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This film was a major letdown, a major shame for all involved, how depressing it is to watch such cinematic refuse and realize it still finds its public. Marketed as a comedy, it failed on nearly every level, unfunny, slow, and painfully outdated. The plot was paper-thin and stretched beyond its limits, relying on recycled jokes, awkward slapstick, and forced gags that never landed.

From the start, the pacing dragged, the characters lacked appeal, and the humor felt more desperate than clever. Scenes played out like disconnected skits, with loud sound effects and exaggerated expressions replacing actual wit. Worse still, the cast had zero chemistry, delivering punchlines with the charm of a forced school play.

Visually bland and tonally flat, the movie had no spark, just filler and cringe. Comedy may be subjective, but this lacked even basic competence. Unless you're utterly desperate, skip it. Audiences deserve smarter, funnier, and far more engaging fare than this forgettable mess.

Midsommar is visually striking and thematically unsettling, but it sacrifices depth for style. While its eerie folk horror premise is intriguing, the film drags, stretching thin ideas over an excessive runtime. The sun's position betrays its supposed Nordic setting. The "midnight sun", as everybody who has been in Scandinavia at the summer solstice, is very low over the horizon. In the film the shadows are very short, as corresponds to the sun being high-just one of many "f... physics" moments. Gore feels gratuitous rather than meaningful, and the characters' arcs lack real emotional weight. Ultimately, it's an ambitious but bloated film that prioritizes aesthetic over substance.

Pedro Almodóvar's *The Room Next Door*, his debut English-language film, has received significant praise, culminating in the Golden Lion at the Venice Film Festival. While the film's sensitive depiction of friendship, illness, and mortality-brought to life by the stellar performances of Julianne Moore and Tilda Swinton-offers a heartfelt narrative, it ultimately feels limited in ambition. Its restrained focus and intimate drama are striking, but when placed beside *The Brutalist*, it feels more akin to a polished television feature than an impactful cinematic experience.

In contrast, Brady Corbet's *The Brutalist* is a bold and expansive work. Spanning decades and tackling weighty subjects such as the immigrant experience, post-war survival, anti-Semitism, and the scars of historical trauma, it's a film that does not hold back in its unflinching approach. Its sheer scope and daring execution make it a raw, immersive journey that eclipses Almodóvar's more contained narrative. Corbet's use of the VistaVision format and intermission reinforces its grand, old-school cinematic feel, demanding the audience's full engagement and attention-qualities that *The Room Next Door* never quite aspires to.

This disparity in ambition raises questions about how awards are distributed today. *The Room Next Door* seems to have benefited from the weight of Almodóvar's name and its alignment with contemporary values, whereas *The Brutalist*, with its challenging subject matter and relentless tone, was overlooked. While Almodóvar's film fits neatly into the mold of what's celebrated in current cultural climates, *The Brutalist* pushes boundaries, presenting a complex, uncompromising vision that lingers long after the credits roll.

The current system of awards often prioritizes films that align with ideological trends or familiar names, leaving truly groundbreaking works like *The Brutalist* underappreciated. By favoring safe, palatable narratives, the industry risks discouraging filmmakers from embracing risk and ambition. It's vital to celebrate films that challenge, innovate, and redefine the cinematic landscape rather than defaulting to predictable choices based on reputation or ideology.