Sometimes the problem isn’t that a movie is badly made — it’s that you simply don’t care about what it’s telling you. Shutter, a remake of a Thai film that did leave a mark in its time, falls squarely into that category: a string of predictable scares, lifeless characters, and an atmosphere that never quite takes off. Everything feels too mechanical. The premise, at least on paper, had potential. A photographer and his partner begin to see ghostly figures in their photos after an accident. But what could have been a chilling story about guilt, trauma, and ghosts (in every sense) ends up being just another rehash of J-horror clichés, with apparitions we’ve seen a thousand times and twists that fool no one. It must be said that the technical side is serviceable, and Rachael Taylor manages to preserve some dignity amid the mess. But even that can’t save a film that never finds its own rhythm, nor delivers any real sense of fear. The buildup is clumsy, tension barely exists, and the climax comes so late (and so poorly resolved) that by then, you've completely checked out. Shutter isn’t terrible. It simply adds nothing new. In a genre where audiences have seen it all, offering just recycled scares and a soulless story isn’t enough. It’s watchable, sure — but forgettable. And the worst thing that can happen to a horror film is to leave you indifferent.

The Acolyte is a series that, from the very first minute, shows it knows exactly what it wants to be: a story with its own soul within the Star Wars universe. Set a hundred years before the prequels, it opens up new territory where mystery, corruption, and the balance of the Force are at stake. The result, while not perfect, is surprisingly solid: strong world-building, well-defined characters, and a pace that keeps you engaged from start to finish. It’s easy to binge. Beyond the plot, what has stirred the most — and not exactly positive — noise is its inclusive approach. Female leads, ethnic diversity, a different sensibility... and that has infuriated a certain reactionary sector of the fandom. The same people who cry out for “canon consistency” and accuse the show of being “woke” just for featuring women with agency or non-white Jedi. Ironically, they demand respect for a saga that has always stood against fascism, oppression, and fear of difference. No, The Acolyte isn’t perfect. Some storylines need more development and there are scenes that feel a bit conventional. But it has something many franchise shows have lost: the desire to explore without constantly relying on fan service. There are echoes of Andor in its mature tone, but without the same political weight; the action is well choreographed, there are lightsabers and exotic creatures, but also room for internal conflict and moral ambiguity. Its greatest strength is the atmosphere: dark without being cynical, with impeccable production design and a score that elegantly supports every twist. Amandla Stenberg plays a complex protagonist, full of scars and contradictions, who isn’t there to please but to ask difficult questions. In short, someone with far more soul than many of the recent cookie-cutter heroes. The Acolyte won’t be for everyone. And that’s okay. Because if Star Wars needs anything, it’s to take more risks, to rattle those who want everything to stay the same, and to give voice to new stories. This series does just that. Flawed, yes — but brave.

It’s been years since we last saw Matt Murdock on the small screen, but Daredevil: Born Again proves he never truly left. This new chapter of the Hell’s Kitchen vigilante is harsh, raw, and at times, hopeless. And that’s precisely why it works. It doesn’t aim to be comforting or easy to watch — its goal is to remind us that the real world is rarely fair, and corruption is usually one step ahead of ideals. The series succeeds at that. Charlie Cox returns more restrained and broken, portraying a Murdock at war with both his faith and rage. But it’s Vincent D’Onofrio who continues to steal every scene — his Kingpin is already a legendary villain. You can’t help but hope everything goes wrong for him from minute one. The script leans into this, showing how power infiltrates everything, from politics to the courts. At times, the injustice is so overwhelming that it’s hard not to cry at certain decisions or betrayals. That emotional punch is the show’s real strength. Visually, it keeps the gritty, grounded aesthetic that made the original great. The action scenes are solid, though not flashy, and the pacing remains steady with few dips. The tone is darker, more mature, more political. There’s blood, pain — but also truth. And in a universe where so many series get lost in spectacle, that’s refreshing. Born Again won’t please everyone. Some will miss a more heroic tone or want more punches per minute. But this story is about something else: resilience, falling down and rising again, fighting even when you know the system is rigged against you. It’s not just about winning — it’s about enduring. Marvel has finally delivered something that doesn’t feel factory-made. And that, in itself, is a victory.

At this point, there’s no doubt that Jessica Jones was a rare outlier in Marvel’s TV universe. More than a superhero series, what it offers is a psychological thriller tinted with noir, led by a tormented, cynical protagonist who stands out as much for her emotional honesty as for her refusal to follow genre conventions. Since the very first season, the show has had its own tone: harsh, melancholic, deeply human. Jessica isn’t trying to save the world—she’s trying to survive herself and the ghosts that haunt her. As the seasons go on, this inner fight becomes more real, more painful, more nuanced. And the level of truth that emerges from that conflict is what makes the show feel raw and intimate. Krysten Ritter steps into the role with natural ease. Her sarcasm, her fragility masked by sharp wit, and her way of showing pain with just a glance are unforgettable. All of Jessica's contradictions—someone complex, uncomfortable, impossible to ignore—come through in a performance that anchors the whole series and gives it emotional weight from the first episode to the last. The rest of the cast brings in equally interesting layers. Trish Walker, her best friend, and Malcolm, her assistant, are much more than secondary characters—they’re mirrors of what Jessica could be or might lose. And Jeri Hogarth, played with elegance and venom by Carrie-Anne Moss, is one of the show’s strongest additions. Narratively, Jessica Jones takes its time. It’s in no rush to build its atmosphere. It lets us live in its back alleys, in whispered conversations full of tension. Sometimes it seems slow, yes—but that same slowness is part of what makes the drama so effective. No script is perfect, and there are plotlines that could’ve been better resolved or characters that fade with time. But even in its more irregular seasons, the show never loses sight of its emotional core. And what a core it is. Dark, adult, introspective. Here we find themes of trauma, addiction, toxic relationships, consent and guilt portrayed with maturity. Some arcs may be subtle, but they hit hard because they are rooted in emotional truth. This isn’t a show about epic battles—it’s about living with what’s inside, about carrying your pain and moving forward anyway. And that’s what makes Jessica such a powerful figure in this fractured Marvel world. It’s a shame that Marvel and Netflix didn’t continue with it. Jessica Jones deserves a much wider space within the MCU, and her absence is notable. Hopefully Disney will recover her, along with the rest of the Defenders. Because in the dark corners of the Marvel universe, this is a rare example of how to tell a truly adult, meaningful, and unforgettable story.

Luke Cage is a show with personality, rhythm, charisma… and some contradictions. It’s not just another superhero story, and that’s part of its charm. From the first episode, it makes clear it wants to talk about power, identity, community. It does so from Harlem, proudly African-American, with a soundtrack that pulses with the story, and a protagonist who commands attention without raising his voice. Mike Colter fully inhabits the role of Cage, with an imposing presence. He doesn’t need to do much to feel powerful. But that’s also one of the series’ oddities: when you’ve got a character who can break down walls with one hand, it’s hard to believe some villains last so long or that some fights feel too balanced. Sometimes the script seems to stretch reality just to keep up tension, even if it means ignoring what Cage can actually do. Still, Luke Cage works because of much more than punches. The best parts are the conversations, the personal conflicts, the mix of noir, blaxploitation and street-level drama that makes it feel like no other Marvel-Netflix entry. There are episodes where you forget it’s about superheroes—and that’s not a flaw. In fact, that’s when it shines. It also improves over time. Season two fixes early mistakes, digs deeper into relationships and dares to go in less predictable directions. It’s not perfect—there are pacing issues and underused characters—but it knows what it wants to be, and tells its story with style. Another highlight is Harlem itself, almost a character on its own. The atmosphere, the culture, the music… it all builds a world with real identity. Probably the most coherent world-building in the Marvel-Netflix universe. Not all villains live up to the challenge, it’s true. Sometimes you wonder why someone with Cage’s strength has to struggle so much. But if you go along with the ride, it all works. Luke Cage may not be Marvel’s most flawless series, but it has something that sticks. It’s entertaining, yes—but it also wants to matter. And in many ways, it does.