When I first watched Rogue One, I loved it. It felt intense, bold, and exciting — a standout within the Star Wars universe. I gave it a 9, and I still believe it’s a great film. But after finishing Andor, something shifted. The narrative is the same, the characters’ fate doesn’t change, yet the atmosphere feels completely different. What was once full of nuance and humanity now feels rushed and simplified. Where I once saw depth, I now see broad strokes, as if everything was rushing toward the grand finale. The characters, who breathe and evolve in Andor, seem reduced here to just their function. Cassian, especially, goes from a conflicted, layered man to a straightforward rebel. Even the music —which in Andor is mature, haunting, and emotionally charged— feels more traditional here, almost childish by comparison. It doesn’t ruin the experience, but it doesn’t elevate it either. That said, Rogue One still delivers some powerful moments. The final act is stunning, the visuals work well, and the connection to A New Hope is both tight and moving. It remains one of Disney’s best additions to the saga, but after truly living in the world Andor built, it’s hard not to feel a bit of nostalgia for the emotional weight that’s now missing. The story may be the same — but the soul, somehow, isn’t.

Andor isn’t just the best thing Star Wars has produced in years — it’s a series that stands shoulder to shoulder with the greatest shows out there, no matter the genre. While other entries lean on nostalgia and fan service, this one takes a different path: it commits fully to a serious, carefully crafted story, with strong characters and flawless direction. You can feel the intention, the care, and the thought behind every frame. It’s an adult, political, subtle narrative that never underestimates its audience. No lightsabers needed to move you — it does so with silence, glances, and hard choices. Each character —from Cassian to Mon Mothma, including Luthen, Dedra, and Syril— has depth, contradictions, scars. There are no improvised arcs or filler episodes: everything serves a purpose, and it shows. Diego Luna shines without needing big speeches, and Tony Gilroy delivers a solid, elegant, and deeply committed story about rebellion as something deeply human, flawed, and necessary. The slow build of the first episodes leads to a narrative and emotional climax that feels like true craftsmanship. The series dares to show the Empire from the inside — its bureaucratic machinery of oppression — and also what it costs to resist: fear, sacrifice, loss. There’s no black or white here, only a kind of moral complexity rarely seen in the Star Wars universe. Andor feels like cinema in serial form. It’s tension, drama, resistance. It’s fire. And hopefully, the future of the saga will rise from this very flame.

There are films that grab you as a kid and never let go. Take the Money and Run was the first Woody Allen comedy I ever saw — I must’ve been around ten — and it left a mark on me. I remember laughing nonstop at that nervous, clumsy guy with big glasses getting into increasingly ridiculous trouble. Years later, I watched it again and the magic was still there. It was my gateway into Allen’s cinema, and I still think it’s one of his wildest and most joyful works. Told as a mockumentary, the story of Virgil Starkwell doesn’t have much of a plot — and it doesn’t need one. What matters is the constant barrage of gags, absurd humor, and that relentless rhythm that never lets up. From the escape with a soap-carved gun to the police interrogations, it’s full of moments that would go viral today. Allen mixes parody, slapstick, and sharp wit with disarming ease. He’s not trying to be deep here — just funny — and he nails it. Virgil, the small-time crook with a loser’s soul, already foreshadows the neurotic, lovable characters that would become Allen’s signature. But here, there are no philosophical ramblings or talks about Kant — just laughs, visual gags, absurd interviews, and a voiceover that lands every punchline with irony. And somehow, beneath all that silliness, there’s a touch of melancholy that makes it even more charming. Allen laughs at his character, yes, but he also cares for him. Over the years, Allen has refined his style and given us more sophisticated films, but few feel as raw and direct as this one. It has that special energy of a first attempt, when everything feels like play and discovery. Maybe that’s why it works so well: it’s not trying to impress — just to entertain. And it truly does. Laughing out loud at something you’ve seen a dozen times is no small feat. This one still delivers.

If there’s one word that defines Resistance, it’s filler. It’s not as childish as Ewoks or Droids, but it never really takes off or brings anything truly memorable to the Star Wars universe. The cel-shaded animation style already feels off from the start. And the protagonist, Kazuda Xiono, is an overenthusiastic and clumsy pilot who’s hard to take seriously for most of the series. Add to that a supporting cast that borders on ridiculous—especially Neeku, the alien who feels like a badly written parody—and the result is disappointing. What’s most frustrating is that the story had potential: espionage inside an isolated station, the quiet rise of the First Order, and the New Republic’s slow loss of control. But all of that gets buried under tons of irrelevant episodes, forced humor, and a constant feeling that nothing is really happening. Sure, some recognizable villains like Phasma or Pyre are welcome, and characters like Yeager actually work—but they’re the exception. The finale improves things slightly, but it doesn’t make up for the overall dullness. For hardcore fans of the franchise with patience. For everyone else, it’s easily skippable.

It's clear this isn't meant for you if you already know who Darth Vader is, have argued over whether Mace Windu survived, or still get goosebumps when John Williams' score hits. Young Jedi Adventures is a preschool series designed to gently introduce the youngest viewers to the galaxy far, far away. With its vibrant animation, cute characters (Nubs is literally a plush toy wielding a lightsaber), and easy-to-follow morals about teamwork, patience, or saying sorry, it does what it’s supposed to do: be kind, cheerful, and keep a five-year-old’s attention. The problem is when you try to look at it from any other angle. There’s no second layer, no storylines that could appeal to older kids, and not even the occasional wink to long-time fans like other Star Wars kids' shows have done. Its biggest strength is its intention, but the execution is repetitive, harmless, and lacks any real narrative weight. For little ones, it might be a lovely first step into Star Wars. For everyone else… one episode is probably more than enough.