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The final episode of "And Just Like That," titled "Party of One," closes Carrie Bradshaw's journey and the gang's in a way that's, at the very least, strange. If the last shot tries to be symbolic, with Carrie walking confidently through her massive apartment to Barry White, finally embracing the narrative that she's not "alone," but rather "on her own," what really sticks in your memory is that bizarre scene where Carrie, Miranda, and Victor Garber try to deal with a clogged toilet caused by a lactose-intolerant young woman. That grotesque, cartoonish choice pretty much sums up the offbeat tone the show leaned into across its three seasons: a fragile balance between wanting to honor the legacy of "Sex and the City" while at the same time twisting it into something disjointed and disproportionately odd.

Carrie's farewell does feel somewhat coherent, since she's always been a character floating between glamour and loneliness, but the way the other storylines wrapped up leaves the impression of something chopped off mid-sentence. Miranda, for example, ends with a storyline loaded with open-ended possibilities, like the imminent birth of her grandchild; Seema, who had become the spiritual successor to Samantha, signs off with a throwaway line about not missing gluten; Lisa, after a whole season teasing a Michelle Obama cameo, is reduced to a vague promise of narrating her own documentary series. Charlotte gets a bit more dignity, dealing sensitively with her youngest child's gender identity, while Anthony gets a lighter, if comedic, ending, breaking off an engagement but keeping his relationship. But as a whole, none of it feels like a true conclusion.

The biggest problem is that the episode fails to deliver what's always been the heart of this franchise: the friends gathered around a table, trading witty, funny takes on life. Instead, we get Carrie sitting alone in some futuristic restaurant, surrounded by robots and staring at a stuffed animal, like the show wanted to underline, almost cruelly, her disconnection from the present. Sure, "And Just Like That" has always liked to put its protagonists through humiliating moments (Charlotte fainting, Carrie slipping on the floor, Big's sudden death) but ending on this kind of weirdness feels more unsettling than nostalgic. If in "Sex and the City" Carrie chose love with Big, here she chooses, once and for all, herself. Is it consistent? Yes. But it lacks emotion, it lacks that sense of a proper goodbye the audience expected after following these women for so many years.

And it's impossible not to comment on what's really behind this so-called "ending." Michael Patrick King insists the decision to wrap it up was his, but it's obvious we're looking at a cancellation disguised as closure. HBO Max is trying to sell the idea that this was all planned, when it clearly wasn't, and that feels disrespectful to the legacy of one of TV's most important franchises. "And Just Like That" was announced as one of the streamer's flagship shows at launch, a prestige bet to bring in subscribers. Ending a story of this size without real care, without the honesty to call it a proper final season, cheapens the work of the actresses and the characters that shaped generations. The audience deserved a farewell that was announced, grand, and worthy of the journey that started back in the '90s. What we got instead was a rushed, awkward cut that leaves behind more of a taste of disregard than of celebration.

The new take on "Halloween," directed by David Gordon Green, works as a direct sequel to the 1978 classic and fully embraces the weight of that legacy. The film builds itself around a simple but effective premise: 40 years after the original massacre, Laurie Strode (Jamie Lee Curtis) lives in isolation, consumed by the fear that Michael Myers (James Jude Courtney and Nick Castle) might escape. That obsession shapes not only her character but also the overall tone of the story, which shifts between pure horror tension and survival drama. It's in that balance that the movie finds its strength, managing at times to recreate the suffocating, minimalist atmosphere of the original without falling into flashy modern excess.

The atmospheric build-up is one of the most consistent elements here. The film leans into long takes and deliberate camera movements, creating a constant sense that Michael could appear at any moment. Scenes like the hospital escape, the gas station massacre, and the stalking through the streets of Haddonfield show him as a relentless, unstoppable force of nature. The sound design and the score by John Carpenter, Cody Carpenter, and Daniel Davies heighten that menacing presence, with notes that almost mimic a heartbeat, signaling the approach of danger. The result is a sustained tension that doesn't just rely on cheap jump scares but on a careful mise-en-scène that knows the value of silence and anticipation.

Where the film truly shines is in exploring Laurie Strode as an older protagonista: traumatized, hardened, yet vulnerable after decades of paranoia. Jamie Lee Curtis delivers a layered performance that makes her more than just a surviving "final girl." Her family dynamic with daughter Karen (Judy Greer) and granddaughter Allyson (Andi Matichak) adds a compelling dramatic counterpoint, though at times the script dilutes it with overly expository dialogue. The secondary cast, including Sheriff Hawkins (Will Patton) and a group of teenagers, expands the scope of the story without stealing the spotlight from the central confrontation between Laurie and Michael.

Visually, "Halloween" goes for a gritty realism, with lighting and cinematography that echo the original while incorporating subtle modern touches. The costumes and, especially, Michael's mask are crafted with careful attention to detail, preserving the villain's mysterious and terrifying aura. The violence is brutal and straightforward, relying on well-executed practical effects that enhance the physicality of the kills, steering clear of excessive CGI. This makes each death feel more tangible and unsettling, pulling the audience deeper into the danger.

The climax in Laurie's fortified bunker is one of the narrative's high points, not just for the cleverness of the traps, but for the symbolism of placing victim and predator face-to-face in a battleground meticulously prepared. It encapsulates the film's central theme: confronting trauma head-on and standing up to a fear that has refused to fade. Unlike many contemporary slashers, the resolution here isn't just about visual shock value, it delivers the emotional catharsis of watching Laurie put years of preparation to use against the enemy that destroyed her life.

In the end, "Halloween" doesn't try to reinvent the genre but updates it within a framework that respects its roots. It's a film that knows exactly where it came from and where it's going, relying on both nostalgia and sharp technical execution to deliver a satisfying experience. Even with minor stumbles in the script, especially an unnecessary detour involving Dr. Sartain (Haluk Bilginer), it stands as the most relevant entry in the franchise since the original. For longtime fans, it's a return that blends reverence with fresh blood in just the right measure.

Rob Zombie's take on "Halloween II" is, at the very least, ambitious, but it gets lost in a messy hybrid of slasher horror and supernatural psychological drama. While trying to dig into Laurie's (Scout Taylor-Compton) trauma and Michael Myers' (Tyler Mane) disturbed mind, the film abandons the tonal consistency set by its predecessor. The addition of constant visions featuring Deborah (Sheri Moon Zombie) and young Michael (Chase Wright Vanek), along with the whole white horse symbolism, feels out of place and cartoonish, draining the tension from the horror in favor of a cheap mysticism that adds little to the story. It's as if Zombie wanted to add depth to an iconic villain but ended up taking an approach that, instead of enriching him, turns him into something close to a parody of himself.

If the first film had a grounded, oppressive vibe, here the tone is all over the place. The hospital opening (by far one of the tensest and most visually striking moments) seems to promise a direct, intense continuation, but quickly reveals itself to be a dream. That instantly breaks expectations and signals that the movie won't follow the obvious route. On paper, this could be bold, but in context, it hurts the pacing and kicks off a story that drags between brutal kills and almost experimental daydream sequences. Michael, now more of a wandering drifter than a calculating predator, gets an animalistic, vagrant edge that could have been interesting, but the constant interruptions from his mother's visions undercut his physical menace and replace it with forced melodrama.

Technically speaking, most of the elements are well-crafted, especially the makeup, practical effects, and the more worn, decayed design of Michael's mask, which really sells his brutality. Still, the overly grimy, dark cinematography often hurts scene clarity, to the point where it's sometimes hard to follow the action. The choice of locations and the production design deserve credit, but the final look ends up distancing the audience instead of pulling them in. The violence, on the other hand, is raw and uncompromising, maybe one of the few areas where Zombie still channels the punch of the first movie.

The real trouble lies in tone and character work. Laurie swings between vulnerability and irritation, but her arc becomes grating, especially in the extended cut, where she's more unlikeable and harder to root for. Dr. Loomis (Malcolm McDowell), turned into a smug opportunist, completely loses the charisma and urgency that once anchored the story. Michael, while still physically imposing thanks to Mane's performance, gets watered down by all the symbolism and vision interruptions, weakening his role as an unstoppable force.

In the end, "Halloween II" feels like a movie that doesn't trust its own horror. In trying to reinvent the myth, Rob Zombie distances it from the core that makes it effective: the silent, relentless threat. Instead, he delivers an unstable portrayal, with intense moments surrounded by odd, poorly integrated narrative choices. The result is a film that, while visually striking in places, feels disjointed, inconsistent, and ultimately more like a failed experiment than a solid sequel. At best, it's a curious entry in the franchise; at worst, it's an unnecessary distortion of a horror icon.