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A western starring Pierce Brosnan and Samuel L. Jackson should be, at the very least, promising. Add to that the arid and majestic landscapes of Montana, and you have the recipe for a memorable film. However, The Unholy Trinity (2024), directed by Richard Gray, manages the feat of bringing all these elements together only to deliver a cinematic experience that borders on the unbearable.

The premise is a classic of the genre: in a dusty 1880s town, the young Henry Broadway (Brandon Lessard) arrives seeking revenge for his father's death. His arrival disturbs the fragile peace maintained by Sheriff Gabriel Dove (Brosnan) while also attracting the attention of the enigmatic and ruthless St. Christopher (Jackson), a man willing to do anything to find gold buried in the town. The stage is set for an explosive confrontation, but the fuse is never truly lit.

The central problem, which demolishes the film's entire structure, is its script, which is absolute garbage. The narrative drags on in a sleep-inducing crawl, with dialogue that ranges from cliché to irrelevant. The tension that should drive the story is nonexistent. Potentially interesting characters, like Brosnan's sheriff and Jackson's villain, are reduced to shallow figures whose motivations are as superficial as the dust covering the town's streets. The sense of boredom is so overwhelming that the urge to walk out of the theater becomes a constant companion.

To make matters worse, the score, composed by Marco Beltrami and Tristan Beltrami, is auditory torture. Instead of building atmosphere or underscoring the emotion of the scenes, the music is intrusive, dissonant, and, at times, simply irritating. It not only fails to complement the action but actively detracts from the experience, turning moments that could have had some weight into a senseless cacophony.

So, is there any saving grace? Yes, and it's a shame it's in service of such a weak film. The sole merit of The Unholy Trinity lies in its stunning locations. Filmed in places like the Yellowstone Film Ranch and the historic Old Montana Prison, the film captures the wild beauty and raw authenticity of the Old West. The landscapes are a visual treat, a magnificent canvas waiting for a story that never arrives to fill it.

In the end, The Unholy Trinity is an exercise in patience that not even the beautiful Montana landscapes can salvage. It is proof that not even a star-studded cast can rescue a film from a bad script and lifeless direction. A missed opportunity that is best left buried, just like the gold its characters are so desperately seeking.

Set in the twilight of World War II, Valkyrie reenacts one of the boldest internal conspiracies against Adolf Hitler, orchestrated by German officers who, aware of the moral abyss before them, chose to act against their own Führer. The title comes from the military plan's original codename-Operation Valkyrie-initially designed to suppress civil unrest, but here repurposed in a desperate attempt to assassinate Hitler and seize control of Berlin. Directed by Bryan Singer, the film follows Colonel Claus von Stauffenberg (Tom Cruise) from the arid fields of Tunisia to the fateful conference room in the Birk forest, where Germany's future teetered between the downfall of Nazism and the melancholic failure of resistance.

Singer, aiming to balance dramatic tension with historical fidelity, relied on experts such as historian Peter Hoffmann to ensure a respectful portrayal of the events. And indeed, despite the inevitable dramatic compressions-such as relocating a failed assassination attempt from Berchtesgaden to a more cinematic bunker-the film commits to recreating the atmosphere of 1944 with near-documentary precision: costumes, locations, and environments meticulously reconstructed. Within this frame, the audience is led not merely into the action, but into the moral conflict of men who chose betrayal in the name of salvation.

Technically, Valkyrie is a film of considerable refinement. Newton Thomas Sigel's cinematography alternates ceremonious tracking shots with the violent shake of handheld cameras, especially in the aftermath of the explosion. Lilly Kilvert's production design offers painstaking reconstructions-from Hitler's office to the Gestapo bunker-while Joanna Johnston's costumes reinforce the military hierarchy with historical accuracy. One of the film's most emblematic scenes unites sound and image with elegance: the camera descends upon a record player spinning Wagner's Die Walküre, a subtle nod to the Germanic myth underlying the plot-and to the irony of a destiny that spared none of its tragic heroes.

Tom Cruise, in the lead role, was a strategic yet controversial choice. His performance is marked by restraint and physical commitment, though his unmistakably American presence-and lack of a German accent-feels out of place among a more organically British supporting cast. While some critics praised his subdued intensity, others noted the absence of emotional magnetism in his portrayal of von Stauffenberg. Still, Cruise succeeds in conveying the character's resolve and sense of mission, even if he doesn't fully capture the complexity of the real-life figure.

The supporting cast, in contrast, provides the film's dramatic backbone. Kenneth Branagh lends honest energy to General Tresckow; Bill Nighy expertly balances hesitation and duty; Tom Wilkinson crafts an ambiguous Fromm, teetering between self-preservation and ambition. Terence Stamp, in a brief appearance, imbues Ludwig Beck with noble gravity, while Carice van Houten adds a touch of warmth as Nina, Stauffenberg's wife. Even minor roles-played by Eddie Izzard and Christian Berkel, among others-elevate the ensemble. It is this chorus of dissonant yet committed voices that lends the film its depth. As one British critic noted: "What keeps Valkyrie together is its supporting cast."

Narratively, Singer opts for a classical, almost old-fashioned structure. With no major formal inventions, the film's suspense lies not in the outcome-known from the start-but in the unfolding of events. The tension builds not through what will happen, but through how and when. Though the rhythm occasionally lingers in expository scenes, the climax is well-executed, and the ensuing chaos-marked by frantic phone calls and contradictory orders-plunges the viewer into a maelstrom of moral and bureaucratic confusion.

In this sense, Valkyrie stands more as a film of atmosphere than of action. John Ottman's score avoids genre clichés: no patriotic fanfare, only discreet motifs that whisper tension. Only at key moments, such as the track "Long Live Sacred Germany," does the music swell into solemnity, ending the journey with a lament worthy of its protagonists.

Though it never caused a major cultural stir, Valkyrie achieved respectable commercial success, grossing around \$201 million and covering its budget. Critical reception was mixed. In the United States, it was regarded as a competent but predictable thriller; in Germany, where the memory of the resistance carries deeper resonance, the reactions were more complex. While some praised the respectful handling of a sensitive chapter in national history, others-such as Der Spiegel-criticized Cruise for what they saw as a "charisma-lacking" portrayal of a German hero.

Ultimately, Valkyrie is neither a war epic nor a reinvention of the genre. It is a dignified, restrained film that chooses sobriety over spectacle. A work that honors its historical figures and trusts in the power of silences, of gestures between commands. A sober thriller, yes-but one with a quietly beating heart. It may not endure as a genre landmark, but it certainly won't vanish in the indistinct fog of forgettable war films.