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THE DEATH WISH COLLECTION occupies a strange, often uncomfortable corner of American genre history. It’s a franchise born out of cultural anxiety, one that slowly mutates into something far less reflective and far more reactionary as it goes. Watching all five films together isn’t just a matter of tracking Paul Kersey’s escalating body count; it’s watching the moral center erode in real time, film by film, until vengeance becomes its own self-justifying logic.

HIS PRINCESS FROM NOWHERE is a series that understands exactly how intriguing its own existence is. It knows it’s operating inside a format most people dismiss for anything more than doomscrolling. It knows the assumptions inherent in the vertical video format. And instead of fighting those assumptions or pretending they don’t exist, it quietly reshapes them into part of the experience. This isn’t trying to trick you into forgetting you’re watching something made for a phone. It’s inviting you to feel why that confinement matters.

Some shows make an impact by being cynical, or relentlessly bleak, and then there are shows like TED LASSO — the rare production that chooses warmth and humor without sacrificing sincerity. Revisiting the entire series in this 4K collection highlights just how carefully the show builds its emotion. The upgrade is welcome, but it’s the writing, performances, and character arcs that make this package worth owning. The story still stands firmly at the center.

COVER-UP positions investigative journalism not as a profession, but as a long-term act of resistance. Directed by Laura Poitras and Mark Obenhaus, the documentary traces the career of Seymour Hersh with a focus that is both methodical and urgent, presenting his work as a sustained challenge to institutional power rather than a series of isolated scoops. From the outset, the film makes it clear that this is not a conventional biographical overview. It is an examination of process, persistence, and the personal cost of telling stories that powerful institutions would prefer to bury. No matter your thoughts on the film, it’s somehow more timely than it was in Hersh’s prime; the parallels to today's stories are crystal clear.

Bang Bus doesn’t need an introduction, and this scene knows exactly why. The setup sticks to the formula that made the site iconic: a woman waiting on the street, a little bad luck, a little cash, and the kind of opportunity that turns casual conversation into something dirty, messy, and fast. Kay Rhea is the kind of performer who understands the assignment immediately. She’s relaxed, talkative, and playful, leaning into the interview with a smile that suggests she already knows where this is heading.

AMMA’S PRIDE presents a rare kind of love story: a mother who meets her daughter’s truth with tenderness instead of hesitation. The film opens with an intimacy that might disarm viewers expecting a louder, angrier documentary about trans rights. Instead, it finds strength in conviction. There is no sermonizing and no slow march from hardship to triumph in the typical documentary mold. What emerges is something more grounded: a portrait of a family that never broke, even when tradition and state policy tried to break them.

KUMAIL NANJIANI: NIGHT THOUGHTS feels less like a victory lap and more like a check-in. After nearly a decade away from the stand-up stage, Nanjiani returns not with a reinvention or a carefully manufactured “comeback” but with something more reflective. The decision to return to Chicago, where his stand-up career first began, gives the special an understated emotional grounding that informs everything that follows. There’s something heartwarming about the full circle and the appreciation that Nanjiani shows for the reality he lives in.

INSIDE, THE VALLEY SINGS is one of those films that quietly settles into your head and refuses to leave. At just fifteen minutes, it doesn’t waste time trying to shock or provoke through sensation or description. Instead, it builds something far more unsettling: an intimate, sustained portrait of what prolonged solitary confinement does to the human mind, and how imagination becomes both refuge and lifeline when all physical connection has been stripped away.

FREYR offers a twist with something that would be absurd in another film: a hand growing from a man’s chest. The image is impossible to process without curiosity. What would a life look like with a body so visibly different that strangers never learn to see anything else? Instead of treating the condition as a metaphor, the film places it within a funeral, where a coworker tries to make sense of the friendship that formed around that difference. By starting after Freyr is gone, the film collapses time. Everything we learn about him arrives through memory, grief, and the gratitude that comes from being truly seen by one person in a world that never learned how to look.

SCHRÖDINGER’S TOY isn’t just an exploration of quantum theory with two stunning product reviewers—it’s ten minutes of pure sapphic fun that wraps science, curiosity, and pleasure into a tight and unapologetically strange short. Evie Rees arrives home to find Cherry Tart, and she brings a mysterious new toy to test. What follows is less about figuring out how it works and more about finding out what it makes them feel, while trying to understand the why.

THE BOY WITH WHITE SKIN delivers into a sense of purpose that is immediate and unforced, grounding its story in the kind of reality that is rarely shown with this level of clarity. What unfolds is a portrait of a child whose presence is treated as both a gift and a burden, someone caught within a belief system older than he is, shaped by adults who view him as more of a symbol than an individual. Writer/director Simon Panay’s work is built on over a decade of on-the-ground immersion, and the depth of that commitment is evident from the details woven throughout the film. Even without stating it outright, you feel the years of observation behind every gesture, every glance, every unspoken rule that governs the mining community.

Something is compelling about watching two men cross each other with equal parts suspicion and longing for connection, and MY NEIGHBOR ADOLF leans into that with surprising tenderness. What begins as a clash between strangers slowly reveals itself as a story about the emotional weight people carry long after the world believes they should have healed. This film thrives not because of its mystery, but because of how it reframes paranoia, grief, and the possibility of companionship in the unlikeliest landscape.

MUSHROOM DAD offers up a unique experience as a short film that suggests a feature-length understanding of character, tone, and emotional timing. Michael Yuchen Lei’s story unfolds over the course of a single life-changing evening, set against the chaos of a restaurant opening, with something far more focused at its center. Julian, a young chef hoping to define himself through his craft, is confronted by the father he keeps at arm’s length. Their strained relationship is immediately evident in how they occupy the same space—Julian’s control clashing with his father’s dissolution, each trying to mask the emotional toll beneath their interactions. The film wastes no time establishing a sense of frayed connection. When the accident sends everything spiraling, it becomes clear that the chaos simply forces into the open what both men have been burying.

Some pandemic stories flood the screen with chaos because it makes the fear easier to process. NO MORE TIME goes in the opposite direction — it drains the world until there’s barely anything left. The setting of empty cabins in the mountains, half-finished sentences on the radio, and two people trying to hold onto themselves even as the world outside forces everyone into a state of survival that looks more feral than human. It’s a pandemic movie, but it isn’t recreating headlines. It’s more interested in the slow deterioration of trust when catastrophe becomes normal.

There’s a rule that most horror films embrace without question: fear is loud. Doors slam, footsteps echo, voices distort, and the score claws its way into the viewer like a physical force. HAUNTERS OF THE SILENCE rejects that approach. Its opening passages establish a different kind of dread — one built on stillness, interrupted breaths, and the quiet weight of unresolved memory. Rather than giving in to fear, it studies it, letting isolation become as threatening as any creature or loud jump scare. I want to start with clarity: this film wasn’t for me, but some will absolutely love it.