The Stanford Prison Experiment: Unlocking the Truth on Hulu is a powerful exploration of psychology’s most notorious study, even as it leans on memories that may be as vulnerable to narrative influence as the original experiment.

This three-part docuseries dives deep into Dr. Philip Zimbardo’s 1971 study, which took ordinary college students and, with unsettling ease, turned them into guards and prisoners with real psychological consequences.

Featuring firsthand accounts from those who lived through the study, as well as Zimbardo’s own reflections, the series provides viewers with an unfiltered look at the lasting effects of this disturbing experiment and challenges us to confront the darker aspects of human nature.

One of the series’ biggest achievements is its balance between storytelling and reflection. The episodes are paced to build an almost thriller-like tension, pulling us into a space where ethics and authority are dangerously blurred.

Rather than sensationalizing, Unlocking the Truth dives into the nuances, revealing how the dynamics of power affected everyone involved, with fresh interviews that make the history feel personal and urgent. It’s a must-watch for anyone fascinated by the human mind, particularly in situations that test our moral boundaries.

The docuseries excels in showing how each participant wrestled with their role in the study’s unraveling. Through their intimate, often uncomfortable testimonies, viewers get a rare glimpse into the complex psychology of authority and obedience, inviting us to reflect on our own vulnerabilities.

There’s a chilling sense of authenticity as former guards and prisoners recall how they became enmeshed in their roles, providing a visceral reminder of how easily our actions can be shaped by context, even without realizing it.

However, the docuseries does rely heavily on the participants’ memories, which, after four decades, may be as susceptible to narrative reshaping as the study itself. Memory is notoriously malleable, particularly under the influence of time, media, and the evolving ways we process our pasts.

The series doesn’t shy away from this complexity, but it’s worth noting that, like the experiment it covers, this retelling is ultimately a reflection filtered through human perception.

Yet, this potential vulnerability in its foundation only adds to the intrigue. The Stanford Prison Experiment becomes more than just a historical recount; it is a meditation on the fragility of memory and the challenge of piecing together truth from conflicting narratives.

Saturday Night is a brilliant, chaotic love letter to the birth of comedy’s last frontier, capturing the thrill and terror of live television in a way that feels both nostalgic and electric.

From the first frame, director Jason Reitman plunges us headfirst into a world where the stakes feel almost unbearably high, as though each joke, each sketch, each breath could be the difference between success and disaster.

It’s a relentless pace that matches the energy and fear of those early days, where a scrappy crew of unknowns was trying to invent something new on live television. The film isn’t just a story; it’s an experience that’s somehow as thrilling as it is familiar, evoking the same raw ambition that made Saturday Night Live iconic in the first place.

Reitman doesn’t aim for a precise recreation of the events surrounding the show’s debut, and that’s what makes it sing. Instead, he distills the chaos, the camaraderie, and the undercurrent of anxiety that defined the era.

The production design and cinematography work hand-in-hand, conjuring up the cramped offices, the smoky bars, the dimly lit studios where dreams took shape. Every shot has a purpose, every detail feels intentional, and the result is a film that’s immersive, capturing a moment in time without becoming a parody of it.

The ensemble cast is superb, breathing life into characters we feel we know yet showing us sides we’ve never quite seen. The actors portraying John Belushi (Matt Wood), Gilda Radner (Ella Hunt), and Chevy Chase (Corey Michael Smith) in particular bring authenticity without veering into impersonation, walking a fine line that could easily have tripped them up. There’s a vulnerability, a rawness to each character that reminds us these comedy legends were young and uncertain, pushing forward despite their doubts.

But even a well-oiled machine can have a few squeaky gears, and here, the choice of actor for the role of Andy Kaufman and Jim Henson is an odd one. The performance is skillful, capturing Kaufman’s strange, surreal humor and Henson’s quiet, thoughtful demeanor, but actor Nicholas Haun’s 6’ 7” height feels jarringly out of place. In a cast so carefully chosen, his physicality creates an odd visual mismatch.

Kaufman, especially, was an underdog in his time, a figure who seemed to operate on a different frequency. Here, his towering stature clashes with that legacy. It’s a small quirk, but one that pulls you out of the story, if only momentarily.

Despite the misstep, Saturday Night is a triumph. Reitman’s direction is inspired, balancing reverence with a sense of realism that keeps the film grounded. He understands that the magic of Saturday Night Live wasn’t just in the jokes—it was in the risk, the tension, the sense of walking a tightrope and hoping you didn’t fall. And he captures that spirit beautifully, giving us a film that’s as vibrant, funny, and brave as the show itself.

Saturday Night isn’t just a film for fans of SNL; it’s for anyone who understands what it means to dream big and face the uncertainty of whether that dream will come true. It’s a reminder that sometimes, the most remarkable things come from throwing caution to the wind and embracing the chaos.

And in this, Reitman has crafted a film that celebrates not just a show, but a spirit that continues to resonate decades later.

Turns out, Stanley Kubrick isn’t dead. He was just on The Substance.

Coralie Fargeat’s The Substance plays like Kubrick’s ghostly hand is guiding us through Hollywood’s unlit corridors, where beauty becomes a prison and vanity is weapon and wound.

This isn’t just a horror film; it’s a graphic meditation on fame’s slow rot, dressed in Kubrick’s chilling, meticulous style. And it’s the most unsettling film of the year.

Demi Moore’s Elisabeth Sparkle is a once-dazzling star now clinging to relevance, introduced with all the glamor of a Hollywood legend. But when Elisabeth encounters “The Substance”—a drug that promises to turn back time—the story veers into a nightmare drawn straight from Kubrick’s detached, clinical eye. From the carpet to the colors to the cold stare, The Substance is homage to the late director.

But make no mistake: This movie has turn-away gore, which perhaps is the point of a movie impaling the business of turning heads.

Elisabeth takes the drug, and the transformation that follows is not just physical but existential, dragging her into a horror that feels vast, lonely, and unrelenting.

Each step feels like a crossing over, leaving her humanity behind in pursuit of an ideal that’s cold and unforgiving. The effect is almost surreal, as if Elisabeth has become part of some inhuman experiment, a subject to be observed rather than a person with agency.

As Elisabeth’s transformation continues, we’re thrust into hallways carpeted in that unforgettable blood-red pattern from The Shining. It’s a subtle detail, but one that speaks volumes: she’s lost in a maze of her own making, each turn leading her deeper into the horror of her obsession.

When she finally meets Sue—the younger, flawless version of herself, played with haunting restraint by Margaret Qualley—it’s in a setting that could only be Kubrick’s: a bar so still and sterile it feels like The Shining’s Gold Room reimagined.

The conversation between Elisabeth and Sue is unspoken, a Kubrickian standoff where they sit across from each other, the ideal and the broken. Elisabeth’s face, once hopeful, now reflects Kubrick’s cold gaze—a character who sees the cost of her choices and is horrified by them.

And of course, The Substance is more than a commentary on beauty; it’s also about addiction, as Elisabeth’s dependency on her newfound youth deepens.

There’s irony here, as Elisabeth’s fall parallels the same fate as those chasing their own heroin(e), sinking deeper into a habit that promises escape but leaves ruin in its wake. This addiction, however, isn’t about euphoria; it’s about identity, a craving to hold on to something that’s slipping, even as it’s devouring her.

As Elisabeth loses herself entirely, Fargeat’s direction becomes Kubrickian in its cold, analytical gaze. We’re no longer watching Elisabeth; we’re observing her, as if she’s another artifact of Hollywood’s obsession with beauty, dissected under fluorescent lights. Elisabeth’s pursuit of perfection has rendered her as cold and mechanical as a bathroom sink.

The Substance doesn’t offer solace. Fargeat, like Kubrick, is unflinching, her vision of fame and beauty as clinical as it is haunting. Elisabeth’s journey isn’t a tale of redemption or self-discovery; it’s a warning, a brutal reminder that the pursuit of beauty costs not just our youth — but our very selves.

There may be only one self, but what happens when that face isn’t yours?