Teorema, 1968.

Bakışlar utangaç ama kalpler gürültülüydü.

Kimse “uygun mu?” diye sormazdı, çünkü hissetmek yeterdi.

O zamanlar aşk, bir şarkının ortasında dansa kalkmaktı,

sosyal olmak bir ekrana değil, birbirinin gözlerine bakmaktı.

Gülüşler filtresiz, duygular aceleydi.

Grease bize şunu hatırlatır:

Aşk biraz savruk, biraz cesur ve çokça gerçekti.

Ve belki de en güzeli…

Herkes aynı anda, aynı ritimde yaşıyordu. ASİKAN

In Grease, love was never about perfect timing or careful plans.

It was about the courage to feel — loudly, freely, without filters.

Eyes met before words mattered,

music spoke when people couldn’t,

and being social meant showing up, not logging in.

Love lived in late-night dances, careless laughter,

and moments that didn’t ask for permission to be unforgettable.

Grease reminds us of a time when love was messy, bold, and real —

when hearts followed the rhythm,

and everyone lived in the same song. ASİKAN

Frankenstein 🖤⚡️

A story that still haunts me.

Dark, emotional, unforgettable.

Jojo Rabbit is one of those films I kept avoiding for the longest time. To be honest, anything set during Nazi Germany usually feels emotionally draining. We already have enough darkness in the world, and I wasn't particularly eager to spend two hours watching more of it.

What finally convinced me was the overwhelming praise the film had received. I told myself that if it became too heavy, I could always stop watching.

But! From the very first scene, it was clear that this wasn't going to be another conventional war film. It approached one of history's darkest chapters with an unexpected lightness, balancing humour and heartbreak so effortlessly that neither ever diminished the other. Instead of making the subject feel smaller, the comedy made the tragedy feel even more human.

Then there were the colours.

The colours in this film are extraordinary. They fill every frame with warmth and life, almost disguising the horror unfolding beneath them. Propaganda doesn't arrive with dramatic speeches or sinister music. It simply exists as part of a little boy's everyday world. That, perhaps, is what makes it so unsettling. Hatred rarely announces itself. It quietly becomes normal.

Roman Griffin Davis gives a remarkable performance. Every emotion feels honest, every reaction believable. You never feel as though you're watching a child actor perform. You feel as though you're watching a child trying to understand a world that has already decided what he should believe.

And then there is Scarlett Johansson.

She brings such grace, warmth and effortless charm to every scene that she becomes the emotional centre of the film. She never feels larger than life. She feels like a mother, playful, imperfect, protective, and endlessly loving. In a story weighed down by fear and violence, her presence brings lightness without ever taking away from the seriousness of the world around her.

What I admired most about her character was something surprisingly rare. She recognises that her son has been consumed by fanaticism. She doesn't pretend he is incapable of being wrong simply because he is her child. Instead, she gently tries to show him that there is a world beyond blind ideology, a world built on kindness, curiosity and empathy. She doesn't fight hatred with more hatred. She simply lives differently.

Ironically, it isn't her words that finally change Jojo. It is her absence.

The shift in the film's colour palette after her death affected me more than I expected. The world suddenly loses its warmth. Everything feels muted, colder, almost lifeless. It isn't just a visual choice; it reflects Jojo's inner world. His mother was the source of colour in his life. Without her, he is finally forced to see war for what it truly is, stripped of childhood imagination and propaganda.

That visual transition is one of the most beautiful pieces of storytelling in the entire film.

When the credits rolled, I realised the film was never really about war. It was about empathy.

It asks whether compassion can survive in a world that rewards hatred, and answers with quiet confidence that it can. Not through grand speeches or heroic acts, but through ordinary people who choose kindness when cruelty would be easier.

Perhaps that is the film's greatest message.

The world may never be free from violence or fanaticism. But as long as there are people who feel another person's pain and choose to help, not for recognition, not for reward, but simply because they cannot bear someone else's suffering, there is still hope for humanity.

Sometimes hope doesn't arrive with a victory.

Becoming Led Zeppelin - Directed by Bernard MacMahon (2025)

Becoming Led Zeppelin takes a clear, streamlined, chronological approach to the band’s formation and early rise. With first-hand interviews from Page, Plant, and Jones, (Bonham, who died in 1980, is represented by a previously unreleased interview with clips) plus tons of archival footage and performance clips, it gives a clear sense of how the band came together and why they hit so hard so fast.

The film is strongest when it focuses on the music—the influences, the studio work, and the live shows. It’s less interested in the personal drama or darker chapters, which makes the story feel somewhat one-sided. But as a portrait of the band’s creative drive and momentum, it works.

First CC, now BB...we lost another Screen Queen this year.