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Movies are consumed by many as a form of escapism—they close the blinds on daily stressors, provide entertainment during moments of boredom, and spark conversations between viewers. A movie set in the 1950s, however, strikes as an exception. For contemporary viewers, it might come as a surprise just how much the film’s thematic elements carry into the present.
Horror films have always reflected society’s deepest fears and anxieties. From monster films like Frankenstein and Dracula to iconic slashers such as Halloween and The Prowler, horror has shifted in waves that reflect the artistic climate of its time. Yet, historically, the genre has had a bad reputation for being cheap, lowbrow, and repetitive. Within the last decade or so, however, a new, semi–controversial type of horror film has emerged—elevated horror.
When most people think of Celine Song, they likely think of her breakthrough hit film Past Lives. The movie, an achingly tender chronicle of love and migration, which mirrors Song’s own life, has garnered an almost cult–following—in addition to glowing reviews and two Oscar nominations. Following on the heels of this success, Song recently teamed up with production studio A24 once again to write and direct Materialists, a romance starring Dakota Johnson, Pedro Pascal, and Chris Evans. However, what seems like overnight directorial success doesn’t come out of nowhere. Long before cementing herself as an acclaimed movie director, Song first made her way as a playwright. Beyond the big screen, her writing credits span the theaters of Off–Broadway and even The Sims 4.
If you were too employed to spend over an hour of your week nights watching Love Island USA, don’t worry, I’ve got you covered. This week was nonstop drama, as usual, and some fans are already claiming that this week was messier than all of season six. I tried to keep count of Huda Mustafa’s crash outs, but somewhere around Monday night, I gave up. If that’s not a glowing endorsement of this week’s standout reality television at its most unhinged, just keep reading.
In Bohemian Rhapsody, Rami Malek’s prosthetic teeth do a lot of heavy lifting. They must—they’re tasked not only with helping Malek channel Freddie Mercury, but with chewing through a script so sanitized it could’ve been written by a public relations team for the Mercury estate (because, well, it was). Queen emerges from the film not as the messy, electric, and debauched band that defined a generation, but as stock characters in a series of triumphant montage sequences that culminate in Live Aid.
Within the first ten minutes of Wes Anderson’s The Phoenician Scheme, Anatole “Zsa–Zsa” Korda, an enigmatic industrialist played by Benicio del Toro, shows the audience exactly who he is. Reclining in his private jet, he hears a faint clicking outside the fuselage. Moments later, his assistant’s torso explodes in an absurd display of gore—a failed assassination attempt, one of many in his high profile life. Unfazed, Korda strolls into the cockpit, violently unseats the pilot, and crash lands the plane into a Midwestern cornfield. As with each of his previous assassination attempts, he miraculously survives.
Pavements opens on an army of Santa Clauses hunting a rotisserie chicken with bows and arrows, and only gets more confusing from there. Viewers should expect no different from a hybrid documentary–biopic about Pavement, the messy, sardonic ‘90s rock group that is perhaps the California Central Valley’s most important export besides almonds. While the group’s explosive career only spanned about a decade, the depth of their impact on the modern indie scene is immeasurable. In one of the few moments where the band’s music is allowed to speak for itself, the film’s first few minutes simply showcase the music videos for the group’s songs “Gold Soundz” and “Cut Your Hair.” While on its surface a display of just how ridiculous Pavement can be, this opening section is also sincere in its appreciation for the band’s sonic and visual artistry, even as it appears outwardly absurd. If the experimental documentary can be said to have a “point,” it is precisely this—a celebration of both the enduring brilliance of Pavement’s music and the tongue–in–cheek spirit that made them the patron saints of a generation of burnouts.
After ten grueling, celibate months without the crown jewel of televised delusion, Love Island USA—the reality–TV equivalent of Daylight Savings—made its way back to our screens on June 3. Following an agonizing 40 minute delay, the season seven premier aired on Peacock at 9 p.m. EST, and goodness, did it not disappoint. I watched with the sort of fervor usually reserved for breaking news or sports finals. So, in case you’ve been too busy to devote an hour of precious time each night to watch emotionally unavailable strangers rank each other by kiss quality, here’s what you missed on week one.
I still remember when I first sat down to play The Last of Us Part I, not knowing that it would change the way I viewed video games as a storytelling medium. Created by developer Naughty Dog in 2013, the two–part game is set in a post–apocalyptic world where a fungus called Cordyceps has infected most of the population, leaving it a desolate, zombie–infested wasteland. What set the game apart, though, was the depth of its characters Ellie and Joel, whose bond forms the emotional core of the narrative.
It’s no secret that reality television is regarded as low–effort entertainment by internet critics; it's a guilty pleasure at best. Yet for the girls and the gays, it’s more than just a pastime … it's a ritual. From RuPaul’s Drag Race to Love Island to Survivor, these shows offer a heightened world of drama and personality–driven narratives, inviting fans to participate in stan culture and examine the broader, internet–amplified social commentary they generate. Reality television creates a space where big personalities thrive, morally gray areas are explored, and ridiculous, if not reflective, social dynamics are assessed.
In the film industry’s roughly 100–year history, Hollywood has thrived as one of its dominant hubs. Whether it is the apocryphal tale of Cecil DeMille’s The Squaw Man or the bog–standard Intro to Film class, it is generally acknowledged that for most of the industry’s existence, Hollywood has played a major role in its development, both in America and abroad.
If there’s a defining genre of television and film for women in their late teens and 20s today, it’s what might be called “girl TV.” The term refers to pieces of media that center on messy, self–aware, and often self–destructive female protagonists who narrate their own lives with a blend of brutal honesty and ironic detachment. These are characters who oscillate between shame and self–celebration, who live in small apartments and make bad decisions in good lighting, and who seem to exist in a world where the line between therapy and spectacle is intentionally blurred. The genre’s canon includes Fleabag, Lady Bird, and Barbie, and while each film or series has its own flavor, together they reflect a deeper cultural fixation: a collective fascination with women behaving badly and taking control of their own stories.
The following article contains minor spoilers for Thunderbolts* For six months, I was cautiously obsessed with Thunderbolts*, the Marvel movie I desperately wanted to believe in. Marvel’s track record post–Endgame had been shaky at best, and I was torn between anticipation and dread, afraid this would be another corporate Frankenstein’s Monster, stitched together from nostalgia bait, Easter eggs, and half–hearted subplots.
Among United States cinephiles, no time of year bears greater importance than summer. As temperatures peak, film enthusiasts foresee an influx of dramatic, enthralling blockbusters. Hollywood has traditionally packed this season’s releases with catharsis—maximizing action and tear–jerking suspense. From Jaws to E.T. to Jurassic Park, these productions have sustained in popularity across generations, with producers even issuing anniversary editions of the original screenplay. Although the once–thrilling ritual of starting summer at one’s local drive–in or movie theatre has largely faded, this year’s lineup reflects directors’ continued push for spectacle.
The third episode of the fantastic network slopfest that is 9–1–1 features one of its leads, Chimney (Kenneth Choi), getting what my roommate affectionately refers to as “Phineas Gage’d” and coming out of it pretty much unscathed. His wife Maddie (Jennifer Love Hewitt) recently survived a brutal throat–slashing incident with little more than a line across her throat. This is a show that had shark attacks on the freeway in its second season and recently featured a subplot about a man cheating on his girlfriend with a woman who looks identical to his dead ex–wife (played by the same actress). So why did my over–the–top, feel–good firefighter show decide to get real sobering, real quick, decimating the plot armor that has always protected its leads without warning?
What makes a Hollywood comeback?
It’s Lesbian Visibility Week, which means two things: a) I’m posting a link to my Venmo on my Instagram story every day in the hopes that a few charitable souls take the bait (I got $8 last year, thank you very much), and b) I have been legally mandated to rectify one of the greatest oversights of my life—I’ve never seen the 1999 cult classic But I’m a Cheerleader. Complimentary cup of tea in hand, I made myself comfortable on the green couch in the Kelly Writers House and pressed play.
When pre–teens scratch their goals for their lives onto a piece of scrap paper, it is bound to be marked by green tea stains and develop creases from folding it onto itself multiple times. It is a well–loved document, collecting years of dust in a sacred desk drawer; only the owner of the document knows its location but never really expects it to be completed. Just the idea of creating the list is most compelling, because it reflects individuals’ aspirations for their future selves, while also demonstrating the kind of person you were at the time. A bucket list like this is not necessarily only for checking off all the things you want to accomplish; it can be used to reconnect with family members, fuel self–discovery, and even bring love in the most unexpected way.
Enchanting, eerie island–themed music plays over a stretch of ocean at golden hour as a luxury boat glides through the pristine water. A sheen of beauty, a bedrock of sin. Everything seems perfect, and nothing is as it seems.
My relationship with Minecraft is, as I’ve gathered, a common one. Every so often, I remember I have it. I play it for ten hours a day, every day, for a week or two. And then classes pick up, or work gets busy, and I forget it exists for six to eight months—until the cycle starts all over again. The beauty of it? This cycle tends to repeat a few times per year, meaning the game has been a consistent part of my life since its release in 2011. Nearly 14 years of tirelessly collecting cubic supplies, venturing into the fiery depths of the Nether, and bringing entire cities to life later, and we’re still going strong. There’s something about the game’s endless possibility—the quiet stillness of the open world, the crisp lines of a perfectly constructed building—that keeps me coming back, after all this time.
Solutions by The State News