Category Archives: Reviews

He Wore Blue Velvet


Nightmares.

David Lynch turned them into art. Not the kind you admired from a safe distance, but the kind that pulled you in, shook you up, and left you questioning what you had just experienced.

My first Lynch encounter was in high school. I went to a midnight showing of Eraserhead with my best friend. I didn’t know who Lynch was, didn’t know what the film was about, and didn’t care. We were bored, and it sounded strange enough to be fun.

What I didn’t expect was to walk out of that theater feeling like I’d just woken from the worst dream of my life.

It was disturbingly genius. The strange baby, the relentless soundscape, the suffocating atmosphere—it all left a mark.

Lynch didn’t just tell stories. He made you feel them. That’s when I realized his films weren’t casual viewing.

You didn’t throw on a Lynch film the way you might a comedy or even a thriller. You had to be in the right mood. You had to be ready to let him take you wherever he wanted, no matter how dark, strange, or unsettling the journey.

Years later, I saw Blue Velvet. It wasn’t just Lynch’s best film—it was one of the best films I had ever seen.

It started simply: a severed ear found in a field. But nothing was simple in Lynch’s world. That ear was like the start of a bad drug trip, one you couldn’t escape.

The idyllic suburban façade crumbled fast, revealing a world of darkness and depravity. It was horrifying, but it was also mesmerizing. Lynch’s use of light and shadow, his juxtaposition of innocence and corruption, and that unforgettable performance by Dennis Hopper as Frank Booth—it all felt like a perfect storm of filmmaking.

What made Lynch unique was his refusal to explain. He didn’t hold your hand or give you easy answers.

His films were like puzzles missing just enough pieces to keep you guessing forever. In Blue Velvet, you never fully understood Frank or his madness, but you felt the terror he brought. In Eraserhead, the grotesque baby and the oppressive industrial wasteland defied logic, yet they burrowed into your psyche and lingered there.

Lynch didn’t just make movies. He crafted experiences. They were visceral, disorienting, and unforgettable.

Whether it was the hypnotic unease of Twin Peaks, the raw terror of Mulholland Drive, or the surreal poetry of The Elephant Man, his work pushed boundaries and shattered expectations.

He showed us that nightmares had their own beauty. And for that, we’ll always be uneasily grateful.

Raging Against Machines


There’s a moment in the Netflix documentary ‘I’m Tim’, about Avicii, the Swedish DJ and producer, where you see him meticulously layering loops, samples, and beats, building what millions have danced to as electronic masterpieces.

It’s impressive, but as I watched, something unsettling crept in: where are the instruments? The lyrics? The human element?

I’m not naive. Technology has been a part of music for decades.

But as I sat there watching Avicii tweak yet another sample, I realized something: the heart of music has shifted from the garage to the laptop. Grunge died in the mid-’90s, and with it, a visceral kind of authenticity. No rock genre replaced it.

Sure, some will argue rock never really dies. Bands like Foo Fighters still fill arenas. Greta Van Fleet tries valiantly to resurrect Zeppelin. Even My Chemical Romance managed a triumphant return.

These aren’t flashes in the pan—they’re acts that remind us of what rock can be. Raw. Sweaty. Alive.

But these are exceptions, not the rule.

For most under 30, guitars are relics, and lyrics are just hooks to frame beats. Producers like Avicii—rest his soul—have become the new rock stars. They sell out festivals, collaborate with pop icons, and dominate global charts.

What they don’t do is play instruments or write melodies from scratch. What they create is built on layers of digital perfection: loops clipped and polished, beats algorithmically aligned, and voices autotuned into oblivion.

I don’t say this as a cranky purist longing for the days of Kurt Cobain’s jagged screams or Eddie Vedder’s gruff poetry. I say this because we’ve lost something essential in the transition.

Music used to be messy. Bands recorded in basements. Guitars wailed, often out of tune. Lyrics stumbled and faltered but said something.

Now it’s all about precision. Streamlining. Hitting the dopamine centers in three minutes or less.

Even rock bands that manage to break through today feel sanitized. Compare Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit” to, say, Imagine Dragons’ “Believer.” Both are hits. Both lean into angst. One, however, feels like an explosion; the other, like a PowerPoint presentation set to music.

Am I saying music is dead? Of course not. But rock as we knew it—the rebellion, the grit, the imperfections that made it human—is gone.

Avicii’s music moved millions, and his talent is undeniable. But as I watched that documentary, I couldn’t help feeling like I was watching the future devour the past. A future of loops, not lives. Machines, not bands.

The machines have taken over. And no one is fighting back.

That’s just not the rock and roll way.

Pulp Fiction: A 30-Year Celebration of Cinematic Brilliance



“Pulp Fiction” did not just change the way we watch movies; it changed the way we talk about them.

Quentin Tarantino’s 1994 opus arrived at a time when cinema seemed to be running out of audacity. Here was a film that had the nerve to mix the highbrow with the lowbrow, violence with humor, and chaos with symmetry.

Thirty years later, “Pulp Fiction” stands as a testament to the elasticity of storytelling and the enduring power of style.

At its core, the film is a love letter to pulp magazines, dime novels, and forgotten B-movies, yet it transcends homage to become something wholly original. The narrative structure remains as daring as it was three decades ago. Tarantino interweaves multiple storylines—each distinct yet interconnected—like a master conductor leading an orchestra of mayhem. The result is a film that defies the linearity of time while remaining emotionally resonant.

John Travolta’s Vincent Vega is a study in contradictions: a hitman who debates the nuances of European fast food but can’t manage a simple escort mission without disaster. Travolta, resurrecting his career with this role, brings a languid charm that is both disarming and deeply funny.

Opposite him, Samuel L. Jackson’s Jules Winnfield is a force of nature, speaking with the conviction of a prophet and the swagger of a rock star. Jules blends menace and introspection in ways that defy expectation. Their conversation about foot massages and divine intervention has been endlessly quoted, parodied, and analyzed—and for good reason. Few films have ever invested so much in the art of dialogue.

Dialogue in “Pulp Fiction” isn’t just a means to an end; it is the end itself. The seemingly mundane discussions about burgers, watch origins, and how to rob a diner become miniature symphonies of tension, humor, and subtext.

Tarantino’s ear for language is unparalleled, and his words are delivered by actors who savor every syllable. Consider Uma Thurman’s Mia Wallace, a character as enigmatic as she is captivating. Her banter with Vincent during their iconic diner scene is a lesson in chemistry and timing. The ensuing dance contest—a moment as joyous as it is surreal—captures the film’s ability to oscillate between the absurd and the profound.

Even minor characters leave indelible impressions. Bruce Willis’s Butch Coolidge, a boxer grappling with fate and loyalty, anchors one of the film’s most harrowing sequences.

The pawn shop scene, which spirals from absurdity to horror, is as shocking now as it was in 1994. And yet, beneath the violence and chaos, there is a thread of redemption running through the film. Jules’s transformation—a hitman who finds God in the middle of a bloodbath—is one of cinema’s most unexpected spiritual arcs. He walks away from the life, leaving us with a sense that change, however unlikely, is always possible.

The film’s technical achievements are no less revolutionary. Cinematographer Andrzej Sekuła captures the grimy glamour of Los Angeles with a painter’s eye for detail. The soundtrack, a jukebox of forgotten treasures, feels as vital as any character in the film. Each song—be it “Misirlou” or “Son of a Preacher Man”—is inextricably tied to its scene, creating moments that are impossible to imagine without the music.

What makes “Pulp Fiction” endure is its refusal to age. It exists outside of time, a cinematic singularity that feels as fresh now as it did in 1994.

Every viewing offers new discoveries, from its labyrinth of pop references to its kaleidoscope of torn emotions. Thirty years on, it is not merely a film but a cultural touchstone, a film school in itself, and a reminder of what cinema can be at its most fearless. Tarantino dared to make a film for the ages, and the ages have rewarded him.

“Pulp Fiction” is not just a movie; it is a phenomenon, an experience, and, above all, a masterpiece.