Skeleton Crew doesn’t pretend to be something it’s not: it’s a light, youth-oriented series with a nostalgic 80s vibe and a sense of group adventure that feels familiar. It doesn’t try to be Andor or The Mandalorian, and that’s fine. It takes a different route, aiming to hook younger viewers into the Star Wars universe through friendship, exploration, and that feeling of discovering the galaxy for the first time. At times it brings to mind The Goonies, Stranger Things, or even E.T. —and I don’t mean that negatively. The series knows what it wants to be and leans into it. From the music to the production design, everything seems crafted to tap into the nostalgia of 80s kids while also reaching a new generation. The young cast has charm and energy, and Jude Law plays a nicely balanced role that adds both mystery and warmth. Is it predictable? Quite. Are the references obvious? Sure. But that’s not always a bad thing. The show doesn’t overcomplicate itself —it just gets to the point, keeps things light, and delivers what it promises. It’s easy to watch, entertaining, and clearly understands its audience. It may not be deep or unforgettable, but it’s a friendly, accessible adventure that reminds us why we fell in love with Star Wars as kids. And if it gets new viewers to feel the same, then mission accomplished.

Star Wars: Ahsoka really worked for me. It doesn’t reach the level of Andor —nothing does after that masterpiece— but it gets close enough to deserve a solid 9. Seeing Sabine, Ezra, and even Thrawn again was a thrill. Rosario Dawson nails Ahsoka, and Dave Filoni continues the Rebels legacy with care, ambition, and a touch of melancholy. The show is crafted with love, and while the pace is slow at times, it allows the big moments to breathe. But here’s the thing: what about viewers who haven’t seen Rebels? Ahsoka doesn’t really stop to catch them up. If you know the backstory, it’s all meaningful and layered. If not, it may feel confusing, distant, or even emotionally flat. Filoni clearly chose to please long-time fans over winning over newcomers. Visually, it holds up well —the animation-inspired look works— and the action scenes avoid falling into empty spectacle. Ahsoka isn’t perfect, but it has heart —something many recent Star Wars projects lack. It’s more of a continuation than an introduction, and that’s both its strength and its limitation. But if you’re already invested, it gives you something truly rewarding.

When I first watched Rogue One, I loved it. It felt intense, bold, and exciting — a standout within the Star Wars universe. I gave it a 9, and I still believe it’s a great film. But after finishing Andor, something shifted. The narrative is the same, the characters’ fate doesn’t change, yet the atmosphere feels completely different. What was once full of nuance and humanity now feels rushed and simplified. Where I once saw depth, I now see broad strokes, as if everything was rushing toward the grand finale. The characters, who breathe and evolve in Andor, seem reduced here to just their function. Cassian, especially, goes from a conflicted, layered man to a straightforward rebel. Even the music —which in Andor is mature, haunting, and emotionally charged— feels more traditional here, almost childish by comparison. It doesn’t ruin the experience, but it doesn’t elevate it either. That said, Rogue One still delivers some powerful moments. The final act is stunning, the visuals work well, and the connection to A New Hope is both tight and moving. It remains one of Disney’s best additions to the saga, but after truly living in the world Andor built, it’s hard not to feel a bit of nostalgia for the emotional weight that’s now missing. The story may be the same — but the soul, somehow, isn’t.

Andor isn’t just the best thing Star Wars has produced in years — it’s a series that stands shoulder to shoulder with the greatest shows out there, no matter the genre. While other entries lean on nostalgia and fan service, this one takes a different path: it commits fully to a serious, carefully crafted story, with strong characters and flawless direction. You can feel the intention, the care, and the thought behind every frame. It’s an adult, political, subtle narrative that never underestimates its audience. No lightsabers needed to move you — it does so with silence, glances, and hard choices. Each character —from Cassian to Mon Mothma, including Luthen, Dedra, and Syril— has depth, contradictions, scars. There are no improvised arcs or filler episodes: everything serves a purpose, and it shows. Diego Luna shines without needing big speeches, and Tony Gilroy delivers a solid, elegant, and deeply committed story about rebellion as something deeply human, flawed, and necessary. The slow build of the first episodes leads to a narrative and emotional climax that feels like true craftsmanship. The series dares to show the Empire from the inside — its bureaucratic machinery of oppression — and also what it costs to resist: fear, sacrifice, loss. There’s no black or white here, only a kind of moral complexity rarely seen in the Star Wars universe. Andor feels like cinema in serial form. It’s tension, drama, resistance. It’s fire. And hopefully, the future of the saga will rise from this very flame.

There are films that grab you as a kid and never let go. Take the Money and Run was the first Woody Allen comedy I ever saw — I must’ve been around ten — and it left a mark on me. I remember laughing nonstop at that nervous, clumsy guy with big glasses getting into increasingly ridiculous trouble. Years later, I watched it again and the magic was still there. It was my gateway into Allen’s cinema, and I still think it’s one of his wildest and most joyful works. Told as a mockumentary, the story of Virgil Starkwell doesn’t have much of a plot — and it doesn’t need one. What matters is the constant barrage of gags, absurd humor, and that relentless rhythm that never lets up. From the escape with a soap-carved gun to the police interrogations, it’s full of moments that would go viral today. Allen mixes parody, slapstick, and sharp wit with disarming ease. He’s not trying to be deep here — just funny — and he nails it. Virgil, the small-time crook with a loser’s soul, already foreshadows the neurotic, lovable characters that would become Allen’s signature. But here, there are no philosophical ramblings or talks about Kant — just laughs, visual gags, absurd interviews, and a voiceover that lands every punchline with irony. And somehow, beneath all that silliness, there’s a touch of melancholy that makes it even more charming. Allen laughs at his character, yes, but he also cares for him. Over the years, Allen has refined his style and given us more sophisticated films, but few feel as raw and direct as this one. It has that special energy of a first attempt, when everything feels like play and discovery. Maybe that’s why it works so well: it’s not trying to impress — just to entertain. And it truly does. Laughing out loud at something you’ve seen a dozen times is no small feat. This one still delivers.