The show kicks off with a fun premise: a murder in the White House and an unconventional detective tasked with solving it. It’s not aiming to be a classic serious thriller, but rather a mix of satire, comedy, and mystery that relies above all on the charisma of Uzo Aduba, who once again proves what a great actress she is. Her character has that enigmatic aura that keeps you hooked even when the plot drifts. The script isn’t always up to par. Some jokes don’t quite land, and the abundance of dialogue sometimes slows down the suspense. Still, the series remains light and entertaining, offering a parade of suspects and situations that, while not very original, are fun to watch. The supporting cast does its part, with unexpected cameos that add freshness and energy to each episode. The production keeps the pace lively, even if it doesn’t always balance humor and tension. At times, it seems more interested in farce than in mystery, which may leave viewers wishing for more depth in the investigation. But in the end, it delivers what it promises: enjoyable, easygoing entertainment, a lighthearted whodunnit you can watch with a smile. It’s not a show that reinvents the genre, but it does achieve its goal: giving you a good time filled with intrigue, secrets, and plenty of humor.

Watching Jarhead feels like peering into a senseless war where everything seems to matter less than it should. Sam Mendes captures with surgical precision what it meant for those soldiers to live trapped in a desert without glory, facing an invisible enemy while consumed by routine and futility. There are no epic battles or heroic deeds here, only endless waiting and the emptiness of a war that never truly belonged to them. Jake Gyllenhaal shines as the young marine filled with anger and doubt, caught in a conflict that never allows him to become the soldier he was trained to be. Alongside him, Peter Sarsgaard and Jamie Foxx complete a strong cast, conveying the mix of rage, frustration, and resignation that weighed on each of them. Mendes draws raw, unadorned performances that perfectly match the film’s tone. Roger Deakins’ cinematography is another triumph: the desert becomes a hypnotic stage, as beautiful as it is unbearable. The sand, the heat, and the burning oil fields speak as loudly as the characters themselves. Music and silence, used at the right moments, heighten the sense of suffocation. This is not an action movie, and therein lies both its strength and its challenge. Mendes avoids glorifying war, instead exposing it as what it truly was: a theater of interests where oil was the only thing that mattered. That choice may unsettle viewers expecting a more conventional narrative, but it offers a more honest and unsettling portrait. Jarhead is never indifferent. It’s uncomfortable, at times exasperating, but precisely for that reason it conveys how that generation of soldiers must have felt—lost in the middle of a war with no clear cause. A film less about combat and more about existential emptiness, about the price of being used in the name of nothing.

The series starts strong, setting up a murky world where family, business, and crime collide. It has all the ingredients of a good thriller: tension, betrayal, and characters trapped in moral dilemmas. However, as it moves forward, it feels like the wrapping is more powerful than the story it’s actually telling. Jason Bateman and Jude Law carry much of the weight with intense performances, and visually the production is impeccable, with that prestige-drama look Netflix aims for. But beneath the polished surface, it often feels hollow, as if the story circles around without fully biting into its own potential. There are, of course, highlights — gripping moments and a finale that leaves its mark. The problem lies in the journey: some episodes drag on and dilute the initial tension. In the end, Black Rabbit stands as an attractive thriller with shiny packaging and solid acting, but one that doesn’t quite push its premise as far as it could. It’s entertaining, engaging in parts, but ultimately leaves you wishing for more.

The series begins with a classic thriller atmosphere that doesn’t try to reinvent anything but knows how to capture your attention with what it offers. There’s something hypnotic in those natural settings that seem to swallow the characters, turning the beauty of the environment into a contrast with the moral decay hidden in the story. Eric Bana once again proves he can carry the weight of a complex character, a man marked by grief and duty. At his side, Rosemary DeWitt brings a quiet unease, holding together scenes that might otherwise lose impact. Their chemistry helps sustain the tension even when the script stretches a little too far. I won’t deny the storytelling has ups and downs: some twists arrive too late, and the narrative leans on the predictable. Yet that slower pace gives space for the characters to breathe, to reveal their fragility and contradictions. Perhaps that’s where part of the charm lies: not so much in surprise, but in the way it shows how the past slowly corrodes its protagonists. What cannot be questioned is the visual impact. Every shot seems to aim for grandeur, as if the landscape were another character reminding us how small people are next to nature. This aesthetic choice gives the series an almost poetic air, though at times it feels more contemplative than narrative. Overall, Untamed is a solid thriller, with strong moments and a cast that shines above a somewhat uneven script. It’s not perfect, but it keeps you engaged thanks to its intense performances and a powerful atmosphere. One of those shows that, without reinventing the genre, leaves a mark through its blend of emotion, scenery, and melancholy.

What a thrill to finally get an Alien installment that dares to look forward without forgetting where it comes from. Alien: Earth proves you can expand the mythology with fresh ideas — echoes of corporate paranoia, identity, and science playing God — while also recovering that hum of constant threat that crawls down your spine. Visually, it’s staggering: Wētā FX delivers more than fireworks, they give texture and world-building. Corridors sweat, helmets weigh heavy, the xenomorph’s biology (and the “new creatures”) feels organic and dangerous. The staging channels 1970s cinema (slow-burn tension, precise framing, sound that bites) and then unleashes hell when needed: the mid-season set pieces are pure industrial nightmare. Yes, some people slam it with a “1” without even watching it. Let them. This series deserves to be read on its own terms: slow-burn rhythm, characters burdened with real dilemmas (not just gore), and an almost reverent respect for the legacy… while Hawley brings in new ideas that refresh the myth. Some thematic beats could be sharper and not every emotional punch lands, but the balance is clear: spectacle with brains, atmosphere with teeth. I came in weary after too many damp squib sequels, and left with the hum of the ship’s fan in my head and a crooked smile.