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.

‘Buy Now! The Shopping Conspiracy’ is a thought-provoking documentary that illuminates the forces driving modern consumerism.

Directed by Nic Stacey, it doesn’t necessarily tell us anything we don’t already suspect—that corporations design products to fail, manipulate our desires, and prioritize profit over sustainability—but it packages these ideas into a sharp, compelling narrative.

One of the documentary’s strongest moments is its unflinching look at the sheer scale of waste generated by consumer culture. The film captures the destruction of perfectly functional items—products discarded by corporations to maintain scarcity or protect profits.

Seeing mountains of goods needlessly destroyed is both shocking and infuriating, and it serves as a visceral reminder of how wasteful the system is. The scenes stay with you long after the credits roll.

The documentary’s strength also lies in its access to industry insiders like Maren Costa (formerly of Amazon) and Nirav Patel (a former Apple engineer), who share firsthand accounts of the tactics corporations use to keep us buying.

Their insights give credibility to the film’s arguments and remind us that consumerism isn’t just a byproduct of capitalism—it’s a deliberately engineered system. Hearing this directly from those who once worked within these companies makes the message land with more weight.

Visually, the film is clean and well-structured. However, the decision to use an AI narrator feels like a misstep.

It’s a clever concept in theory—invoking the voice of the machine—but in practice, it adds a layer of detachment that undermines the urgency of the film’s message. The information is engaging enough on its own without this stylistic gimmick.

‘Buy Now!’ doesn’t offer many groundbreaking revelations, and its solutions to the problems it presents are more implied than explicitly explored. However, it succeeds in making us think critically about the choices we make as consumers.

Released in the shadow of Black Friday, the film is a timely reminder that convenience and low prices often come with hidden costs—costs borne by the planet and the people working within these systems.

This is not a groundbreaking film, but it’s a solid and accessible entry point into the conversation about consumerism. For viewers willing to confront uncomfortable truths, it’s a worthwhile watch.

While not flawless, it does what a good documentary should:It informs, provokes, and leaves you asking questions.