McLean‘s Hometown News Site

Someone inside this abbey is terrified of laughter. That fear ultimately reveals as much about the killings as any footprint, manuscript, or fingertip discovered by William of Baskerville. THE NAME OF THE ROSE presents itself as a medieval murder mystery. Jean-Jacques Annaud is just as interested in what happens when powerful men decide that curiosity itself poses a threat.

Richard doesn’t need to raise his voice to take control of a room. A stare, a slight shift in posture, or the hint of amusement crossing his face is enough to make another man realize that he has misjudged the situation. Paddy Considine creates fear through restraint in DEAD MAN’S SHOES, playing a former soldier whose calm isn’t evidence of discipline so much as a warning that every decision has already been made.

Warner Bros. built its reputation on gangsters, down-on-their-luck workers, crowded city streets, and “the tough guy” who knew how to throw a punch. Dropping that studio’s contract players into Shakespeare’s enchanted forest sounds almost like an act of mischief or like someone lost a bet. The surprise is that A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM doesn’t merely survive the collision. At its best, the clash between rough-edged Hollywood personalities and Max Reinhardt’s elaborate theatrical imagination gives the movie a character that a more traditionally cast adaptation would have likely never found.

The third season gave Ted Lasso an ending everyone deserved. Ted returned to his son, Richmond continued without him, and nearly every major character stepped toward a future that no longer required the series to follow along. Bringing everyone back three years later could have exposed the conclusion as a temporary pause inserted before Apple backed another truck of money onto the pitch. The first four episodes of Season 4 understand that concern, and the best decision they make is refusing to pretend it doesn’t exist. Jason Sudeikis thought TED LASSO was done after season three, and it wasn’t until he knew more stories needed to be told.

The stereo in OLMO is far too heavy for what it promises. To fourteen-year-old Olmo, it’s a possible ticket into the party being held by Nina, the neighbor who occupies most of his daydreams. It also belongs to his father, a bedridden man whose illness has reorganized the entire family’s existence. Before Olmo can carry the music across the street, he has to confront everything waiting for him inside his own home. It’s such an intriguing premise, because there are so many lessons to be learned in the relatively simple story.

Imagine you’re back in school, the lights go down in the classroom, and adulthood briefly stops pretending it can protect anyone. A projector begins that familiar sound behind rows of teenagers who were probably expecting another lesson about turn signals, road signs, and stopping distances. Instead, the screen fills with crushed automobiles, shattered glass, bloodied faces, severed limbs, and bodies bent into positions no living person could survive. For generations of American students, this was all part of driver’s education.

People in BORDERLINE keep confusing visible disorder with the truth about who caused it. Violence breaks out, then television cameras arrive, officials try to respond, and frightened citizens are left to supply their own explanations. By the time anyone begins questioning the pattern, the public reaction has already become more impactful than the facts.

The least frightening thing about the Ice Cream Man is how he looks. Ari Millen’s vendor arrives in Bayleen Bay wearing his uniform, a narrow mustache, and the welcoming smile of someone trusted to park beside playgrounds. Nothing about him screams out panic. He simply waits for the children to approach, hands them something sweet, and watches them walk away with the satisfaction of a man convinced he has made their day better. The horror begins after they finish eating.

FUTURAMA no longer has to prove that it can return from cancellation. At this point, resurrection has become part of its production cycle. The harder question is whether another season can justify diving deeper into Fry, Leela, Bender, and the Planet Express crew after they’ve already received several perfectly good endings. Across the first six episodes of Season 14, the answer is an encouraging yes.

Peco walks into every room as though the applause has just been delayed, not denied. He boasts about becoming the greatest table-tennis player in the world, hustles weaker opponents for money, and treats practice as something reserved for people with less natural ability. His confidence would be insufferable if Yōsuke Kubozuka didn’t make it so entertaining. Peco isn’t merely convinced that he’s a hero. He has built his entire identity around the assumption that everyone else will eventually recognize it.

A wagon filled with cookies may look like a symbol of childhood initiative, but director Alysa Nahmias understands how quickly a sales goal can turn excitement into pressure. COOKIE QUEENS spends a Girl Scout Cookie season following four girls whose ambitions range from modest to staggering, revealing a tradition where confidence, family pride, community, competition, and commerce are packed together as tightly as the cases of cookies filling their homes.

Before the killer rises from the lake, the merchandise has already built a mythology around the corpse. VHS boxes, action figures, board games, posters, sequels, and increasingly desperate attempts to keep the Camp Miasma name alive pass before us as evidence of a franchise that has been exploited far beyond its natural lifespan. Writer/director Jane Schoenbrun understands that horror fans don’t merely remember movies. We remember how they were packaged, where we found them, what the cover promised, and the private meanings we attached to something dismissed by everyone else as disposable.

The alien spacecraft in HYPERSPACE was reportedly a six-by-five-foot miniature that weighed roughly 600 pounds and cost only $650 to build in the early 1980s. That improbable combination of thrift and nerve may be the most accurate possible description of the movie surrounding it. Todd Durham’s science-fiction comedy carries the ambition of something colossal while being held together by whatever money, materials, locations, and willing participants happened to be available in Shelby, North Carolina.

A missing cat receives more attention than the collapse of civilization. That imbalance makes perfect sense in PORTRAITS OF THE APOCALYPSE, where people remain preoccupied with private lives, family struggles, and unresolved grief even after the dead begin walking through Buenos Aires. The world may be ending, but someone still wants to finish an argument, conceal an error, or get a few hours of sleep.

Hearing loss can make someone responsible for solving communication problems that everyone else helped create. A missed word becomes their mistake. A conversation held over background noise becomes their failure to keep up. Asking someone to repeat themselves risks annoyance, while pretending to understand can leave them isolated inside a room full of people. HEARD examines that calculation through individuals who’ve spent much of their lives adjusting themselves to environments that rarely consider meeting them in the middle.