The movie Wicked feels less like a reimagining of The Wizard of Oz and more like a rebellion against it.

From the opening frame, it’s clear this isn’t Kansas anymore—or the Technicolor utopia we’ve come to associate with the 1939 classic.

Instead, Wicked recasts the story as a pointed critique of the Wizard, Oz’s gleaming authoritarian leader, and the system he represents. Gone is the bumbling, lovable fraud; in his place stands a shrewd manipulator whose machinations come to symbolize corruption and propaganda. The movie pulls no punches in making the Wizard a figure of ire, transforming him from a figurehead into the central antagonist of the tale.

This sharp turn isn’t new. Both Gregory Maguire’s novel and the Broadway production laid the groundwork for a sympathetic retelling of Elphaba’s story, the so-called “Wicked Witch of the West.”

But while the book was cerebral and the stage show leaned into its musical theater charisma, the movie opts for something bolder: a seething, cinematic anti-establishment statement. It doubles down on Maguire’s themes, turning every interaction with the Wizard into a battle of ideology.

There’s a revolutionary spirit here that’s reminiscent of Stanley Kubrick’s approach to The Shining. Just as Kubrick froze the Overlook Hotel, rejecting Stephen King’s fiery destruction of the haunted space, Wicked systematically dismantles the optimism of The Wizard of Oz. The original Oz was a world of vibrant cheer, where moral binaries were easy to grasp and order was restored with the click of ruby slippers.

Wicked rejects all of that, exposing the rot beneath the Emerald City’s glossy veneer and turning the Wizard into the story’s true source of evil.

The movie’s tone is darker, more dramatic, than its predecessors. The visual palette is rich with greens, blacks, and golds, a deliberate contrast to Oz’s usual saccharine brightness. Even Munchkinland looks less like a whimsical village and more like a microcosm of a broken society.

The musical numbers—still dazzling and operatic—are injected with a rawness that underscores the narrative’s revolutionary theme. Songs like “Defying Gravity” and “No Good Deed” bristle with fury and determination, no longer just anthems of self-discovery but rallying cries against tyranny.

And the Wizard? He’s portrayed as an unrepentant autocrat, wielding charm and cruelty in equal measure. His lies about Elphaba’s powers and motives go from whispers to full-on propaganda campaigns, cementing him as the face of a patriarchal regime. The film takes evident pleasure in dismantling his façade, making it impossible to separate the personal betrayal of Elphaba from the broader societal critique.

For fans of The Wizard of Oz, this may feel sacrilegious, even jarring. The 1939 film portrayed a world of clear moral binaries—good witches, bad witches, a righteous Dorothy. Wicked obliterates that simplicity, instead reveling in the gray areas of morality. Glinda is more complicit than virtuous, Dorothy is absent, and Elphaba is a tragic figure, the victim of a system that needs her to be the villain.

Cynthia Erivo stuns as Elphaba, delivering a performance packed with raw emotion and vocal power, particularly in her rendition of “Defying Gravity.” Ariana Grande brings surprising nuance to Glinda, balancing her comedic charm with a poignant undercurrent of moral conflict. Jeff Goldblum’s turn as the Wizard is both chilling and magnetic, embodying the perfect blend of charisma and menace. 

Ultimately, Wicked is less about Oz and more about the systems of power that shape our perceptions. It’s a cinematic rebellion against the Wizard, against the mythology of Oz as a utopia, and perhaps against the naïve optimism of the original film itself.

Its kicker is as bold as its lead: Wicked isn’t content to simply rewrite the tale—it sets the whole thing on fire and invites you to watch it burn.

A Complete Unknown finds its rhythm in historical accuracy but falters in the impossible task of recreating Bob Dylan’s singular voice.

James Mangold’s film ambitiously tackles the mythos of Bob Dylan, focusing on his meteoric rise as the scrappy troubadour who transformed folk music into a political and cultural force. The film excels in recreating the iconic Greenwich Village of the early ’60s, right down to the coffee-stained folk clubs and the simmering tensions of a youth culture in rebellion. It’s a beautifully rendered love letter to a pivotal era in American music, full of reverence for Dylan’s place in history.

Yet, for all its strengths, the film stumbles in its portrayal of the man himself, trapped by the very thing it celebrates: Dylan’s inimitability.

At the center of the film is Timothée Chalamet, who is nothing if not an intriguing choice for the role. Chalamet captures Dylan’s laconic physicality and a fair bit of his mercurial aura. His scenes with Monica Barbaro as Joan Baez and Edward Norton as Pete Seeger are among the highlights, brimming with charged dynamics that reflect the tensions and alliances of the burgeoning folk movement.

But when it comes to embodying Dylan’s voice—both literal and metaphorical—Chalamet’s performance falls flat.

To be fair, Dylan’s voice is a particular kind of bad that’s almost impossible to mimic. It’s nasal, monotonal, and ragged, but also imbued with an urgent passion that made it unforgettable.

Dylan didn’t sing with range; he sang with conviction. Chalamet, unfortunately, renders it as disinterested mumbling. His brand of bad isn’t charmingly raw—it’s just bad. Instead of evoking Dylan’s piercing intensity, he often comes across as aloof, missing the fire that drove songs like “The Times They Are a-Changin’” and “Blowin’ in the Wind.”

The result is a portrayal that feels more like an impression than an embodiment, which is compounded by the fact that Chalamet doesn’t quite carry Dylan’s androgynously beautiful mystique. Dylan wasn’t conventionally attractive, but his wiry charisma and angular features had an allure that transcended beauty norms. Chalamet’s interpretation lacks that edge, and it’s hard not to imagine a newcomer who might have captured it more faithfully.

That’s the film’s central irony: it’s called A Complete Unknown, yet its lead is anything but. While Mangold has crafted a film that sings with the spirit of its time, it’s weighed down by a central performance that misses the mark. Perhaps the role of Dylan was never meant for a star but for a newcomer—someone plucked from obscurity not for their fame but for nailing Dylan’s look, mannerisms, and ineffable essence.

Ultimately, the film’s biggest flaw might just be its casting. Dylan himself was an enigma, a paradox, and an outsider—a complete unknown. The film could have used the same.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

I’m not certain whether Rober Eggers believes in god. But I’m sure he believes in the devil. Witness Nosferatu.

Nosferatu is a masterpiece of shadow and menace, a triumph of Gothic horror that rekindles the haunting allure of the original while standing as a singular vision in its own right.

Eggers’ Nosferatu is more than a remake—it’s a reinvention, a vivid nightmare brought to life with unrelenting artistry. Channeling the eerie stillness of F.W. Murnau’s 1922 silent classic, Eggers weaves a tapestry of dread that feels at once timeless and bracingly new.

This is not homage for the sake of homage but a director at the height of his craft, paying reverence while daring to reimagine.

Bill Skarsgård as Count Orlok delivers a performance that chills to the bone. With his gaunt, almost alien physicality, he embodies the grotesque allure of a predator who is both repellent and magnetic.His every movement feels deliberate, calculated, and impossibly inhuman—a living shadow haunting the screen.

Opposite him, Lily-Rose Depp brings unexpected depth to Ellen Hutter, transforming what could have been a passive victim into a figure of quiet strength and tragic beauty. Depp’s Ellen is more than prey; she is a soul wrestling with fate, her luminous presence cutting through the film’s enveloping darkness.

The cinematography, by Jarin Blaschke, deserves special mention. Every frame is painterly, drenched in ominous blues and searing blacks, where light fights desperately against encroaching darkness.

The interplay of shadow and silhouette is breathtaking, recalling German Expressionism while feeling utterly contemporary. Eggers’ attention to historical detail and his obsession with atmosphere result in a film where every element, from the creak of a door to the whisper of wind, pulls us into its otherworldly grip.

Eggers is a filmmaker unafraid of taking risks, and Nosferatu thrives on its slow, deliberate pacing. Some may find its measured approach alienating, but those willing to surrender to its rhythms will find a film of rare power—horror that seeps into your bones rather than shocking you with sudden jolts.

Nosferatu is more than a film; it is an experience, a descent into the uncanny that lingers long after the credits roll. Eggers has crafted a rare horror movie, one that respects its roots while staking its claim as something wholly new.