zacherysdevers
Joined Oct 2022
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Hotel Reverie is a frustrating low point in Black Mirror's legacy, marred by lifeless performances and a plot that aims high but barely clears the ground. Issa Rae and Awkwafina-both of whom have been polarizing in past roles-deliver performances here that only reinforce the criticism they frequently receive. Rae, as Brandy Friday, is wooden and unconvincing, unable to carry the emotional weight the script desperately leans on. Her delivery lacks nuance, and her chemistry with the other characters-especially the AI-generated Clara-is nonexistent. As for Awkwafina, her appearance as the tech company rep is grating at best. Her attempts at quirky comedic timing fall flat in a story that already struggles tonally.
The concept itself-a Hollywood actress reliving a classic film inside a hyper-realistic virtual simulation-had potential. In theory, it's a clever commentary on AI, digital identity, and the commodification of memory. In practice, it's convoluted, slow, and hollow. The story doesn't know whether it wants to be a love story, a tech warning, or a meta-industry satire, so it ends up failing at all three. There are long stretches of dialogue that go nowhere, stakes that feel manufactured, and a twist ending that's more eye-roll than gut punch.
Visually, it's competent-but nothing memorable. The noir aesthetic is fine, but nothing we haven't seen done better in dozens of other shows and films. And emotionally? It's empty. There's no tension, no resonance, just a poorly paced script filled with overwritten sentimentality that the lead actors can't sell.
Black Mirror is capable of brilliance, but "Hotel Reverie" feels more like a half-baked student film than an episode of one of television's smartest anthologies. Forgettable, forced, and frustratingly dull.
The concept itself-a Hollywood actress reliving a classic film inside a hyper-realistic virtual simulation-had potential. In theory, it's a clever commentary on AI, digital identity, and the commodification of memory. In practice, it's convoluted, slow, and hollow. The story doesn't know whether it wants to be a love story, a tech warning, or a meta-industry satire, so it ends up failing at all three. There are long stretches of dialogue that go nowhere, stakes that feel manufactured, and a twist ending that's more eye-roll than gut punch.
Visually, it's competent-but nothing memorable. The noir aesthetic is fine, but nothing we haven't seen done better in dozens of other shows and films. And emotionally? It's empty. There's no tension, no resonance, just a poorly paced script filled with overwritten sentimentality that the lead actors can't sell.
Black Mirror is capable of brilliance, but "Hotel Reverie" feels more like a half-baked student film than an episode of one of television's smartest anthologies. Forgettable, forced, and frustratingly dull.
This spiritual sequel doesn't try to be Season 4 of the Netflix series, nor does it fully reboot the character. Instead, Reborn threads a careful needle-it reintroduces Matt Murdock into the wider Marvel Cinematic Universe while honoring the darker, more grounded tone that made the original show a standout.
Set after the events of She-Hulk and Echo, Daredevil: Reborn finds Matt grappling with a changed New York, a fractured legal career, and a city that no longer believes in heroes the way it used to. Wilson Fisk is back-newly reinvented but as manipulative and calculating as ever-and their decades-long feud simmers with renewed tension. The series doesn't pick up directly from where the Netflix show left off, but fans of that version will recognize familiar emotional throughlines: guilt, justice, and the cost of wearing the mask.
Charlie Cox once again proves he is Matt Murdock. His performance walks the line between quiet resolve and explosive emotion, never losing the wounded nobility that defines the character. The series leans into his dual identity more than ever before, showing a Matt who is at odds with both his vigilante persona and his place in the courtroom. There's more internal conflict here, and while it sometimes slows the pacing, it adds psychological depth that's often missing from MCU fare.
Vincent D'Onofrio's Kingpin is just as terrifyingly nuanced as ever. Reborn wisely avoids turning Fisk into a caricature of evil. Instead, he's methodical, personal, and hauntingly relatable in his conviction. He doesn't just want to reclaim power-he wants to rewrite the rules of the city itself. His return provides both narrative weight and emotional stakes that elevate the show beyond standard superhero tropes.
Tonally, Reborn feels like a hybrid of its Netflix predecessor and the broader MCU. The violence is dialed back compared to earlier seasons, but it's still more brutal than your average Disney+ series. The fight choreography remains a highlight-gritty, close-quarters, and visually inventive without relying on over-polished CGI. There's a hallway fight, of course-because there had to be-and it doesn't disappoint.
Where Reborn stumbles is in trying to balance its legacy with its new responsibilities as a Disney+ series. At times, it feels caught between two worlds: the mature, brooding storytelling of Netflix's Daredevil, and the lighter, interconnected world of the MCU. Supporting characters like Foggy Nelson and Karen Page are notably absent or underutilized in the early episodes (though rumors swirl about their eventual return), and the series introduces a few new characters who don't always feel fully fleshed out. The show is more restrained, but occasionally that restraint comes across as hesitation.
Despite these flaws, Reborn succeeds at what it sets out to do: reintroduce Daredevil to both old fans and new audiences without undermining what came before. It asks bigger questions about justice and morality in a world now crowded with gods, monsters, and multiverses. What does street-level heroism look like in an era of celestial threats? Reborn doesn't pretend to have all the answers-but it's asking the right questions.
Visually, the show looks great. The cinematography makes excellent use of shadows and urban environments, grounding the action in real spaces. The soundtrack is moody and minimal, occasionally invoking themes from the Netflix series while forging a new sonic identity.
In short, Daredevil: Reborn is a strong return-not quite the gut-punching triumph of the Netflix run, but a thoughtful, engaging next chapter in Matt Murdock's journey. It may still be finding its footing, but with Cox and D'Onofrio leading the way, the future of Hell's Kitchen looks promising.
Set after the events of She-Hulk and Echo, Daredevil: Reborn finds Matt grappling with a changed New York, a fractured legal career, and a city that no longer believes in heroes the way it used to. Wilson Fisk is back-newly reinvented but as manipulative and calculating as ever-and their decades-long feud simmers with renewed tension. The series doesn't pick up directly from where the Netflix show left off, but fans of that version will recognize familiar emotional throughlines: guilt, justice, and the cost of wearing the mask.
Charlie Cox once again proves he is Matt Murdock. His performance walks the line between quiet resolve and explosive emotion, never losing the wounded nobility that defines the character. The series leans into his dual identity more than ever before, showing a Matt who is at odds with both his vigilante persona and his place in the courtroom. There's more internal conflict here, and while it sometimes slows the pacing, it adds psychological depth that's often missing from MCU fare.
Vincent D'Onofrio's Kingpin is just as terrifyingly nuanced as ever. Reborn wisely avoids turning Fisk into a caricature of evil. Instead, he's methodical, personal, and hauntingly relatable in his conviction. He doesn't just want to reclaim power-he wants to rewrite the rules of the city itself. His return provides both narrative weight and emotional stakes that elevate the show beyond standard superhero tropes.
Tonally, Reborn feels like a hybrid of its Netflix predecessor and the broader MCU. The violence is dialed back compared to earlier seasons, but it's still more brutal than your average Disney+ series. The fight choreography remains a highlight-gritty, close-quarters, and visually inventive without relying on over-polished CGI. There's a hallway fight, of course-because there had to be-and it doesn't disappoint.
Where Reborn stumbles is in trying to balance its legacy with its new responsibilities as a Disney+ series. At times, it feels caught between two worlds: the mature, brooding storytelling of Netflix's Daredevil, and the lighter, interconnected world of the MCU. Supporting characters like Foggy Nelson and Karen Page are notably absent or underutilized in the early episodes (though rumors swirl about their eventual return), and the series introduces a few new characters who don't always feel fully fleshed out. The show is more restrained, but occasionally that restraint comes across as hesitation.
Despite these flaws, Reborn succeeds at what it sets out to do: reintroduce Daredevil to both old fans and new audiences without undermining what came before. It asks bigger questions about justice and morality in a world now crowded with gods, monsters, and multiverses. What does street-level heroism look like in an era of celestial threats? Reborn doesn't pretend to have all the answers-but it's asking the right questions.
Visually, the show looks great. The cinematography makes excellent use of shadows and urban environments, grounding the action in real spaces. The soundtrack is moody and minimal, occasionally invoking themes from the Netflix series while forging a new sonic identity.
In short, Daredevil: Reborn is a strong return-not quite the gut-punching triumph of the Netflix run, but a thoughtful, engaging next chapter in Matt Murdock's journey. It may still be finding its footing, but with Cox and D'Onofrio leading the way, the future of Hell's Kitchen looks promising.