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Written and directed by Buck Henry, the film promises a playful poke at presidential life with some comic royalty in its cast, but settles instead for something softer, stranger, and ultimately less memorable than its ingredients suggest.

Bob Newhart is an inspired choice as a newly elected President, leaning into his trademark bafflement as a man who seems perpetually surprised by the machinery of power whirring around him. Madeline Kahn, meanwhile, is typically watchable as the First Lady, bringing warmth and eccentricity to a role that often feels underwritten. Gilda Radner, Harvey Korman, and Fred Willard drift in and out, reliably amusing but rarely given material sharp enough to justify their presence.

As political satire, 'First Family' is interesting and rather insensitive at times. The film shows little interest in ideology, governance, or the absurdities of power itself, even if it does show what a huge responsibility it must be. Instead, the White House becomes a backdrop for domestic comedy and mild farce. Structurally, the film feels hesitant. Scenes play like extended sketches, and while individual moments raise a smile, they seldom build towards anything more substantial. There is a sense of improvisation without momentum, as though the filmmakers trusted the cast to generate comedy simply by being present. Occasionally they do, but not often enough.

'First Family' is not without charm, and devotees of its cast or of political satires will find pleasures scattered throughout. Yet it remains a curio rather than a classic: a political comedy that sidesteps politics, and a satire that prefers genial observation to genuine bite. In the end, it feels less like a statement and more like a polite chuckle which is pleasant in the moment but is quickly forgotten at the end.

There is something so classy and elegant about Sidney Lumet's 'Murder on the Orient Express'. From the moment Albert Finney's Poirot steps into frame, immaculately groomed, faintly ridiculous, and utterly commanding, the film announces itself as a piece of entertainment that respects both its source material and its audience.

The great pleasure of this version lies not merely in the mechanics of the mystery, but in how patiently it is allowed to unfold. Lumet resists any urge to modernise or sensationalise, preferring to emphasize the atmosphere instead. The snowbound train becomes a floating pressure cooker: enclosed and increasingly tense. I find Finney's portrayal of Poirot to be a fascinating balancing act. He is theatrical without tipping into parody, humorous without undermining his authority. The accent, the posture, the fastidiousness, Finney grounds Poirot with intelligence and emotional curiosity.

The supporting cast is full of legends, the crème de la crème of stars at the time with Sean Connery, Vanessa Redgrave, Lauren Bacall, John Gielgud, Ingrid Bergman, who won an Oscar for best Supporting Actress for this film, each delivering precisely calibrated performances. No one overplays; no one mugs for the camera. Even minor characters feel textured and purposeful. What truly elevates the film, especially for first-time viewers, however, is its moral complexity. The solution is famous now, but encountering it fresh (like myself) is quietly devastating. Rather than treating the reveal as a clever trick, Lumet allows its emotional weight to land fully. Poirot's final decision feels earned, troubling, and deeply human.

Later adaptations may offer glossier visuals or louder drama, but they rarely match the 1974 film's elegance, restraint, and trust in storytelling. This is a mystery that understands suspense comes not from speed, but from stillness; not from shock, but from reflection. This film is a classic for a reason, and a reminder that sometimes the most luxurious journey is simply letting a great story take its time.

Unfairly overshadowed by 'Star Wars' (1977) upon its release, William Friedkin's 'Sorcerer' is a bruising, existential thriller that treats suspense not as entertainment, but as punishment. It is cinema that sweats, grinds, and dares the audience to endure alongside its characters. It is also one of my favourite films of all time, without any doubt.

Loosely adapted from Georges Arnaud's novel 'The Wages of Fear' (1950), 'Sorcerer' begins with four grim prologues across the globe, each introducing men running from their pasts. Friedkin famously shot these segments almost without exposition, trusting the viewer to piece together motivations through behaviour rather than dialogue, a risky choice that pays off by grounding the film in fatalism from the outset.

The story is about the transportation of unstable nitroglycerin through treacherous jungle terrain, and it is among the most nerve-shredding sequences ever committed to film. It reminds me of 'Speed' (1994), as the protagonists of that story also have to drive in a certain manner to avoid being blown away. Friedkin insisted on practical effects, real vehicles, and punishing locations, including the construction of an actual rope bridge over a river that was swollen by real storms. The result is tension so palpable it feels dangerous to watch, particularly during the legendary bridge-crossing scene.

Roy Scheider delivers one of his finest performances, in my opinion, stripped of heroism and reduced to stubborn endurance. The fact that he was not even nominated for an Oscar is crazy. In this film, Friedkin offers no sentimentality, no noble cause, and no easy release. Even the title, a piece of trivia often overlooked, refers not to magic but to the name painted on the trucks. It is a cruel irony, given how little control these men truly possess.

'Sorcerer' is harsh, relentless, and deeply pessimistic, and that is precisely why it endures and why I adore it so much. In an era celebrated for cinematic freedom, few films pushed that freedom to such unforgiving extremes. Today, 'Sorcerer' stands not as a cult curiosity, but as a towering achievement in pure, elemental filmmaking.