BeneCumb

On the surface, Bad Santa is a raunchy, foul-mouthed black comedy-an unrelenting barrage of bad behavior, booze, sex, and profanity wrapped in a Santa coat that looks like it's been dragged behind a truck. Billy Bob Thornton is wickedly perfect as Willie T. Soke, a self-loathing alcoholic criminal whose annual mall-Santa gig is just a front for theft. His abrasive, dead-eyed cynicism is so committed that it becomes hilarious, even weirdly endearing.

But beneath the movie's gleeful assault on Christmas sentimentality lies an unexpectedly affecting redemption arc, driven almost entirely by Brett Kelly's wonderfully deadpan Thurman Merman. The naïve, relentlessly needy kid chips away at Willie's crusted-over humanity scene by scene, not through saccharine life lessons but through sheer, stubborn devotion. Their dynamic provides the film's emotional backbone: a bizarre, off-kilter friendship that's simultaneously pathetic, hilarious, and oddly touching.

The supporting cast is stacked, with Tony Cox roasting Thornton at every turn, and the late Bernie Mac and John Ritter delivering standout comedic moments that elevate every scene they're in. Lauren Graham's character isn't given much depth, but she brings charm to a role that otherwise risks feeling underwritten.

What keeps Bad Santa fresh-even more than twenty years on-is how boldly it rejects the polished wholesomeness of traditional holiday films. Its humor is crude, often offensive, and absolutely not family-friendly, but its irreverence gives its final emotional beats a surprising weight. The film never pretends Willie becomes a saint; it simply suggests that even the most broken people can stumble into something resembling decency.

For anyone sick of mawkish seasonal schmaltz, Bad Santa is a hilariously nasty, unexpectedly warm antidote worth revisiting.

Apple TV+'s The Crowded Room aims high-a slow-burn psychological thriller that explores trauma, fractured identity, and the defenses the mind builds to survive. At its best, the series is gripping and emotional, carried by a career-defining performance from Tom Holland. He disappears into Danny Sullivan's fragile mind with raw vulnerability, delivering what many consider his most mature and impressive work (it was also the first time I truly noticed how talented he is). Amanda Seyfried matches him with quiet strength, grounding the story even when its structure becomes overwhelming.

The show's premise is very compelling, loosely inspired by the Billy Milligan case, and its 1970s New York setting-muted, gritty, and claustrophobic-adds a lot of emotional weight. When the series reaches its major reveal around episode eight, the story shifts in a way that is both haunting and powerful. Scenes like the therapy moment or the mirror sequence showing Danny's identities stay with you long after the episode ends.

But despite its ambition, the execution is uneven. The early episodes are slow, repetitive, and sometimes confusing, relying on disjointed memories and uneven pacing that can easily throw viewers off. Some twists are revealed too early, reducing the impact of moments that should feel shocking. The writing leans into melodrama at times, and a few episodes feel like filler. Even with strong acting overall, the story can feel too dense for its own good.

Still, despite these flaws-and even some distracting mistakes in recreated locations-the series is ultimately moving. For those willing to stick with it, The Crowded Room offers a powerful and empathetic look at trauma and resilience. It's not perfect, not for everyone, but worth the patience.

The first season of Hanna is easily the show's high point: a gripping blend of coming-of-age drama and high-concept thriller, grounded by convincing stakes, coherent motivations, and a tense, well-paced narrative. Esme Creed-Miles brings a melancholic intensity to the role, and the early episodes balance her character's naivete with genuinely believable danger. The world feels real, the action purposeful, and the emotional arc compelling.

Unfortunately, the series loses its footing as soon as it moves into season two. What began as a taut story about identity and survival spirals into an increasingly exaggerated and implausible Utrax conspiracy. The covert operations grow cartoonishly omnipotent, plot twists multiply without logic, and characters-once layered and intelligent-begin making inexplicably poor decisions to manufacture tension and obtaining illogical second chances. By season three, the show leans into hyperbolic spy fantasy, complete with over-the-top missions, side-switching character allegiances, and an almost comical sense of invincibility that drains the action of any real suspense.

Character development also stagnates. Hanna's emotional growth stalls, Marissa Wiegler's shifting motivations feel abrupt, and several supporting characters exist mainly to propel contrived plot turns. Even Creed-Miles's performance fluctuates in consistency, though she remains a steady emotional anchor. Despite some strong pacing, a solid soundtrack, and standout performances-particularly from Mireille Enos and Gianna Kiehl-there's an unmistakable sense that something essential is missing.

In the end, Hanna is entertaining if you don't think too hard about it. As a binge, it's serviceable; as a cohesive narrative, it's frustratingly uneven. The series would have been far stronger had it ended after its excellent first season. As it stands, it's a promising story stretched thin, losing believability and impact the further it goes.