Anthony Jeselnik isn’t the smartest man in the room because I am. But his dark swagger is undeniably funny.

Jeselnik’s Bones and All cements his reputation as comedy’s quintessential bad boy and a living argument against cancel culture.

In this special, Jeselnik embraces his role as a gallows provocateur, wielding his razor wit to tackle taboo topics like abortion, politics and trans issues with the unapologetic confidence that has defined his career.

This time, however, there’s an added layer of introspection as he reflects on his 20 years in comedy, offering a nuanced commentary on his place in a rapidly evolving cultural landscape.

Jeselnik’s ability to defy the outrage machine while maintaining his relevance is a testament to his skill as a comedian. He doesn’t just tell jokes—he crafts them into precise, calculated statements that challenge societal norms and the limits of free speech.

In Bones and All, Jeselnik doubles down on this approach, presenting material that is as provocative as it is thoughtful, daring his audience to laugh at the darkest corners of the human experience.

While the special ranks above his 2015 stand-up in terms of polish and thematic cohesion, it doesn’t quite surpass the iconic brilliance of Fire in the Maternity Ward (2019). Some segments feel slightly more predictable, and the shock factor—while still potent—doesn’t pack the same punch as it did in his previous work.

Nonetheless, Bones and All is a triumph in its own right. Jeselnik remains one of the boldest voices in comedy, a comedian who doesn’t merely survive in the age of cancel culture but thrives within it.

This special is more than a collection of jokes—it’s a declaration of comedic freedom and a celebration of a career that refuses to conform. For fans of boundary-pushing humor, Bones and All is a welcome return to form.

Clint Eastwood’s Juror No. 2 is the work of a filmmaker who once defined cinematic mastery but now seems to be grappling with the limitations of time.

At 93, Eastwood remains a towering figure in American cinema, his body of work a testament to decades of innovation and storytelling prowess. But his latest effort feels like a shadow of the sharp, tightly controlled films that made his name.

While Juror No. 2 begins with an intriguing premise—Nicholas Hoult plays a juror who suspects he may have killed the victim in a hit-and-run accident—the story unravels rather than unfolds, weighed down by uneven direction and a puzzling sense of inertia.

The first misstep comes early. The story’s central twist—Hoult’s realization of his own guilt—arrives in the opening act, effectively squandering the narrative tension.

Instead of building a slow crescendo of moral conflict and courtroom suspense, the film detours into a perplexing side plot in which the jurors take on the roles of private investigators. What could have been a gripping meditation on guilt and justice is instead diluted into a clunky procedural that never quite finds its footing.

The Southern setting, ostensibly intended to lend the film a sense of atmosphere and weight, is similarly undercut by missteps. The accents range from cartoonish to non-existent, leaving the characters sounding like they’re from entirely different regions of the country. It’s a small detail, but one that highlights the film’s broader struggle to establish a cohesive tone.

Visually, the film bears the hallmarks of a director whose once-fluid style now feels rigid and cautious. Eastwood’s past work thrived on economy and precision—every frame purposeful, every silence loaded with meaning.

In Juror No. 2, however, scenes linger too long, dialogue meanders, and the courtroom, which should bristle with tension, feels flat and overlit. It’s as if Eastwood’s once-steady hand has grown tentative, uncertain of how to wield the tools that once came so naturally to him.

Even the performances feel muted by the film’s shortcomings. Hoult tries valiantly to convey the inner turmoil of a man caught between self-preservation and a moral obligation to confess, but the script gives him little room to breathe.

Toni Collette fares better, injecting her role as a defense attorney with a welcome dose of fire and wit, yet even her best moments are undercut by clunky dialogue and contrived plot developments.

There are glimmers of Eastwood’s brilliance—fleeting moments when his fascination with guilt and redemption shines through. A solitary confession scene carries genuine emotional weight, and a few visual choices nod to his enduring grasp of cinematic language. But these moments feel like echoes of a filmmaker who, like the protagonist of Juror No. 2, seems haunted by his own past.

Juror No. 2 is less a courtroom thriller than a quiet reckoning—Eastwood wrestling with the realities of age and the burden of his storied legacy.

It’s not a failure, but neither is it a triumph. Instead, it’s a melancholy reminder that even the greatest talents are not immune to the passage of time.