heisenberg83

*Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny* feels like watching your granddad try to relive his glory days but with a bad hip and no clue where he left his car keys. It's as if the writers found a dusty old script from the 80s and said, "You know what this needs? 80-year-old Harrison Ford... and absolutely zero excitement."

The plot? Something about time travel, but by the time they explain it, you're already mentally checking out. Indy's enemies this time? Nazis... again. Apparently, the writers ran out of fresh ideas about the same time they ran out of enthusiasm. It's like they thought, "Hey, Nazis worked before, right? Let's just recycle that, toss in some half-hearted CGI action scenes, and call it a day."

And Ford? Bless him, but he's more Indiana Bones than Indiana Jones. The man spends half the movie looking like he'd rather be napping than cracking whips. You can practically hear his joints creaking louder than the booby traps. There's no sense of danger anymore, just a slow-paced jog through set pieces that feel more outdated than the Ark of the Covenant.

Even the supporting cast looks like they're wondering how they ended up in this disaster. Phoebe Waller-Bridge tries to bring some sass, but it's like watching someone add glitter to a soggy biscuit-just sad and pointless. The whole thing plays like a theme park ride that desperately needs to be shut down for repairs, but they keep it running because, well, nostalgia.

The real treasure in *Dial of Destiny* is the two hours of your life you'll never get back.

*Beverly Hills Cop 3* is what happens when a once-great comedy series gets lost at a theme park and never quite finds its way out. Eddie Murphy's Axel Foley feels like he's phoning it in, as if he's just as confused as the audience about why this movie exists. The charm and wit of the original are swapped out for cheap gags and tired jokes that fall flat faster than a broken rollercoaster.

The plot? Something about a counterfeit money ring in an amusement park, but let's be honest, you're too distracted by how lifeless everything feels to care. The action scenes are awkwardly staged, like someone put a chase scene through the slow-motion setting on an old VCR. Even Axel's signature laugh, which once could carry a scene, now feels like it's suffering from burnout.

The only thing more painful than the movie's jokes is watching Murphy navigate through the most lifeless script of his career, like a detective who's clearly out of leads-and energy.

*Poor Things* is like watching *Frankenstein* get hammered at a Victorian pub and spiral into debauchery, only to wake up in a fever dream of grotesque humour and gleeful vulgarity. Emma Stone's Bella is a human experiment with zero shame, bouncing from crude act to cringe-inducing scene like a toddler set loose in a brothel. It's a buffet of the bizarre, served with a side of unapologetic filth.

Willem Dafoe, as the mad scientist, seems like the most normal thing in a world where the boundary between art and straight-up depravity is blurred beyond recognition. The film doesn't just push the envelope; it drags it through the mud and lights it on fire. Expect more bodily fluids, sexual chaos, and grotesque visuals than any Victorian morality tale should ever allow. It's equal parts hilarious and horrifying, like a carnival of filth where nothing is off-limits.