and cages

here's what eko understands that most thrillers don't: the scariest prisons are the ones we don't recognize as prisons.

the dog-master relationship in this film is shown with such uncomfortable intimacy. these animals are trained to protect. they're loyal to a fault. they would die for their master. and somewhere in that devotion, in that unconditional love, there's a trap waiting to snap shut.

the film keeps asking: when does the guard dog become the jailer? when does safety become suffocation?

and it never gives you easy answers.

the experience of watching it

first half: okay this is interesting. why are we spending so much time on this flashback? this feels long. is this going somewhere?

climax: OH. oh that's why. that's... oh my god that's why we needed to see that.

it's one of those films where everything clicks into place retroactively. pieces you didn't even know were pieces suddenly form a picture. and it's not a comfortable picture to look at.

what worked (for me)

the atmosphere is EVERYTHING. that constant environmental tension, the mist, the isolation, the way the camera lingers on spaces just a little too long

smart writing that doesn't hold your hand. finally! a malayalam thriller that trusts me to connect dots!

the grey morality. nobody's purely good or evil here. everyone's protecting something. everyone's trapped by something.

that final frame before credits. no spoilers but holy shit. holy shit.

what didn't quite land

the BGM is doing Too Much™ in several scenes. silence would've been more effective

some pacing issues in the first half (though they pay off narratively)

kuriachan needed a more commanding presence. the actor's fine but the role demanded someone with natural gravitas

lip sync issues are noticeable but forgivable

could've been darker. they had the ingredients for something truly unsettling and pulled back at the last moment

the thing about rewatching

here's the paradox: this film benefits from a rewatch because of how densely it's written. but you probably won't enjoy the rewatch as much because the mystery is the main draw.

it's like reading a really good mystery novel. the first time is magic. the second time you're just watching the machinery work.

thoughts i'm still having days later

the film keeps saying: protection and restriction look the same from certain angles.

whether it's:

a dog guarding a house vs. a dog preventing escape

a parent's rules vs. a parent's control

love that keeps you safe vs. love that keeps you small

and i can't stop thinking about how many relationships in my life exist in that grey zone. how many times i've called something "care" when it was really just another word for "control."

final thoughts

is this absolute cinema? no.

is this a perfectly executed thriller? also no.

but is this a good film that does something relatively fresh with familiar elements and actually makes you think?

yes. absolutely yes.

it's the kind of movie that makes you walk out of the theater and immediately want to discuss it with someone. the kind that sits in your brain and unpacks itself slowly over days.

malayalam cinema has been on a streak lately (kishkindha kaandam energy is STRONG here) and eko continues that momentum.

go watch it. go in blind. let it unsettle you.

If you liked Drishyam's psychological tension, Memories of Murder's atmosphere, or just thrillers that treat you like an adult, this is for you.

#eko 2025 #malayalam cinema #movie review #thriller movies #film analysis #mollywood #indian cinema #psychological thriller #letterboxd #film criticism #cinema posting

I watched Housemates late at night, the kind of hour when the world is quiet and you’re ready for something to hit a little deeper than usual. The lights were low, the room was still, and for a moment, it felt like this film was about to wrap itself around me and stay.

It didn’t. But it came close.

Housemates is built on a beautiful idea. The kind of concept that makes you lean forward in your seat, waiting for the story to open its arms. There’s warmth here. There’s loneliness. There’s that familiar ache of people trying to belong to something—someone—before time moves on without them.

The characters feel real, like people you might have shared tea with, or passed in a stairwell and never spoken to. You sense their stories just beneath the surface, like secrets trapped behind their eyes. And for a while, the film lets you believe it’s going somewhere brave.

Then it hesitates.

Moments that should have shattered the silence arrive softly. Conflicts dissolve too easily. Scenes fade out right when they should be burning brighter. It’s as if the film is afraid of its own emotions—afraid to let them become messy, loud, unforgettable.

And that’s the heartbreak of Housemates. Not that it’s bad. But that it’s almost beautiful.

There’s sincerity in the performances. A gentle charm in the way the story moves. You’ll feel something—but you’ll also feel the space where something more could have lived.

I’m giving it 3/5, but in another world—one with bolder choices and deeper cuts—it would’ve been a 4.

Some stories don’t fail. They simply stop too soon.

Just finished Ne Zha and I am blown away. The animation is incredible. Every frame feels alive, from the busy village streets to the epic cosmic battles. The colors, the movement, the energy, it all feels so real and vibrant. The action scenes are creative, fast, and just plain fun to watch.

The story hits harder than I expected. The emotional moments give the chaos and spectacle a real heart. Some parts of the plot feel familiar, but the amazing visuals and world-building make up for it completely.

The supporting characters are charming and funny. The mix of lighthearted moments with serious drama keeps you engaged the whole time.

just watched alienoid and my brain is still processing

okay so ALIENOID. where do i even start with this absolute fever dream of a movie???

picture this: you're watching a historical korean drama about goryeo dynasty warriors and shamans, but PLOT TWIST - there are also aliens using human bodies as prisons, time-traveling robots, and modern-day seoul. all happening at the same time. somehow.

choi dong-hoon really said "what if i made the most unhinged genre mashup possible" and honestly? respect.

the AUDACITY of this film. we're jumping between sword fights with supernatural powers and sci-fi alien technology like it's the most natural thing in the world. the visual effects are actually pretty stunning - especially those period sequences that look absolutely gorgeous.

but real talk, this movie is A LOT. like, imagine three different movies had a baby and that baby inherited all their parents' chaos energy. sometimes it works beautifully and you're like "this is genius!" and other times you're like "wait what timeline are we in again???"

the time travel stuff gets messy and there's SO much exposition trying to explain the mythology that your head might spin. but honestly? i'm here for movies that swing for the fences even when they don't always connect.

korean cinema really doesn't play around with being weird and wonderful, and alienoid is peak "we're going to do something completely bonkers and commit 100%"

if you're in the mood for something that will definitely keep you on your toes and you don't mind a little narrative chaos, this might be your jam. just... maybe have some coffee ready because keeping track of everything requires FOCUS.

James Gunn’s Superman (2025) shows that yeah, the Man of Steel can still feel fresh and human at the same time. It’s a completely different take from the DC we’ve been used to.

If you’ve watched the old Superman movies, you’ll definitely feel some of that classic vibe here, but it’s not a direct link. It just makes the whole experience hit harder.

This honestly feels like the perfect start to the new DC universe Gunn has been hyping.

I’m not even a hardcore DC fan, more of a Marvel guy, but I’ve always respected Gunn. And seeing him give Superman this new face? I’m glad, man. It just works.

And yeah; he didn’t forget. Krypto is here. The animal love always gets me, and Gunn nails it again.

Some old DC fans might find all this light, hope, and color a little unusual, but come on `` when did superheroes become about nothing but darkness and depression?

If DC keeps this same momentum in the next films, Marvel really needs to wake up and fix their lazy writing. DC’s finally playing smart, and I’m here for it.

Let’s be real. South Korean crime-thrillers are a global obsession at this point. And in our corner of the world, they're basically a genre of worship. From moody detectives to revenge-seeking loners and plot twists that slap harder than your mom when you forgot to defrost the chicken, we love it all.

Naturally, people talk a lot about these films. So I thought, why not throw my hat into the bloody, plot-twisty ring and share some recommendations?

BUT WAIT! Before you roll your eyes and say “Not another Oldboy mention” just relax. I’ve intentionally avoided the usual suspects like Oldboy (2003), Memories of Murder (2003), A Bittersweet Life (2005) and all the films that already have fan clubs larger than some K-pop groups.

Instead, I’ve tried to pick some lesser-known (but still amazing) gems that you might not have stumbled across yet. Think of this list as your secret back-alley video store, minus the sketchy uncle.

That said, a few big names still made it in here because they’re just too damn good. So if you're already a seasoned thriller junkie, this might not blow your mind. But hang tight, I’m working on a Part 2 where I’ll dig even deeper into the criminally underrated ones.

📌 Every movie on this list is handpicked and top-tier. I watched them, loved them, and now I’m passing them on like a precious mixtape. Enjoy!

The Yellow Sea (2010)

Montage (2013)

Nameless Gangster (2012)

New World (2013)

Inside Men (2015)

Save the Green Planet (2003)

The Age of Shadows (2016)

The Client (2011)

Mother (2009)

1987: When the Day Comes (2017)

Cold Eyes (2013)

You know that feeling when you're 70 minutes into a thriller and your brain suddenly goes, “Yup, it’s that guy,” and then an hour later you realize you were absolutely right?

That was me watching Bullet Train: Explosion.

It starts out with real promise. A bomb on a high-speed bullet train, a bunch of passengers who all look a little too suspicious, and a clock that won’t stop ticking. I leaned in, expecting twists, chaos, secrets unraveling with every stop.

And to be fair, the first half delivers. The editing is tight, the train shots are slick, and the dialogue is just punchy enough to keep the energy moving. You can feel the influence of the first Bullet Train. This time the tone is a bit more serious, less cheeky. It’s a new set of characters, new stakes, and a heavier vibe.

But here’s the thing. Once I figured out who the bomber was, and trust me, it’s not hard, the tension kind of deflated. The last act needed a twist, or a moral dilemma, or literally anything to kick it into gear. Instead, it settles into being just fine.

Performances?

Serviceable. No one steals the show. Everyone does their job, looks stressed, points fingers, maybe throws a punch or two. But no one has that breakout energy or chaotic charm like Ladybug from the first film.

So, was it worth the ride?

Honestly, yeah. It’s entertaining. The stakes feel real enough, and the pacing doesn’t drag. But it’s the kind of movie you watch once, nod, and move on. It doesn’t stay with you or make you rethink anything. It plays it safe, and in a genre like this, that can be a missed opportunity.

Final thought:

Bullet Train: Explosion could have been a stylish psychological thrill ride. Instead, it’s a decent commuter train with a couple of bumps, one predictable detour, and a view you’ve seen before.

"Imagine boarding the last minibus of the night... only to arrive in a world where everyone has vanished."

Let’s say you had a long day. You’re tired, maybe a little frustrated, just trying to get home or maybe see someone you care about. You hop onto a late-night minibus, thinking this ride will give you a bit of peace. But when the bus finally stops and you step out… the city is empty. No people, no traffic, no sounds. Just silence. You and a bunch of strangers, stuck in a version of Hong Kong that feels familiar yet terrifyingly off.

That’s the exact feeling The Midnight After throws you into. Directed by Fruit Chan, this film starts off like a quirky comedy thriller. A bit weird, a bit mysterious. But it slowly morphs into something darker, something way more existential. Think Lost meets Donnie Darko, but dipped in Hong Kong culture and paranoia.

The Cast:

Simon Yam is, as always, magnetic. He brings a certain authority and panic all at once. Wong You Nam stands out too, capturing the slow descent into fear and confusion perfectly. Janice Man, Kara Hui, and the rest of the ensemble each represent different faces of Hong Kong society. They don’t feel like characters, they feel like real people confused, scared, spiraling.

What I loved most is how natural the performances felt. Nothing too dramatic, just raw, human reactions to an unreal situation. You could totally imagine yourself reacting the same way in that minibus.

The Ending... or lack of it:

Now let’s talk about that ending. Or more precisely, the lack of closure. People disappear, someone goes blind, someone else turns violent, and then there’s a gas-masked motorcyclist who might be a messenger or a hallucination. No clear answers. No big reveal.

But maybe that’s the point.

My theory? Every passenger was being judged. Like some cosmic purgatory, or a glitch in time. Maybe they all carry guilt, sin, regret and this strange loop of a city is their trial. A place where the past echoes louder than the present.

It doesn’t try to wrap things up neatly. It wants you to sit with the unease. To ask yourself, “What did I just watch?” and “What would I have done if I were in that bus?”

Why I liked it:

Because not every story needs to be explained. Some stories need to be felt. This movie makes you uncomfortable, curious, and even a little paranoid. And that’s powerful.

It’s not for everyone. If you need clear answers and traditional pacing, this might not be your ride. But if you love ambiguity, eerie vibes, and stories that leave you thinking long after the credits roll, The Midnight After is worth every confusing, brilliant minute.

Final thought:

This isn’t just a sci-fi mystery. It’s a mirror held up to urban alienation, societal fear, and the question of whether we’re really present in our own lives or just passengers, waiting to disappear.

So, the next time you hop onto a late-night bus… look around. You never know where you might end up.

There are films that take off like rockets, and then there’s Hey Sinamika, a movie that stumbles out of the gate, awkward and unsure of itself for the first 10 to 15 minutes. I almost gave up. But something made me stay, and honestly, I’m glad I did.

Set in Chennai, the story follows Yaazhan (Dulquer Salmaan), a quirky and overly affectionate husband who’s so full of love that it becomes overbearing for his wife Mouna (Aditi Rao Hydari). Mouna, a smart and independent woman, starts feeling suffocated in the relationship and seeks space, solitude, and her own identity. Then comes Dr. Malarvizhi (Kajal Aggarwal), a psychologist with her own emotional baggage, who unintentionally becomes part of a love triangle that tests all three characters' emotional boundaries.

The plot explores themes of personal space, communication breakdown, and the layered chaos of modern relationships. It could have been a mature and moving tale, and in parts, it really is. But the storytelling doesn’t always hit the mark.

Dulquer Salmaan is effortlessly charming, balancing goofy and grounded in equal measure. Kajal Aggarwal, in a refreshing role, brings quiet strength and sincerity. They both carry the film. Aditi Rao Hydari, though beautiful and poised as always, felt a bit held back. There were emotional beats where she could have exploded, but didn’t.

This was choreographer Brinda's directorial debut, and while her intent is clear, the execution is patchy. The screenplay meanders, the emotional arcs don’t always land, and the overall pacing feels inconsistent. That said, there are some genuinely heartfelt moments, tender monologues, and scenes that linger.

It’s a film with good bones, but it needed sharper writing and more confident direction to elevate it from decent to truly memorable. Still, there’s warmth in its core. And in a world full of cynicism, sometimes that’s enough.

Would I rewatch it? Maybe not anytime soon. But I’ll remember Yaazhan’s chaotic love, Mouna’s silent cry for independence, and Malarvizhi’s calm gaze long after the credits rolled.

Squid Game began as a cultural explosion. The first season wasn’t just entertainment; it was a sharp, unsettling critique of how the world functions for those living at the bottom. It showed us how easily desperation could be turned into sport and how society thrives on quiet cruelty masked as fairness.

Season 1 is where the show shined the brightest. At the center was Seong Gi-hun, a deeply flawed man, but one you couldn’t help but root for. He was unemployed, in debt, a failed father, and yet there was a stubborn kindness in him that refused to disappear. His journey wasn’t just about survival, it was about humanity in a place that tried to strip it away. Characters like Ali, the migrant worker who only wanted to protect his family, or Sae-byeok, the defector carrying the pain of an entire nation’s division on her shoulders, added weight and heartbreak. Then there was Sang-woo, Gi-hun’s childhood friend turned cold strategist, who reminded us how close morality and betrayal can sit when money is involved.

The games themselves were brilliant in design. Childish on the surface but monstrous in execution. Each round wasn't just a challenge, it was a reflection of the system we live in. Red Light Green Light wasn’t about running fast, it was about how rules change without warning. The marbles game wasn't just emotional, it was about how personal bonds are meaningless when the system needs someone to lose.

And when we met Oh Il-nam, the old man who felt fragile and forgotten, the twist hit like a gut punch. He wasn’t just a player, he was part of the design. He wasn’t helpless, he was curious. He didn’t die a victim, he died satisfied. That moment reframed the entire game. It wasn’t just about winning. It was about control.

Season 1 could have and maybe should have ended the story there.

Season 2 stepped away from that intimacy. It focused more on the organization behind the games, the inner workings, the Front Man’s backstory. While the intention was to expand the universe, what it really did was thin it out. The emotional connection was missing. Gi-hun’s return didn’t feel earned. The new characters were forgettable. The pacing was slower, the urgency was gone, and the magic faded into mystery that never fully paid off.

Then came Season 3. It was better than Season 2, no question. There was effort to bring back some of the emotional weight, and it showed. Gi-hun had a stronger purpose, more complexity. He wasn’t playing to survive anymore, he was confronting the system. There were a few standout characters, including a single mother trying to protect her child and a traumatized ex-soldier who walked the line between violence and redemption. Their arcs gave the story a pulse again.

The final episode didn’t try to shock or dazzle. It simply closed the door. And for me, it worked. Not everyone will agree. Many viewers expected a grander ending, something loud or revolutionary. But sometimes, quiet is powerful. And in that final stretch, the show felt closer to its roots again.

Still, I can’t help but feel cautious. Netflix teased more. And I hope they resist the urge to turn this into another Money Heist situation where a powerful story gets dragged across too many seasons until it becomes empty noise. Squid Game was meant to be a warning, not a franchise.

It started as a sharp metaphor. The system turns the poor into pawns, rewards betrayal, and sells suffering as entertainment. By the end of Season 3, that same metaphor had begun to blur.

Squid Game will always be important. It showed what fiction can do when it pulls no punches. But some stories are better when they end before the system ruins them too.

Adbhutam (2021)

Adbhutam tells the story of Surya and Vennela two strangers who connect over text messages. Seems normal at first, until they realize they're texting across time. He’s in 2019. She’s in 2014. And yet, they manage to form a connection that’s both unusual and emotional.

The first half is genuinely engaging. There’s intrigue, light comedy, and a sci-fi mystery that keeps you wondering how their timelines will intersect. But once the novelty fades, the film leans into drama and loses some of its spark. The emotional moments feel stretched, and the pacing struggles in the second half.

Performances are earnest, especially from the leads, and the concept had real potential. Unfortunately, it tries to do too much and ends up losing focus. The ending ties things up with a message, but it leaves you wishing the journey had been tighter.

Rating: 3.5 out of 5

Death has a memory, and in Final Destination: Bloodlines, it holds a grudge that runs deeper than ever before.

The story kicks off like any other entry in the franchise. A routine situation spirals into an intense, massive disaster. This time, it’s a construction site collapse that should have claimed dozens of lives. Just before it happens, our protagonist gets a brutal vision of the whole thing. Panic sets in, people are pulled away from danger, and fate is, momentarily, dodged. That’s where the real nightmare begins.

But unlike previous films, the twist here lies in the title. It’s not just about survivors — it’s about their bloodlines. Death isn’t just cleaning up what it missed. It’s settling old scores tied to family histories. That small detail elevates the plot and gives the franchise something it hasn’t truly had in a while: emotional weight.

The movie balances tension and pacing well. The kills are graphic and creative, some of the best since Final Destination 2, but never too over-the-top to feel silly. There’s a particular kitchen scene that had me genuinely clutching the blanket. The suspense is drawn out just long enough to make you sweat, then hits hard.

The cast does a solid job. The lead is believable and relatable, carrying the emotional thread of the story without being overly dramatic. There’s a supporting character who adds some awkward humor, but nothing that breaks the tone. The writing respects the audience’s intelligence while still delivering the campy fun we expect from this franchise.

It may not redefine the series, but Bloodlines feels like the most grounded and thoughtful entry since the second film. It’s cleaner, more focused, and actually tries to say something beyond just "death is inevitable."

A surprisingly effective return that honors what came before without being chained to it. Final Destination might be predictable in concept, but Bloodlines proves it still has fresh blood to spill.

🎥 City Hunter (1993) — A Wild Ride Through Chaos and Comedy

Rating: 3 out of 5

Imagine stepping into a live-action cartoon where gravity doesn’t matter, logic takes a nap, and every hallway might end in a backflip or a banana peel. That’s City Hunter — a slapstick action comedy that lives purely on Jackie Chan’s unmatched physical comedy and sheer madness.

Ryo Saeba, a carefree, flirtatious private detective, is hired to find a missing rich girl. What should’ve been a simple case turns into a full-blown action circus when he boards a cruise ship—just in time for a terrorist hijack. What unfolds is a nonstop explosion of absurd gags, over-the-top fights, and one iconic Street Fighter-inspired sequence that defies all logic and still manages to be fun.

Ryo dodges bullets, flirts badly, and eats a ridiculous amount of food—all while the plot pretends to exist in the background. It’s loud, silly, and proudly doesn’t take itself seriously for even a second.

Sure, the story’s flimsy and the humor doesn’t always land, but there’s something charming about its chaos. It’s the kind of film you forget in pieces but remember in moments—like a dream where Jackie Chan uppercuts a villain while dressed like Chun-Li. Pure nostalgic nonsense, in the best way.

Light Shop (2024) – A Gentle drama That Listens More Than It Speaks

Light Shop is not your typical Korean drama. It doesn't chase thrills, doesn’t lean on romance, doesn’t explode into action. Instead, it carefully unfolds like a letter written in silence, a soft whisper of stories layered with pain, regret, and quiet redemption. I didn’t expect to love it as much as I did. But by the time the final episode faded to black, I found myself sitting still, not ready to let go. It is a rare kind of show that doesn’t try to impress you. It tries to understand you.

The premise is beautifully simple. A mysterious light shop sits somewhere undefined, not tied to time or place. People do not find it on purpose. They arrive because something within them is broken, unresolved, or deeply burdened. Each person who enters is greeted by the shopkeeper, a calm and quiet man who listens more than he speaks. There are no glowing signs, no labels, no lights hanging for sale. And yet, this shop offers the most precious thing of all: reflection.

Each episode introduces a different visitor. Their stories are vastly different, but emotionally connected. Some carry guilt over a loss, some are stuck in grief, others hide from truths they cannot face. One by one, they enter the shop, not knowing why they are there, but slowly confronting the parts of themselves they’ve long buried. The shopkeeper doesn’t counsel them. He just listens. And that simple act becomes the most powerful thing in the drama.

The storytelling is elegant and restrained. There is no background score forcing you to feel. The emotions come quietly, naturally, like an old memory surfacing. Cinematography plays a huge role here. The way light and shadow are used is not just aesthetic, but emotional. Every warm hue, every flickering bulb, every soft glow reflects a moment of realization, or a truth finally being acknowledged. It is slow, yes, but never boring. The stillness of the drama becomes its language.

The characters are deeply human. Their regrets are believable, their choices familiar. You see reflections of your own doubts and fears in them. There’s something achingly real about a mother unable to forgive herself, or a man frozen in guilt over words left unsaid. The drama never shouts these emotions. It lets them rest, breathe, and slowly unravel. And through it all, the shopkeeper remains a mystery. He appears emotionless, but there is a quiet sadness in his eyes. As the story progresses, hints of his own past begin to appear. You realize that he is not just a listener. He is also someone who once entered the shop, and never left.

One of the things I loved most about Light Shop is that it doesn’t offer easy solutions. Not everyone gets closure. Not every character finds a perfect ending. But they all move a little forward. They leave the shop lighter, sometimes just enough to take one more step. And that is what the show is about. Not healing everything. Just finding the courage to face what hurts.

There are moments that stay with you long after watching. A single line of dialogue. A silent embrace. A paused breath before a confession. These are not the kind of moments that go viral or become meme material. But they are the kind that stay with your soul.

Light Shop is a drama for those who love quiet stories. It rewards patience. It asks you to sit still. To feel. To listen. And if you do, it offers something rare and beautiful in return. Not a happy ending. But a meaningful one.

This is the kind of drama that doesn’t just tell a story. It becomes part of yours.