There’s something about The Punisher that hits a nerve most Marvel shows don’t even get close to. No powers, no suits, no cosmic games. Just rage. Pain. And a thirst for justice — or revenge, depending on your perspective — that taps into that dark part of you that sometimes wishes you could do what Frank Castle does, without thinking about the consequences. Because yes, sometimes the punishment should be just as brutal as the crime. Jon Bernthal doesn’t play Frank Castle — he becomes him. His silences are heavy, his stare says more than pages of dialogue, and his anger is disturbingly real. From the very first episode, you know this isn’t a hero. It’s a broken man choosing to break everything else around him. Is it admirable? Not always. Is it understandable? Absolutely. And that’s where the series hooks you. Unlike other Marvel Netflix entries, this one doesn’t need Daredevil or Jessica Jones to hold it up. The Punisher stands on its own — slower, yes, but more deliberate. Some episodes could be tighter. And the second season does get tangled at times. But there’s emotional depth here: guilt, trauma, personal justice. And above all, consequences. What’s impressive is that amidst all the blood and bullets, there’s still room to talk about what happens after the war — the abandonment of veterans, invisible pain, violence that breeds more violence. Sometimes the message gets drowned out by the gunfire, but the intention is clear. This is more than just an action show. It’s a story about internal wounds. It won’t be for everyone. Some will find it too much, too grim, too repetitive. But for those who connect with its brutal honesty, The Punisher is more than entertainment. It’s uncomfortable, but cathartic. And make no mistake: without Jon Bernthal, this wouldn’t hit nearly as hard. Because The Punisher doesn’t ask whether Frank Castle is right. It asks if you, watching, would do the same. And even if the answer is no… sometimes, deep down, you wish someone like him existed. And that’s the disturbing part. And the fascinating one.

Iron Fist isn’t a perfect series —and it doesn’t pretend to be. But it’s also far from the disaster many claimed it was. With its ups and downs, it’s an entertaining show that expands the more spiritual and martial corner of Marvel’s Netflix universe and keeps you hooked enough to want to see how it ends. The biggest issue isn’t the protagonist or the fight choreography (though they could have been better), but rather the wave of bias it’s carried since before anyone even watched the first episode. Danny Rand is a tough character. The story of a lost heir returning as a warrior monk with superpowers isn’t immediately gripping unless you connect with him early on. Finn Jones does what he can with the material he’s given. He doesn’t always shine, but in some moments, he manages to convey the inner conflict between his mystical training and the harsh reality he comes back to. Still, the heart of the show isn’t really in him —it’s in Colleen Wing. Jessica Henwick’s Colleen is Iron Fist’s real strength —in every sense of the word. Her presence, charisma, and character arc elevate the entire series. Every time she’s on screen, things get more intense, more grounded. It’s no surprise that many fans wanted her to carry the Iron Fist mantle —she truly earns it. Season one struggles with pacing, dragging certain plots and falling short with some villains. But when it works, it works well. And season two is a clear step up: tighter, more focused, and finally digging into Danny’s inner motivations. The fight scenes also improve —still not on Daredevil’s level, but better executed and more coherent. One thing Iron Fist deserves credit for is its attempt to offer a different tone from the rest of The Defenders. It’s not as street-level as Luke Cage, nor as psychologically dark as Jessica Jones. This one leans into mysticism and identity, and while it doesn’t always hit the mark, it dares to be different —and that’s refreshing in a universe that often reuses the same formulas. Yes, its execution can be flawed. And yes, it sometimes feels like a missed opportunity. But when you put aside comparisons and backlash, what’s left is a watchable show with compelling moments —and a standout supporting character who deserves her own spotlight. Iron Fist may not be the crown jewel of Marvel’s TV slate, but it certainly doesn’t deserve the hate. In a sea of cookie-cutter superhero series, at least this one tried to be something else.

Daredevil was, from the start, one of Marvel and Netflix’s boldest moves, and with each season it hasn’t just kept the bar high — it has raised it. Dark, elegant, and brutal, this series achieves something few in the genre can: it has soul. The first season hit hard, the second dared to complicate things with Punisher and Elektra, but it’s in the third where it truly shines. The return of Wilson Fisk — the imposing Kingpin — turns every episode into a tense, captivating chess match. Charlie Cox remains the perfect Daredevil. He gives the character just the right mix of pain, determination, and belief in justice. But a big part of the credit goes to Vincent D’Onofrio. His Kingpin is a restrained beast, a villain who doesn’t need to raise his voice to be terrifying, and whose mere gaze is enough to chill your blood. From the first moment, you hope something finally stops him. That’s not done with special effects — that’s pure talent. Narratively, the show recovers that introspective, almost spiritual tone that made the first season so special. It’s not all about action (though the fight scenes, as always, are choreographed with enviable precision and rawness); it’s also about doubt, downfall, and moral dilemmas. Matt Murdock’s inner conflict runs deeper than ever, and that enriches everything around it. This third season also introduces new characters who genuinely add to the story. The plot flows without distractions or the kind of filler that often bogs down other superhero series. Everything moves toward a clear destination — and that’s refreshing. It may not be a perfect show, but it knows exactly what it wants to say and how to say it. It’s mature, bold, and refuses to stick to the formula. It’s undoubtedly one of the best Marvel adaptations on TV — not just entertaining, but unforgettable.

Sometimes it happens: you watch the trailer, read what it's about, the music hits... and you just know that movie is going to stay with you forever. That’s what happened to me with Event Horizon, one of those experiences that leave a mark. Horror, science fiction, a suffocating atmosphere, and a soundtrack that still gives me chills. I saw it in the summer of '98 and since then, it’s been fixed in my top 5 favorite films of all time. The premise was already powerful: a ship that reappears years after going missing in a remote point of space... and it's brought something back. What seemed like a rescue mission quickly turns into a space nightmare where logic crumbles and horror seeps in little by little. It doesn't rely on gooey monsters or cheap jump scares — here, the fear is more psychological, more suffocating, darker. Sure, the final stretch may be a bit more flashy, and some narrative decisions might not age perfectly. But I don’t care. Because few films have achieved that addictive mix of science fiction and pure horror — that descent into mental hell with an unforgettable techno-gothic aesthetic. The images stay with you, the screams too, and the unease... even more so. What Event Horizon accomplishes —despite its detractors— is to create its own universe, one where plausibility doesn’t matter as much as what it makes you feel. And for me, that’s worth more than a thousand special effects. A truly cursed gem.

Five Days promised much more than it ultimately delivers. The idea of telling the story through five key days had potential, and its setup as a crime drama seemed solid. But in the end, the result falls somewhere between emotional thriller and ensemble portrait, without fully succeeding in either direction. The main issue is that it's hard to connect with the characters. Despite good performances from actors like Penelope Wilton and Hugh Bonneville, their conflicts feel underdeveloped, and the emotional weight the show tries to convey never really lands. The story moves forward, yes, but without generating the tension or empathy that a series like this needs to hold the viewer. At times, it seems to want to be more of a reflection on grief and public judgment than a proper mystery—which wouldn't be a problem if the main plot didn’t wrap up so abruptly and artificially. The final episode in particular feels rushed and forced, as if the writers opted for an easy ending instead of something more coherent or impactful. There are a few good moments, but it never really takes off. Honestly, I expected more from a BBC miniseries presented as one of its flagship dramas. In the end, Five Days feels more like a missed opportunity than a series that will leave a mark.