Frankenstein vs. Frankenstein/Bride of Frankenstein

Mary Shelley wrote a story about responsibility, creation, and moral courage, yet most people picture electrodes, thunder, and a lumbering giant who fears fire. That gap is the heart of our conversation: how Frankenstein the novel and Universal’s 1930s Frankenstein and Bride of Frankenstein travel the same road with wildly different maps. The book keeps the method of animation vague to prevent imitation and center ethics, while the films revel in lightning and laboratory theater. That shift moves the question from Should we create life? to Can we control what we’ve made? The result is a cultural memory anchored in imagery, not inquiry, and it changes how we judge Victor and his creation.

The creature himself shows the starkest divide. On the page, he is articulate, fast, observant, and aching for kinship; his long monologues reveal a mind shaped by rejection and a will sharpened by pain. On screen, especially in the first film, he grunts, shuffles, and becomes a public menace rather than a calculating accuser. The blind man sequence survives in both versions, and it remains devastating: a brief proof that empathy could have saved everyone. But the films recast much of the violence as accident or impulse, draining the novel’s bitter logic of revenge. We discuss how that softens Victor’s guilt and recasts the creature as a tragic hazard instead of a moral mirror.

Adaptation lineage matters. Universal adapted not just Shelley but a popular stage play, adding theatrical beats such as lab bravura, mob set pieces, and a clearer villain arc. Bride of Frankenstein tries to nod toward the book’s request for a mate yet invents Dr. Pretorius, a puckish provocateur whose bottled homunculi and scheming tilt the story toward camp and away from responsibility. We dig into censorship’s odd footprint: blasphemy policed on the page more than on set, cleavage cut while sacrilege slips by in statues, and a shelved idea where the creature misreads the crucifix. These choices refract 1930s anxieties more than Shelley’s questions, adding texture but blurring intent.

Even small divergences carry weight. The films confine the story to a foggy village world instead of the novel’s Europe-wide chase, shrinking the moral horizon alongside the geography. The creature’s famous slow walk likely owes more to Karloff’s brutal costume (dozens of extra pounds and punishing takes) than to character design, yet that gait became canon. Name swaps (Victor to Henry, Henry to Victor) and continuity gaps between films show how franchise logic can trump literary coherence. We also challenge the pop myth of Frankenstein and his Bride as a romantic pair; she appears for minutes, recoils, and the supposed couple never exists. It’s a merchandising dream built on a narrative mirage.

Our closing takeaway: the films are superb horror cinema and poor adaptations. They gift us icons, moods, and a seasonal ritual; the novel gives us a scalpel for modern debates about creation, secrecy, and care. Read Shelley for the philosophy and the plea for responsibility. Watch James Whale's films for the gothic splendor and the image bank that shaped a century of monsters. Then hold both truths at once: culture needed the lightning, but our ethics still need the voice in the snow, asking to be seen and answered.

Notting Hill (1999)

 I had never seen this 1999 romantic comedy and I must say I quite enjoyed it. Hugh Grant bookstore owner William Thacker while Julia Roberts plays famous actress Anna Scott. They follow the classic romcom formula where they fall in love, fall out of love and reunite for a happy ending. The supporting cast are all whacky and fun and of course the romance is ridiculous, but you root for them to stay together no matter how insane the relationship is. Rhys Ifans as William's flatmate is an absolute riot.

I Heard You Paint Houses: Frank "The Irishman" Sheeran and Closing the Case on Jimmy Hoffa vs. The Irishman

https://www.buzzsprout.com/2310476/episodes/18627269

Frank Sheeran’s story sits at the uneasy border of confession and legend, and that tension fuels both Charles Brandt’s I Heard You Paint Houses and Martin Scorsese’s The Irishman. The book builds its case through five years of interviews, letting Sheeran narrate his path from World War II infantryman to union fixer and mob hitman. The film compresses that breadth into a three-hour sweep anchored by De Niro, Pacino, and Pesci, guided by a cool, mournful voiceover. Listeners who want the granular mechanics of mob work, union leverage, and political influence will find more in the pages; viewers seeking cinematic craft will get the distilled arc. The core question that lingers is less who pulled the trigger and more how guilt hardens into myth and shapes the stories we keep telling.

One of the book’s strengths is the raw detail of Sheeran’s early years. Brandt shows us a soldier who logged 411 days of combat in Italy, a staggering run that normalized violence and dulled the brakes most people feel. That wartime conditioning explains the later emotional flatness around “painting houses,” the mob code for murder. Back home, Sheeran slides into hustles, then into Russell Bufalino’s orbit, where favors become bonds and bonds become orders. The book keeps names, nicknames, and city politics intact, which makes it rich for researchers but taxing for casual readers. Still, those specifics illuminate how labor, the mob, and mid-century American power overlapped in practical, transactional ways that movies often skip.

Scorsese’s film chooses clarity and momentum over the full dossier. We meet Sheeran in the 1950s as a meat-truck driver skimming product, then follow his rise through small favors to felony trust. The Irishman trims childhood and war detail to focus on friendship and betrayal, especially the bond with Jimmy Hoffa. That choice tightens the emotional spine: if the book is about what Sheeran did, the film is about what it cost. The de-aging effects let one cast play decades, a gamble some viewers found uncanny. Others saw it as a tool that keeps performances continuous, emphasizing how time erodes swagger into regret. Either way, the technique supports a story concerned with memory’s edits and the price of loyalty.

Peggy, Sheeran’s daughter, becomes the film’s moral barometer. On the page, her estrangement sits in the background, filtered through Sheeran’s perspective and later family claims that complicate his version. On screen, Anna Paquin’s near-silent stare does the heavy lifting, telling us she knows, even if the world still calls Hoffa’s fate “alleged.” That choice reframes the crime as a family rupture more than a mob mystery. When Hoffa disappears, the quiet in Peggy’s gaze cuts louder than gunfire. It’s a reminder that violence travels: the blood doesn’t just stain a house; it seeps under doors, into rooms where children decide who their parents are.

Confession threads both works. Brandt positions himself as the listener whose tape recorder becomes a secular confessional, echoing his claim that humans are wired to unburden themselves. The film relocates that release to a nursing home priest, framing Sheeran’s late-life honesty as a search for absolution no institution can guarantee. The difference matters. Journalism seeks verification and context; the sacrament seeks contrition. Neither can restore what’s gone. That spiritual ambiguity suits a story where the “truth” is plausible, coherent, contested, and forever shadowed by missing bodies and fading witnesses. What we’re left with is a narrative that feels true because it explains the guilt we see etched into an old man’s face.

So which version serves the curious viewer best? If you want sweep, atmosphere, and a clean throughline, The Irishman earns its acclaim with impeccable craft and a somber tone that lingers. If you want depth, names, and the connective tissue of unions, politics, and organized crime, the book delivers a dense, sometimes overwhelming map. Both raise the same durable themes: loyalty’s double edge, how institutions protect and punish, and how memory edits our worst moments into something we can live with. The title debate captures the split. I Heard You Paint Houses seduces with code, a whispered threat; The Irishman simplifies the pitch for a broad audience. Either way, the story’s power lies in the chill that follows a simple question: who cleans the walls after the paint dries?

Top 10 Least Favorite Films of 2025

2025 asked a hard question of moviegoers: are we grading films on ambition, noise, or genuine storytelling craft? My countdown of last year’s least favorite theatrical releases isn’t about dunking for clicks; it’s about why certain movies failed to stick. Across franchise spin-offs, prestige darlings, and nostalgia remakes, a pattern emerges: films can shine in parts yet stumble on coherence, character logic, or cultural awareness. Hype and awards buzz don’t always mean resonance. When the first act of a lauded epic feels scattered or characters act against their beliefs, the audience senses the wobble. Engagement starts with trust, and trust begins with motivation that tracks.

The list’s middle makes a case for “fine” being the enemy of memorable. A slick first-date thriller entertains but evaporates on the walk to the parking lot. A new take on The Running Man hints at sharp political commentary yet never lands a decisive punch, raising more curiosity about the source era than the movie’s own voice. Snow White becomes a case study in culture war crossfire: miscasting debates, “woke” panic, and interview outrage overshadow a film whose main flaw is simpler... it’s just dull. Meanwhile, Wolf Man illustrates a classic horror sin: characters choosing “stupid” over “wrong,” puncturing tension faster than any silver bullet.

Action fatigue shows up in Ballerina, a spin-off that delivers choreography without consequence. The hit-counter keeps rising while stakes stay flat, proving how spectacle without story rarely lingers. The Phoenician Scheme, for all its crafted framing, reminds us that a signature aesthetic can’t substitute for emotional ignition; style needs a pulse. Five Nights at Freddy’s 2 caters to fans yet feels trapped by service over substance, with character choices that strain credibility and leave newcomers out in the cold. Fan love deserves more than Easter eggs. It deserves a story that breathes.

Sequels that pivot genres can thrive, but Megan 2.0 swerves without a compelling roadmap. Shifting away from horror could have unlocked a bold reinvention; instead, it fogs the franchise’s identity and saps tension. The biggest spark of debate arrives with The Roses, where toxic dynamics are played as comedy and reconciliation is treated as catharsis. Stories shape norms, even when exaggerated, and laughing at harm muddies the line between critique and glamorization. Remakes need translation for modern ethics; if the core is broken, a glossy update won’t fix it. Audiences aren’t asking for safe—they’re asking for honest, grounded, and worthy of their time.

The Idea of You (2024)

 

I have a soft spot for romantic movies. I don't mind the cheese fest, if it's sweet and corny I'm here for it.

The most important part of a romance film is, of course, the romance. "The Idea of You" has a believable romance in Anne Hathaway and Nicholas Galitzine.

"The Idea of You" is based on a book by the same name and brings a romance we don't usually see on screen. Solene (Hathaway) is a forty year old woman. She has a 16 soon to be 17 year old daughter Izzy (Ella Rubin). She's divorced and content in her singleness.

This all changes when Solene has to join her daughter at Coachella after Izzy's father cancels as the chaperone at the last minute. Here she meets pop superstar Hayes Campbell (Galitzine) and the two begin a whirlwind despite their age gap. 

 The plot is predictable. However, Hathaway and Galitzine play off each other well. Their chemistry is believable and it's fun to see a romance where an older woman is with a younger man.

The romance between Hayes and Solene is sweet from the start. The film does get hot and heavy (but not overly so) as it goes on and you can't help, but root for these two. The supporting cast balances the two leads well, though Solene's ex Dan (Reid Scott) is a little too smarmy.

I also have to give credit to the filmmakers. As I said, the film isn't overtly graphic with the scenes. You don't see any nudity, but the passion between the characters still jump off the scene. The use of movement, choreography and lighting bring the scenes to life without being gross.

This isn't my favorite romance film by any means. Still, it is really cool to have an older woman be viewed as desirable by a younger man and have her pleasure featured.

Of course, Anne Hathaway is incredibly beautiful and attractive and it's easy to still see her as someone who is desirable. Still, age gaps are controversial and this provides the main conflict of the film.

As a mother more than a forty year old, Solene is expected to behave like one. She should be doting completely on her daughter and satisfied doing that as opposed to engaging in a romantic relationship with a hot popstar. It's fun to see a woman go after what she wants.

So many romances try to manufacture the romance with hot and heavy scenes. Others lean into the love no matter how ridiculous the situations may be. "The Idea of You" does the latter. The belief that women should stop embracing their sexuality once they become mothers is a message that is everywhere. The part that is unbelievable though is that Anne Hathaway is anything other than a hot woman who could get any man she wants.

"The Idea of You" is streaming on Amazon. I am two years to late in watching it, but it was on a list of recommended Valentine's Day movies and I wanted to check it out.

It's predictable and there other romance films out there. That being said, if you want nothing but love, romance and sex between an older woman and a younger man then this is the perfect film to fill that niche. 

28 Years Later: The Bone Temple

 

I want to preface this by saying, I have not seen any of the other films in the franchise. I've seen a snippet of one of the original films, but that's it.

I don't know who of any of the characters are. That being said, I thought the film was entertaining. 

The Bone Temple explores something that I feel a lot of films and series have been exploring lately: humanity's evil. Humans suck and are inherently evil and Lord Jimmy Crystal (Jack O'Connell) is our example of this in The Bone Temple. The zombies are no longer the focus.

The film opens as Spike is made to become a Jimmy and join the cult. Jimmy Crystal believes he is the son of Satan and he and his Jimmies go around finding people to sacrifice. The infected do make an appearance, but they take a clear back seat to the cult and the evils they commit. This is just a reminder to me that I do not want to be alive if something like this ever happens.

 We also have the story of Dr. Ian Kelson (Ralph Fiennes) who befriends Samson (Chi Parry-Lewis), the alpha of the infected.  Fiennes is absolutely fantastic as he embraces the wild and wacky fully. Kelson begins discovering that there is a way to calm the virus and the psychosis that comes with it. Samson isn't cured by any means, but he can manage the symptoms and be almost as he was before.

As an introduction to the franchise, The Bone Temple was actually quite fun as it leaned into the absurdity of the situations. Yes, we are shown the evils of humanity, but there are reminders that life will always be absurd and that can bring joy in the most unexpected times. The beginning was gory and I don't handle gore well, but beyond that I was pleasantly surprised at the laughs and celebrations that came in this film. 

 

Books vs. Movies: You Were Never Really Here

Stories about violence against children test the limits of what art should show and what it should withhold. You Were Never Really Here exists at that tense edge. Jonathan Ames’ lean novella sketches a traumatized fixer named Joe who kills to rescue trafficked girls, then erases his footprints so completely that witnesses doubt he was ever there. Lynne Ramsay’s film translates that premise into a somber, fractured mood piece anchored by Joaquin Phoenix. Both works avoid graphic depiction while refusing to soften the harm, and the distance between those choices becomes the central question: does restraint protect us, or does it make us complicit in looking away? The result is a rare case where medium isn’t just a container for plot, but the message itself.

The book opens with a quiet, procedural rhythm. Joe’s paranoia feels earned: burner calls through a Queens bodega, surveillance of a brownstone that hides a “playground” floor, and a methodical entry that solves problems with a hammer. Ames gives us just enough texture to feel how this underground economy operates without glamor. The most harrowing beat arrives when Joe interrupts an assault mid‑act; it’s brief, but the implication lands harder than any blow. The novella also clarifies two key mysteries the film leaves oblique: why the girl counts under her breath and why the title matters. She counts to measure endurance; Joe makes sure he’s “never really here” by design. Those clues ground Joe’s ethos and make the sparse prose feel precise rather than thin.

Ramsay’s film narrows the lens to sensation and aftermath. Phoenix plays Joe as a man whose body carries every memory like shrapnel; the camera stays close to his breathing and hands, cutting away from the worst violence and showing the silence that follows. Some changes heighten discomfort, like aging the girl down and renaming her Nina, while others push the thriller into myth: a governor replaces a senator as the rot at the top, a confession arrives from a dying man, and the girl’s final act turns her from victim to agent. Most striking is the suicide sequence by the lake, where Joe nearly follows his mother into the water before the image of Nina pulls him back. The film withholds explanations about counting and title, trusting mood over exposition, which can feel poetic or opaque depending on your tolerance for ambiguity.

Power operates differently in each medium. The book builds a chain from local fixers to political ambition, indicting a system where a father sells his daughter to gain office, then hires a rescuer to quiet his guilt. The film points higher, suggesting clean‑suited evil that performs its own death and controls the news. Both grapple with complicity: the delivery man, the silent neighbors, the voters who never ask where money comes from. And both rely on New York geography not as postcard, but as infrastructure—brownstones with secrets, watery borders, highways to Albany—mapping how exploitation moves along real streets. These choices echo the ethics of depiction: show the machine, not the spectacle.

Endings define memory. Ames ends on a knife’s edge: Joe kills the architect of harm and drives toward Pennsylvania to recover the girl, and we’re left suspended between hope and dread. Ramsay offers a fragile counter‑image: a diner table, a shocked man, a girl who says she’s okay, and a future that might exist if they keep walking. Neither lets us forget the cost. For me, the book wins by a hair. Its clarity about motive, counting, and title deepens character and stakes, and its procedural spine keeps tension high without the drag some viewers feel in the film’s reveries. Yet the film’s restraint and Phoenix’s bruised presence linger, proving that sometimes looking away is a deliberate, unsettling artistic choice rather than a failure to confront.