Bye, Netflix: Blurbing FTW 3/21/25

I cancelled Netflix! There were a couple reasons for it, including their denial of shared passwords and my desire to have fewer subscriptions. Where Disney and Max have their connections to Hollywood legacy, Netflix’s library titles are inherently borrowed or modern. It’s such a self-contained ecosystem that I could just wait until it’s accrued enough new and interesting series and films to merit binging for a month. I don’t, however, share the hysterical ire of many film critics, who must not bother to adjust their algorithms by liking or disliking titles, regularly losing their shit over the obvious schmaltz and faux-blockbuster mediocrity, ignoring more esoteric, better pedigreed efforts and the remarkable amount of foreign releases. I do think I’ll be back every so often, and not particularly disappointed. Plus, I’ll want to revisit some favorites.

Whenever I renew, the odds are very good I’ll rewatch Black Summer yet again. I’m very close to declaring it my favorite TV show of all time, with the caveat that it’s almost not a “TV show.” It is a TV show, of course, with discrete seasons and episodes. But within those episodes (which can range from 20 to 60 minutes long) are chapters, time-jumps and a breathtaking degree of cinematic filmmaking. I can’t think of a show that’s better utilized the format of streaming television to create something too unwieldy for ad-based programming or theatrical release. The format of this show (which is about zombies) is extremely novelistic, while the content itself consists of nerve-wracking long shots and tense violence, both conversational and physical. I won’t pretend it’s any more profound than your standard survival story, and if you’re sick of zombies, you’re sick of zombies. A show that lives in varying but consistent states of anxiety, where someone accepts they need to pass out on top of a school bus, to the sound of the undead snarling just feet beneath them, is not for everybody. But if it’s for you…and it is for me…I’ve never seen better.

Along with the lack of access to Black Summer, I’ll also miss downing a quick episode or eight of Tim Robinson’s chaotic cringe. Mike Flanagan never topped his first Netflix show, The Haunting Of Hill House, which is basically Six Feet Under if the dead really were talking to the Fishers. But his later limited series aren’t without their spooky, sentimental charms (I really wish I’d gotten to give The Midnight Club another watch). I think Documentary Now! is also on AMC+, which I'll probably explore first before coming back. But wherever you can see it, it's worth it.

I already wrote a whole piece about Charlie Kaufman’s I'm Thinking Of Ending Things, but I need to acknowledge this Netflix movie has achieved the rank of POPCORN CLASSIC. At its center is a delirious horror comedy about the fear of marrying into a family, bracketed by sequences of Jessie Buckley reading poetry and Pauline Kael reviews without citation while Jesse Plemons drives her around in the snow. The coda unfortunately decides that, yes, it’s ok Kaufman thinks the world revolves around the anguish of a nebbish. But for most of the film, he’s never done a better job of suggesting it might not.

It’s not on Netflix, but I want to acknowledge that Oz Perkins' Longlegs, the first movie to get me in theaters in years, has set a record for achieving the rank of POPCORN CLASSIC, earning its mandatory second viewing for the nod the day it appeared on Hulu. All the critiques in my review remain valid, but you don’t need perfection to be a popcorn classic. You need a vibe. And Maika Monroe doing a pre-weathered Clarice Starling as Nicolas Cage does Hannibal Lecter as a glam banshee, while Perkins figures out how many novel angles he can film a dimly lit room from? That's a vibe, rendering the arbitrary obtuseness of Satan’s manipulations neither here nor there.

Netflix does have Perkins’ I Am The Pretty Thing That Lives In The House, in which Ruth Wilson and Paula Prentiss, respectively playing an in-home hospice nurse and dying horror novelist, slowly recite narration and endure ghost encounters during the weeks between check-ins from friendly vulture Bob Balaban. Does Perkins have fun with angles and shadows? You betcha. Even does some crazy shit with slow motion. I Am The Pretty Thing is also a vibe and also a POPCORN CLASSIC.

I finally watched Glass Onion: A Knives Out Mystery before skeedaddling from the service, and it was fun! I haven’t seen the first since the theater, but the politics were a little less cutesy this time out, or maybe Janelle Monae was less grating an angel for Daniel Craig’s Benoit Blanc to defend than Ana De Armas. I wondered why this movie was so fucking expensive when it dropped, but they really did create a marvel of a tech bro fantasy island, gaudy but undeniably impressive. Edward Norton predictably does great smarm driving the plot; he’s like Gene Hackman’s weedy, self-impressed son in this mode, delivering a similar thespian confidence with a little less gravitas. Dave Bautista and Kathryn Hahn show their familiar charm, and Kate Hudson tastefully shows her lack. I didn’t even recognize Leslie Odom Jr, as his character didn’t seem like someone with a Christmas album. Jessica Henwick, as I learned from Iron Fist, can get it anytime she wants it. I’m not sure that whimsical mysteries are the best use of Rian Johnson’s filmmaking gifts, but they’re far more modern, mature and reputable than the thumbsucking nostalgia of recent Tarantino and Edgar Wright. FIVE BAGS OF POPCORN.

And now, some blurbs about movies recently on Netflix, but not betrothed to the app.

A Walk Among The Tombstones looked like Yet Another Liam Neeson Thriller when released, but I correctly gathered recently that it’s a solid gateway into enjoying Yet Another Liam Neeson Thriller. This mystery, with an ex-cop PI deducing which drug smugglers are worms and which ones are psychos, is based on a novel, and felt like it in a good way. Neeson’s Matt Scudder is haunted by demons but far enough into therapy and AA to have a sense of humor about it. With Taken behind him and The Naked Gun remake coming (which he’ll crush based on previous stern comedy cameos), I’m glad to know Neeson’s more than capable of playing wry, rather than just varying degrees of deadpan sincerity. The supporting cast is fine, though Dan Stevens once again shows he’s nothing without material, and David Harbour honestly has too much fun as one of those murderers who loves to talk on the phone. Between this and knowing he used Raya behind Lily Allen’s back…I don’t know about that guy. FIVE BAGS OF POPCORN.

I’m surprised I don’t have a blurb tucked away somewhere on this site for Ex Machina, but it might just be that I’ve brought it up so often in regards to other Alex Garland movies. It’s easily my favorite of his directorial efforts, Dredd not technically qualifying in the category. Domhnall Gleeson plays a lucky dweeb who gets to spend a week with Oscar Issac’s charismatically toxic fantasy of a techbro CEO, performing an erotically charged Turing test on an AI Alicia Vikander. I feel strongly it’s worth remembering there aren’t actually female characters in this movie, but robots assigned female forms by their creator. To say Vikander is playing a woman is to say Isaac’s scientist can not just create life, but gender it. Recognizing this underscores that Ex Machina is largely about the desires men can have in regard to women, Isaac and Gleeson showing the commonalities and differences between self-certain alphas and more romantic betas. 

But, on this latest viewing, I also realized that - while the robots are robots - Vikander conveys the desperation of someone looking to escape abuse. The morality of how “Ava” seems to manipulate Gleeson’s Caleb is debatable, but stems purely from a desire to survive. There’s a not-dissimilar Twilight Zone episode where an astronaut played by Jack Warden soon forgets his robot companion isn’t “alive,” with an ending I find disturbing in its blunt revelation of how much we can project onto another, and how soon we can detach from someone once that illusion is lost. Ex Machina shifts the perspective just slightly, showing how the detachment can go both ways. POPCORN CLASSIC.

Ratings on reviews are dumb dumb dumb, and that’s never more clear than when I find myself compelled to explain the personal nuance of my numbers. For instance, a movie that is truly imperfect, with no chance of earning FIVE BAGS OF POPCORN, can still find itself a POPCORN CLASSIC as I accept its flaws and find enduring virtue. Even more flagrant an example than I’m Thinking Of Ending Things is The Menu, which I didn’t expect to watch twice. But after my recent viewing of In Bruges, I wanted to enjoy more of Ralph Fiennes displaying a warped, violent morality while trying to maintain rigid composure - the dark side of his Constant Gardener. So while the last third of The Menu remains a slog (imagine if the police had truly interrupted, revealing Fiennes’ showman chef had a Plan B to send off satisfied, rather than dead, customers?), and the climactic demand for a hamburger is smarter than what follows, the ensemble of cultish cooks and hapless bourgeoisie are pretty damn terrific, particularly Nicholas Hoult’s demented fanboy and John Leguizamo’s fading star. And through it all is Ralph Fiennes, always looking like he smells dogshit, with it finally breaking his brain. Plus, lots of foodie jokes! POPCORN CLASSIC.

If you don't get why I keep bolding the word popcorn, it's explained here. Any other questions or comments can go to anthonyisright at gmail dot com.