Fernando Meirelles’ “City of God” (2002) was a cinematic lightning bolt. It grabbed us by the collar and dragged us through Rio’s chaotic favelas with raw power and brutal honesty.

Now HBO gives us “City of God: The Fight Rages On.” A faded Xerox of a masterpiece.

Where the film was a visual symphony, this series is a tepid cover band. The gritty authenticity has been replaced by soap opera gloss.

The series takes Meirelles’ ingredients and produces a bland smoothie. Innovative cinematography? Gone. In its place, paint-by-numbers camerawork.

Most egregious is the dilution of social commentary. The film confronted harsh truths: cyclical poverty, child soldiers, police corruption, racial inequality, limited social mobility, and the normalization of violence. It forced us to witness the brutal realities of favela life.

The series, however, uses these weighty themes as mere backdrop for melodrama.

Characters once vibrant now feel like cardboard cutouts. The film’s urgent rhythm has been replaced by plodding serialized pacing.

Fans tuning in will experience déjà vu – not because it captures the original’s essence, but because it mimics every crime drama of the last decade.

“The Fight Rages On” serves as a stark reminder of the original’s brilliance. It’s a cautionary tale about trying to bottle lightning twice.

The series casts a long, dreary shadow over the film’s legacy. The fight may rage on, but the spirit has long since left the battlefield.

If nothing else, perhaps this pale imitation could serve as a reminder that the original masterpiece exists.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​ That is work watching.

So here we are with “NCIS: Sydney,” because apparently, the franchise needed a new location to beat to death.

But let’s be honest—it’s not about the crime-solving, it’s about how much they can cram into each episode to remind you, “Hey, mate, you’re in Australia now!”

And nothing says authentic Aussie experience like every damn character speaking with an accent so thick, you’d think they were auditioning for the Outback Steakhouse commercials.

But it’s not just the accents—let’s talk about the locations and foods. Every shot has to be either the Sydney Opera House, a kangaroo hopping by, or some outback bar where they’re eating Vegemite on toast like it’s a national duty.

Because if you don’t remind the audience every five minutes that this is Australia, they might just forget and start paying attention to the plot. And no one wants that.

Plus, the food! My God, the food! Every character has to be munching on something quintessentially ‘Aussie.’ Crocodile steaks? Check. Meat pies? Of course.

And don’t forget the beer! Because Australians can’t go a scene without chugging a frosty one, right? That’s just science.

And we get it—Sydney has an Opera House and a bridge. Did you know it also has other places where people live and work? Nah, of course you didn’t, because if you watch “NCIS: Sydney,” you’d think the entire city revolves around these two landmarks. It’s like saying all of New York is just the Statue of Liberty and Times Square.

I do have to admit: An Australian accents beat a New York’s to hell. But there’s only so many times you can say “beah” for “beer” before it gets irksome.

Crikey!

“The Deliverance” promises a feast of fear but serves up reheated leftovers. It’s a cinematic bait-and-switch that’ll leave horror fans feeling like they’ve been tricked into attending a PTA meeting.

The film kicks off with a tantalizing appetizer of domestic dread. A fly infestation buzzes with menace, mysterious bruises bloom like sinister flowers, and an oppressive atmosphere oozes from every frame. For a moment, we’re gripped by the terror of the ordinary—a family unit crumbling under supernatural strain.

But faster than you can say “I see dead people,” we’re careening down Cliché Canyon. The scares that follow are as predictable as a calendar and half as exciting. The wall-crawling kid is about as frightening as a six-year-old on a jungle gym and a sugar high.

Lee Daniels, usually a maestro of the macabre human condition, seems to have misplaced his mojo. His direction, once razor-sharp in movies like “Precious” and “The Buler,” now feels as dull as a plastic butter knife. It’s like watching a lion decide to become a housecat—all purr, no roar.

Into this muddled miasma steps Andra Day as Ebony. Her performance crackles with desperate fury, especially during a dinner table confrontation that serves up a main course of raw dysfunction. For a precious few scenes, we glimpse the film that could have been—intense, unsettling, and authentically horrifying.

But even Day’s formidable talents can’t salvage this sinking ship. The demon, meant to be the film’s driving terror, comes off as a B-movie reject—about as frightening as a deflated Halloween decoration.

The finale’s stab at redemption feels more forced than a group hug at a misanthropes’ convention. It’s a Hallmark card stapled to a ouija board—neither convincing nor cathartic.

In the end, “The Deliverance” doesn’t deliver; it disappoints. It’s a magic trick where we can see all the strings, leaving us neither fooled nor amazed—just vaguely irritated at the waste of potential. Horror fans, save yourselves. This is one exorcism that should’ve been left unperformed.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​