Fredolow

Sure, Charlie Sheen might come across as a decent enough guy to sit down with for a chat - charismatic, witty, maybe even entertaining over a drink. But as an actor, I've never really rated him. This program isn't so much a documentary as it is a narcissistic self-portrait, a vanity project that paints Sheen as some tragic anti-hero rather than what he really is: an EPO baby born into privilege, riding on the coattails of Martin Sheen's legacy.

Strip away the Hollywood surname and the family safety net, and it's hard to imagine Charlie Sheen would've lasted long. Without the doors opened for him and the endless chances handed on a silver platter, he likely would've been another anonymous cautionary tale - someone who burned out on the streets years ago. The show leans into the mythology of "Charlie the wild man," but in reality it's just luck and opportunity squandered again and again, each downfall cushioned by wealth and connections.

What makes aka Charlie Sheen frustrating is that it mistakes indulgence for insight. Instead of confronting his failures with honesty, it glosses over them with swagger, spinning wreckage into entertainment. Yes, Sheen has a certain charm, and his chaotic history is undeniably watchable, but when the credits roll, you're left with the sense that this isn't a story of redemption or growth. It's the story of a man who kept throwing away chances most people could only dream of - and a reminder that privilege can excuse a lifetime of self-destruction when talent alone wouldn't have been enough.

Some movies are so perfectly tied to their original star that trying to recreate the magic is a doomed effort from the start. The Naked Gun is one of those films. Leslie Nielsen's deadpan delivery and effortless comic timing made the original a cult classic. Liam Neeson, while a talented actor in his own right, simply isn't Nielsen. He looks uncomfortable in the role, and his attempts at slapstick or straight-faced absurdity fall completely flat.

The humour doesn't fare any better. Most of the jokes feel like reheated leftovers, lazy nods to the original gags, but without any of the wit or timing that made them work. Instead of clever parody, what we get are clumsy imitations and half-hearted slapstick routines that feel more awkward than funny. It's not just that the jokes miss, it's that the entire tone feels off, as though the filmmakers fundamentally misunderstood what made the original work.

This is also a remake nobody asked for and nobody needed. The Naked Gun was lightning in a bottle, and dragging it back three decades later only serves to highlight how bankrupt Hollywood's creative pool has become. For over a decade, studios have leaned on sequels, reboots, and remakes, mistaking nostalgia for originality. The result here is a joyless, unnecessary retread that insults the memory of the original rather than celebrating it.

Ultimately, the new Naked Gun is a reminder of what happens when studios try to squeeze life out of a franchise long after its natural end. Neeson does his best, but he's miscast and misused. The script is weak, the humour lands with a thud, and the whole project feels like a cynical cash grab. Some classics should be left alone, and this was one of them.

There comes a point where suspension of disbelief snaps clean in two, and Mission: Impossible - The Final Reckoning smashes straight through it like a runaway train. What could have been a fitting swan song for the franchise instead collapses under the weight of an abysmal script. Whoever put pen to paper here seems to have confused absurdity with excitement and nonsense with narrative.

The story is so ridiculous, so insultingly far-fetched, that it borders on parody. Twists are piled on top of each other with no regard for coherence or plausibility, and characters act not out of logic or motivation but purely to keep the machine grinding along. The result is a film that feels like a bad imitation of itself - a glossy, self-indulgent spectacle that believes bigger explosions can compensate for a total lack of brains.

Yes, it looks expensive. The set pieces are polished, the stunts are extravagant, and the camera swoops as though it's desperate to impress. But money alone cannot buy storytelling, and spectacle without substance is just noise. The Final Reckoning isn't thrilling, it's exhausting - a hollow exercise in style over substance that proves no franchise, no matter how beloved, is immune to imploding under the weight of its own excess.