m-sileo

It feels more like a tribute to the great Chris Farley than a true documentary. It doesn't try to dig deeply into the darker sides of his life; it barely touches on them and quickly moves on, mentioning rehab but not the causes behind it. And yet it still works, especially in the first half, where friends and family recount how this shy kid, desperate to belong, became such a unique comedian.

The archival material is excellent: the footage from Second City and Saturday Night Live showcases Farley's almost supernatural physical energy and his total commitment to making people laugh. Seeing the origins of characters like Matt Foley is a real highlight, as are the home videos that reveal a generous, big-hearted guy.

The film gently suggests that SNL was both his big break and the place that wore him down the most. But it makes its intention clear: to celebrate how brilliant, brief, and unforgettable Farley was. It isn't a deep portrait, but it is a loving one, capturing the essential thing- the joy he brought. And for someone who lived to make people laugh, that might be the best tribute possible.

It also features strong interviews from Adam Sandler, Bob Odenkirk, Bo Derek, Lorne Michaels, Dan Aykroyd, his brothers, and many others.

Absolute masterpiece. Not just for its atmosphere or pacing, but for the depth of its characters and the way it uses familiar western imagery to tell something far more complex. It's one of those unusual westerns that begin with the genre's classic elements-outlaws fleeing the law, a ghost town, the lure of gold-and transforms them into an intense study of morality, temptation, and redemption.

The film opens with a bang: Stretch (Gregory Peck) leads his gang through a bank robbery and into a desperate escape across the salt flats, in a brutal sequence that reminds you how punishing the desert can be. It's a true via crucis: hardened men reduced to gasping, half-dead creatures, symbolically purified before being "reborn" in Yellow Sky. As in Shakespeare's The Tempest, the desert works as a biblical sea that transforms them long before they realize it.

The ghost town is no promised land, but a perverted one: a place whose very name evokes both gold fever and a sickly, contaminated sky. After days of agony, the outlaws stumble upon Mike (Anne Baxter) and her grandfather, the only inhabitants left. Their first encounter is magnetic: she appears pointing a rifle, fierce and unyielding-an absolute warrior. When the old man considers giving up, Mike is the one who refuses, flipping traditional roles and giving the film a surprisingly progressive tone.

It quickly becomes clear that the desert and the ghost town aren't the story's true center, but the backdrop that lets the script focus on what really matters: human interaction. The tension doesn't come from Indian attacks or big showdowns, but from constant negotiations and moral standoffs between people forced to share a confined, unsettling space, cut off from the world.

Dude (Richard Widmark) intensifies this internal conflict. Elegant, manipulative, always watching from the shadows, Widmark plays a character who practically embodies temptation. His black wardrobe, sly grin, and posture echo classical Devil imagery. He is the tempter, the accuser, the serpent who stirs greed and lust in the others as he plots to steal Stretch's leadership.

Stretch, by contrast, follows a path of Christian redemption: doubt, fall, repentance, a promise sworn on the Bible, a symbolic wound to the hand, and finally the moral courage to confront the evil he helped unleash. Between him and Dude lies a moral duel-two possible paths, two worldviews, two spiritual destinies.

In this atmosphere thick with symbolism, gold becomes a kind of original sin. From the first shot of the nuggets on the table-like a demonic offering-to the betrayals and deaths they provoke, gold is the corrupting force at the film's core. And yet the film never loses its humanity: the relationship between Stretch and Mike unfolds organically. She mistrusts him, he insists, they resist their feelings, and somehow, in all the chaos, they find a way to recognize each other.

Holding all this together is Joseph MacDonald's ruthless black-and-white cinematography. The deep shadows, the gritty texture of the desert, the decayed interiors of Yellow Sky... every frame has the expressive power of top-tier film noir.

And then comes the ending. What any other western would turn into a grand shootout happens offscreen. We don't see anyone fall. We only hear the gunshots and watch the men drift in and out of the frame, walking toward their fate. Wellman's choice isn't stylistic convenience-it's moral. By keeping the climax invisible, he transforms the violence into a ritual of redemption. It's no longer a spectacle; it becomes something spiritual, almost religious.

An astonishing, singular western-one that uses the genre's bones to explore the corrosive pull of greed, the possibility of redemption, and the strange, haunting space between the two.

It ended up affecting me more than I expected. It's a sincere family story, without sarcasm or modern posturing, the kind they hardly make anymore: sweet, noble, and genuinely moving without ever feeling forced. It's based on an incredible true story-the unlikely bond between a Brazilian fisherman and a penguin who travels thousands of miles every year just to return to him. And what stands out is that the film uses real penguins, no puppets or CGI, giving everything a tenderness and authenticity that's hard to resist.

Jean Reno is excellent as João, an ordinary man shattered by the tragedy of losing his son, who finds a new sense of purpose when he rescues DinDim, the adorable penguin who washes up on the beach covered in oil. Their relationship-built on small gestures, patience, and respect-is what pulls him out of the isolation he had sunk into. Adriana Barraza also adds a lot, making that wounded family dynamic feel believable.

I really liked how the movie is shot, with many low-angle frames, almost from the penguin's point of view, giving everything a sense of childlike wonder. And while the conflict with the scientists adds a bit of tension, what truly matters is the respect shown toward nature and the simple, powerful loyalty that binds these two beings.

Yes, it has a few stumbles early on and some co-production details that feel a bit off, but at its core it's a story about the healing that comes from doing good, about how even in a cynical world there can still be gestures of friendship and everyday miracles. It's one of those films that move you without overemphasizing anything, and leave you thinking long after it's over.