100 Words on Stanley Kubrick's A Clockwork Orange (1971)

By Thomas M. Puhr

A Clockwork Orange’s profound nihilism extends beyond its focus on choice. More germane than the question of whether or not “being good” means anything without free will is that of whether or not morality is that big of a motivating force in the first place. A life is driven, Kubrick’s adaptation suggests, less by a decision to do good or evil than by an innate (i.e., clockwork) impulse to do whatever best satisfies one’s self-interest. Whether it’s done for one’s own pleasure (Alex’s abuse of others) or for another’s own good (the government’s abuse of Alex), exploitation permeates nearly everything.   

100 Words on Steven Spielberg's Jaws (1975)

By Thomas M. Puhr

Although shark movies have long since become a dime a dozen (2026 alone has subjected viewers to Deep Water and The Devil’s Mouth), it’s difficult to imagine a film being written quite like Steven Spielberg’s breakthrough nowadays. Consider a moment when Quint (Robert Shaw) finally acquiesces to Hooper’s (Richard Dreyfuss) cutting-edge approach and asks exactly how his fancy technology can kill that great white. Rather than spoon-feeding viewers some trite line of intergenerational communion (“Hey, kid, you’re not so bad after all!”), Spielberg trusts the audience to register Quint’s grudging respect for the man—as well as his mounting panic.

100 Words on Adrian Chiarella's Leviticus (2026)

By Thomas M. Puhr

In Adrian Chiarella’s Leviticus, conversion therapy somehow becomes more nightmarish than it already is. After being subjected to a strange religious ceremony, star-crossed teens Naim (Joe Bird) and Ryan (Stacy Clausen) are hunted by a shapeshifting monster that assumes the appearance of its targets’ romantic interests. Though derivative—It Follows inevitably comes to mind—Leviticus stands out for its social commentary (some parents would rather their gay children be horrified of sex than excited by it) and aching tenderness. It’s a sad truth that those you love most can hurt you most, but a life of isolation is even sadder. 

100 Words on Lance Oppenheim's Primetime (2026)

By Thomas M. Puhr

My immediate response to Lance Oppenheim’s Primetime (2026) was that the film fails to give its antihero, Chris Hansen (a scenery-chewing Robert Pattinson), any real interiority. But to write the film off as a simple case of style (and what style it has; those reds, those blues!) over substance would be to dismiss a core feature of its construction. The opening shot—a close-up of Pattinson’s mouth as he recites lines from an illicit AOL chat (echoes of Under the Skin’s prologue)—says it all: Here, an entity assumes the human frame in order to wreak vengeance. It, too, performs. 

100 Words on David Robert Mitchell's The End of Oak Street (2026)

By Thomas M. Puhr

Unshackled from the tedious worldbuilding that has drained the Jurassic Park franchise of anything resembling fun, David Robert Mitchell’s The End of Oak Street—about a family’s fight for survival after their ’80s-era neighborhood is inexplicably transported to the Mesozoic Era—revitalizes the dinosaur subgenre. Mitchell understands that graceful characterization is just as important as pulse-pounding action (a teenage girl singing along to “Valerie” in the family station wagon packs a greater emotional punch than anything in the jingoistic Project Hail Mary). The End of Oak Street is the writer-director’s most confident work yet and the best film of 2026. 

100 Words on Stanley Kubrick's Spartacus (1960)

By Thomas M. Puhr

Kirk Douglas leads an army of freed slaves against Roman forces in Stanley Kubrick’s sword-and-sandal exercise. Despite the occasional brilliant touch—be it a campy exchange (Laurence Olivier explaining his preference for “both snails and oysters” to an alarmed Tony Curtis), an awe-inspiring tableau (the Roman army assuming geometrically flawless formations), or a shock of violence (a severed limb erupting with fire hydrant⁠–red blood)—Kubrick’s epic is interminably self-serious. Dalton Trumbo’s screenplay, in associating the ancients with a morally bankrupt America, anticipates Christopher Nolan’s The Odyssey: a spectacle that will similarly exhaust audiences once it’s as old as Spartacus.

100 Words on Christopher Nolan's The Odyssey (2026)

 

By Thomas M. Puhr

Regarding Roman translations of Greek literature, Nietzsche writes that “they saw it as an incentive for a Roman conquest. … Not only did one omit what was historical; one also added allusions to the present and, above all, struck out the name of the poet.” In terms of the latter point, consider The Odyssey’s poster. “A Film by Christopher Nolan,” it proclaims, with Homer’s name barely legible in the billing block. In terms of the former, consider how Nolan conquers The Odyssey by making it an American story. Case in point: Robert Pattinson and Tom Holland ditch their British accents. 

100 Words on Danny and Michael Philippou's Bring Her Back (2025)

By Thomas M. Puhr

Stepsiblings Andy (Billy Barratt) and Piper (standout Sora Wong) discover that their foster mother, Laura (Sally Hawkins), is using them to resurrect her dead daughter in Danny and Michael Philippou’s Talk to Me follow-up. The Australian brothers’ sophomore feature mines similar terrain (e.g., teenagers traumatized by a parent’s death) but with diminishing returns; although the film boasts some elegant narrative echoes (Andy and Piper’s father died in the shower, Laura’s daughter in a pool) and an intriguing commentary on the rituals that can unite a family (“grapefruit,” the siblings’ safe word, packs an unexpected emotional punch), it’s simply not scary.  

100 Words on Stanley Kubrick's Paths of Glory (1957)

 

By Thomas M. Puhr

Stanley Kubrick’s near-flawless WWI drama concerns three French soldiers sentenced to death after a botched, suicidal assault against the German forces embarrasses their superiors. As Colonel Dax—who defends the men during their absurdly unjust trial—Kirk Douglas sometimes undercuts Kubrick’s scathing irony with self-righteous theatrics (at one point, he pounds a table mid impassioned speech). The final scene—in which a terrified German woman sings to a group of French soldiers—would have been perfect if it ended with her performance silencing the drunken, rowdy men; instead, we’re subjected to single-tear-running-down-the-cheek closeups of the troops as they hum along.

100 Words on Francis Lawrence's The Long Walk (2025)

By Thomas M. Puhr

A thought-provoking, morally ambiguous conclusion elevates this otherwise middling genre effort from director Francis Lawrence. Are The Long Walk’s final moments optimistic (because the titular game’s lone survivor—Peter McVries, played by a gravel-voiced David Jonsson—isn’t immediately gunned down after killing the villain, one hopes he has initiated a revolution) or pessimistic (because he indulges in coldblooded revenge, our hero betrays the goodhearted optimism that led to his survival in the first place)? The film’s last image—of Peter marching into a rain-soaked darkness—may hold the answer: If the “winner” is still walking, then has anything really changed?

100 Words on David Lynch's Mulholland Dr. (2001)

©Aleks Phoenix

By Thomas M. Puhr

Mulholland Dr. (2001) asks us to reconsider the nature of character via dream logic. In a dream, someone you glimpsed at a diner can become a main character, a loved one a peripheral figure: a valuable lesson in perspective. As is the fact that a real person can assume an entirely new identity in a dream: a process, Lynch suggests, that is analogous to a performer who becomes their role or an audience member who, confronted with the film actor’s impossibly large face—their penetrating eyes, their lush red lips—enters not just another time or place, but another person.

100 Words on Alexandre Koberidze's What Do We See When We Look at the Sky? (2021)

 

By Thomas M. Puhr

A man and woman fall in love after bumping into each other twice on the same day. Their fate is jeopardized, however, when each awakens inside a different body the morning of their first date. Thus begins Georgian writer-director Alexandre Koberidze’s What Do We See When We Look at the Sky? (2021), which struggles – not unlike its star-crossed lovers – to maintain the near-overwhelming romantic spell it establishes in these opening scenes. Still, Koberidze’s paean to cinema’s magical powers (to unite people, to capture reality in a way that lived experience somehow can’t) will reward those attuned to its unhurried wavelength.   

100 Words on Andrey Zvyagintsev's Loveless (2017)

By Thomas Puhr

One of the first stills released from Andrey Zvyagintsev’s Loveless (2017) was an overhead shot of young Alyosha (Matvey Novikov) squinting up at the sun. At first glance, the angle could easily be mistaken for an upward tilt, as if a flashlight or camera has caught him hiding in the tree of a dark forest. This image – almost surreal in nature – is among Zvyagintsev’s most arresting compositions. I often think about it, and of Alyosha – who will soon wander off and never be seen again – sobbing alone in his room while his oblivious parents (Maryana Spivak and Aleksey Rozin) argue.