Tim-9398

Sally is more than a documentary-it's a quiet, powerful reckoning with the complexities of being a public icon and a private individual. Directed by Cristina Costantini, the film peels back the layers of Dr. Sally Ride's life, showing us not just the astronaut who broke barriers, but the human being who navigated a world that often didn't make space for her whole self.

What struck me most was how gracefully the film balanced admiration with intimacy. Ride's historic journey into space is, of course, celebrated. But it's the deeply personal moments-her long-term relationship with Tam O'Shaughnessy, the burden of keeping her identity hidden-that linger long after the credits roll. The use of archival footage, voiceovers, and interviews creates a sense of closeness, as if we're finally hearing from Sally in her own words.

The film doesn't try to be a comprehensive biography. Instead, it chooses emotion over exposition, connection over chronology. That might leave some viewers wanting more about her scientific work, but for me, the choice felt intentional-and powerful. It's a film about what it costs to live authentically, and how sometimes, that cost is silence.

Sally is tender, haunting, and deeply necessary. In telling her story now-with honesty and care-it gives her the full humanity she was denied in life.

American Trash is a well-thought, well-crafted film that dives deep into themes of trauma, environmental collapse, and emotional redemption. With powerful direction and a searing performance by Robert LaSardo, the film takes viewers on a raw, intense, and ultimately rewarding journey. It's bold, emotional, and absolutely worth watching.

This is a film that explores trauma, chaos, love beyond boundaries, and those unexpected moments of clarity that arrive like lightning in a dark sky. Set against the backdrop of a crumbling urban landscape, the film captures the psychological weight of PTSD and the existential feeling of being trapped in a world collapsing under the weight of human disregard-for one another, and for the planet.

Here, urban chaos isn't just a setting-it's a consequence.

And in the middle of that collapse, Charles Manson emerges-not as the familiar, media-manufactured monster, but as an environmental prophet. He becomes a symbol of ignored warnings, a saint screaming into the void long before the rest of us noticed the rot. He's the voice beneath the noise, buried in the trash, pointing at the scorched earth and whispering: you did this.

At the heart of it all is Robert LaSardo, not just delivering a deeply-felt performance, but guiding the film's vision as director. His portrayal of Milles-a man weighed down by trauma, haunted by loss, and slowly unraveling-is fearless and uncompromising. But LaSardo never lets the narrative dissolve into despair. As Milles stumbles through the wreckage of his life, we begin to see glimmers of hope, of healing-of a quiet search for peace, and transcendence through love.

The supporting cast holds their own, bringing authenticity and emotional resonance that ground LaSardo's vision. Every performance feels lived-in, every glance weighted with unspoken history.

LaSardo doesn't offer an easy path-but he gives us an honest one. Milles' descent is painful to witness, but it's anchored in truth. And just when it seems there's no way out, the story turns, softly but powerfully. Through his connection with Melissa, Milles begins to find peace-not through escape, but through intimacy. It's unexpected, tender, and entirely earned.

That final stretch of the film-where love blooms amid the debris-lands with weight. It's not loud, but it hits hard. You cry-not because the film demands it, but because the emotion has been building in the silence, in the stillness between explosions. That rare moment of grace feels like oxygen after holding your breath.

American Trash is not just a film. It's a reckoning. It's a scream and a whisper. It's a reminder that even in a world falling apart, redemption is possible-if we dare to love.