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My 27 Movie A-Z Film-a-thon: Day 24.

“I was the world’s champion blind lady today.”

Audrey Hepburn plays Susy Hendrix, a remarkably chipper, recently blinded homemaker married to a photographer. Ahh, the irony—her husband is an artist, yet she’ll never see his work again.

Wait Until Dark debuted as a play in 1966, which is remarkable to me. An actually scary play back then? Much of the tension takes place in total darkness, using clever lighting tricks. It must’ve been fantastic to see live.

Fun fact: it ran for 374 performances on Broadway, and for each one, Robert Duvall fell down a small flight of stairs. He wasn’t the only one. Was the impact worth it? Why does she live in a basement? It is a miniscule aspect of the production, but it adds impact to the big moments. Stage actors really will die for their craft.

The movie is great for a few reasons. First, the dialogue is top-notch. The villains are smart and strategic, the good guys are joyful and resourceful, and everyone feels believable.

The direction is equally strong. Terence Young doesn’t let the camera sit still—the apartment is seen from every angle, which is perfect for a thriller where space matters. You know the stakes of every movement, and it’s nerve-wracking to wonder whether she’ll take that extra step or remember where the knife is.

The obvious reason to see Wait Until Dark is Audrey Hepburn. She’s never been better—not just because she plays blind so convincingly. Probably no one else could play optimistic and cheery as well, and her performance is as chilling as any late ’70s scream queen.

The movie expands beyond the single-set apartment, but only a little. There’s a dialogue-free airport intro, and a memorable scene where neighbor Gloria cons her way out. You see the street and a phone booth that keeps ringing. Still, it feels like a filmed play. With more liberties, it could’ve reached Hitchcock’s level.

Most of the details are perfect, but the other key reason it works—besides Audrey—is the music. Henry Mancini’s score deserves a place beside The Exorcist and Halloween as one of horror’s creepiest. Dissonant, eerie bells—likely prepared piano and vibraphones—create a distinct sound. It’s been ripped off plenty, but still feels fresh. There’s not much of it, but it doesn’t need much to build dread.

I watched The 101 Scariest Movie Moments of All Time on Shudder, and this was featured. I’m always wary of horror clip shows spoiling moments, but I was happy with how things unfolded. Modern audience scores on platforms like the IMDb are very high, especially for a horror movie from before the genre got truly scary.

The biggest scares come from small things. It plays on our fear of strangers, of not locking the door, of being blind, of trusting elaborate lies. It was a different world in 1967—precautions weren’t widely adopted yet, because there weren’t many cautionary tales like this.

Violent crime more than doubled from 1966 to 1970, showing a real need for stories that reflected a changing world. The film did its job—earning $17.5 million in the U.S. (about $170 million today). It was a major step in horror’s evolution, and in helping people see the world differently. I’d call it the next big step after Psycho.

8.5/10

My 27 Movie A-Z Film-a-thon: Day 23.

The Vast of Night is about two young people in 1950s New Mexico at the start of their careers. Fay is a nighttime telephone operator, and Everett is a radio DJ whose show often overlaps with her shift. The two exchange ideas about radio frequencies, communication technology, and on-air topics while they record. As they head to a high school basketball game, they cross paths with various townspeople—though they’re both really headed to work.

The most obvious thing about The Vast of Night is that the first half is better than the second. This isn’t so much a movie as it is a directing showcase. “Look at all the neat tricks I can do,” first-time director Andrew Patterson seems to say. He opens with sharp dialogue and rarely lets up. Sierra McCormick (Fay) and Jake Horowitz (Everett) are natural performers, developing a clever, easy rapport. Patterson creates characters that exude charm—people you genuinely want to spend time with.

The period details are outstanding. The dresses, the analog tech, the cars—all of it feels lovingly recreated. The production is fully amped up, as though this story needed the finest craftsmanship across the board. Small details are treated as vital clues in a puzzle larger than it appears. I’m just not convinced.

If this were an episode of a TV show, I’d rave about it endlessly. I don’t want to say it adds up to nothing, but it does the hardest parts so well that it’s easy to forget it skips over the essential elements of storytelling. It exudes atmosphere and builds a world that feels worth living in. Every moment is enjoyable. But… that’s about all I can say for it. The film needed a second act that ramped up the stakes, delivered strong set pieces, or introduced a plotline that lingered after the credits rolled. It’s safe to say almost anyone would agree it has none of those things.

Now I want to see Andrew Patterson direct a full feature—something uniquely paced and emotionally resonant. Some of his more ambitious choices, like a long tracking shot across the entire town, don’t add much. It felt like a Disney World ride—cool, sure—but not necessarily the right tool for this particular story. It’s a sequence that flaunts the film’s budget rather than serves its mood or characters.

Even the jobs feel a bit too easy. Being a telephone operator and a DJ is portrayed without much stress or realism. Fay singlehandedly routes every call with a few cable switches, with little else to do besides chat with Everett about a mysterious sound. Both of them can leave their posts whenever they want and don’t seem particularly obligated to return. A long-distance caller reaches Everett live—how did he even hear the broadcast? The small events that do occur feel rushed and improbable if this were a real emergency.

This story would’ve benefited from taking place over multiple days. Even more, it begged to be a full-blown horror film. The atmosphere is there—it just needs a situation to match. I can try to make this more exciting than it is, but I know it isn’t. A movie like this demands a twist—or at least a plot turn that redefines everything we’ve seen. Instead, it builds to a sense of foreboding that ultimately feels a little dishonest. It’s a ho-hum thriller, made exciting only because of its promise of future projects this team might eventually produce.

7/10

My 27 Movie A-Z Film-a-thon: Day 22.

The second most famous film by the director of Bicycle Thieves may not reach the same heights as that masterpiece, but Umberto D. is a sincere and modest minor tragedy—quiet, sad, and human. It’s the second film I’ve seen (after Make Way for Tomorrow) that centers on an elderly person who’s waited too long to address rent or mortgage problems, only to face impending homelessness. In this case, Umberto lives alone with his  dog, Flike—and he fears homelessness more for the dog’s sake than his own.

Umberto D. is a prime example of Italian Neorealism, a genre defined by minimal plot, focus on the working class, and an emphasis on realism and humanism. Director Vittorio De Sica employs nonprofessional actors, with Umberto played by Carlo Battisti, a retired professor. His inexperience brings a vulnerability that feels lived-in.

The film follows Umberto Domenico Ferrari, a retired government employee, as he tries to navigate postwar Italy’s economic realities. Early on, we see him walking a picket line to demand an increase inn their inadequate pensions, which are hardly enough to cover rent. His landlady, Antonia, is of the unsympathetic upper class. She wants him out, not out of necessity, but so she can remodel to entertain upper class guests. She refuses partial rent and even endangers his dog. Her cruelty seems rather exaggerated, but maybe not entirely unrealistic.

As modern viewers, we might wish for more context. Did Umberto once have a family or a partner? Is Antonia struggling as well? These omissions prevent the film from becoming truly layered. The sadness here isn’t melodramatic; it’s cumulative, arising from isolation and desperation. Umberto has peers who might care for him, but his pride gets in the way. “I shouldn’t be in this situation!,” he seems to insist—but he is.

The final 15 minutes are rather fantastic, and they elevate the film into that special place. The story is simple but it lingers. Umberto still receives a pension, and it should be possible to scrape by—yet he’s adrift. When the world you expected crumbles, it’s hard to see a way forward. The film doesn’t try to inspire, but it brings dignity to a story of quiet struggle. You come away feeling like you truly knew this man. This is a story that is painfully common, yet rarely told.

9/10

My 27 Movie A-Z Film-a-thon: Day 21.

“Aye aye, matey.”

Why do people think this is what pirates sound like? That phrase pops up in Disney’s Pirates of the Caribbean ride, but it actually traces back to Treasure Island—specifically this 1950 Disney movie. No one says “matey” in the original book.

Young Jim is swept into an expedition with a doctor and a squire (where is Jim’s mother?) after a mysterious stranger gives him a treasure map. They bring along the doctor’s cook—Long John Silver—who just so happens to be the most obviously suspicious man imaginable. Silver stages a mutiny, takes over the ship, and reveals himself to be a pirate.

The film oozes with stylized lore. Its success hinges on selling the mythos of piracy, and Robert Newton couldn’t be better. He drips pirate swagger—almost too much. Why would a respectable doctor hire such an obvious pirate as his cook?

The movie seems to imply Silver was planning this all along. But if he was already a pirate, why was he working for the doctor before the map ever appeared? His presence aboard the ship only makes sense if the doctor was recruiting a crew after the map, as in the book. But this version rearranges events in a way that creates plot holes rather than clarifying anything.

Also: Silver is already missing a leg at the start, but the film never tells us why. It’s a missed opportunity—there’s no story behind it, not even a throwaway line. Did he lose it to gangrene? Did the doctor never ask? It’s one of many curious narrative gaps.

Treasure Island is good, not great. It’s historically significant and offers one of cinema’s most iconic pirate performances, but it doesn’t add much to the source material or the pirate genre overall. It leans heavily on atmosphere, production design, and Newton’s performance, while glossing over character logic and story coherence. Still, it’s a film I wouldn’t mind revisiting—if I were marooned on a desert island and had nothing better to do.

7/10

My 27 movie A-Z film-a-thon: day 19.

Rio Bravo (1959)

High Noon ranks among my favorite action movies, so I was curious about Rio Bravo, especially after hearing it described as Howard Hawks’s response to that classic. High Noon follows Sheriff Kane, abandoned by his town as he faces a returning outlaw alone.

Rio Bravo centers on John T. Chance (John Wayne), an unattached sheriff trying to hold a killer in jail while the man’s brother schemes to break him out. Unlike Kane, Chance finds dependable deputies—even if they’re flawed: a drunk, a kid, and an old man.

Where High Noon is an economical thriller, Rio Bravo is a greatest-hits collection of Western tropes. It’s sentimental rather than suspenseful. High Noon pushed the genre forward; Rio Bravo settles into its comforts.
Still, it likely felt very adult for its time. Chance exudes mature, casual masculinity. He drinks beer like water, kisses men on the head to get their help, and handles romantic advances with cool detachment. He’s a man’s man with bigger concerns.

You can tell this is a Howard Hawks film from the rich, natural dialogue—always moving, never cliché. Tropes abound, but they’re delivered with warmth and confidence. The character interactions are lively and, at times, very funny. Misunderstandings unfold like in Bringing Up Baby, with believable conversational stumbles.

Action takes a backseat. There’s a plot ripe for tension, but even the shootouts are relaxed. Characters chat across gunfire like they’d rather swap stories than bullets. The film seems to ask, “Do we really care about the action, or are we here for the company?”

Sometimes it tries a bit hard to be charming. An eight-minute scene has the deputies singing in perfect harmony while one strums a guitar. If White Christmas was made to make my grandma smile ear to ear, Rio Bravo was made to do the same for my grandfather.

There’s no bitter end here. It’s about men reaching understandings, earning respect, and charming the women around them. The film looks gorgeous—great cinematography, sets, and costumes. It’s a template for spaghetti Westerns, minus their grit and thrill. Long, quaint, and precious, Rio Bravo doesn’t transcend its genre, but it’s a polished example of how to do the fundamentals right.

8/10

My 27 movie A-Z film-a-thon: day 18.

What an odd film. I’d never heard of it, despite it being a huge hit—$55 million at the box office (about $186 million today). Yet it looks like something made for European television. At least, the version I saw—Prime only had the pan & scan cut.

The best way to describe Quest for Fire is prehistoric cosplay. It’s as if some guys grabbed loincloths, covered themselves in mud, and staged grunting battles. Elephants are dressed up as mastodons. Lions get fake sabretooth fangs. The commitment is admirable.

The plot is simple. Fire is precious—no one knows how to make it, only to preserve it. A small nomadic tribe in the Paleolithic Era (80,000+ years ago) guards a flame they’ve kept alive for years. After an attack by a more primitive tribe, they flee with their fire still intact. But later, while traveling through swampy terrain, one of the three men accidentally extinguishes it. With no idea how to reignite it, they go in search of more. They find the remnants of another tribe that also had fire. They roll around in the ash like deranged loons. There are human skulls. Cannibals. That can’t be good.

They come across a few women held captive by another tribe and free them. One woman follows them, smart and determined, refusing to be underestimated.

Now, this is worth addressing. The film includes a r*** scene. One of the three men forces himself on the woman. She protests—until the film shifts tone, implying she enjoys it. Meanwhile, Ron Perlman’s character silently turns away, offering them “privacy.” It’s one of those ’80s movie scenes where r*** is treated as inevitable, even romantic. Some might excuse this as fitting the primitive setting, but that’s lazy. A more thoughtful filmmaker wouldn’t present assault this irresponsibly, especially in a movie marketed broadly. The subtext is vile: “R*** is natural, and she liked it.”

The film’s logic also strains believability. We’re told the tribe has kept fire alive for years—but it’s carried in a basket. No fuel. No bags. No protection from weather. The idea that this fragile flame could survive travel is hard to accept.

The rest of the film is mostly grunting, tribal battles, and encounters with animals dressed as prehistoric beasts. It doesn’t teach you much, but it’s undeniably ambitious. The actors go all in. It looks muddy and bleak and physical in a way few films do. It even won the Oscar for Make-up, and fair enough.

Should you see it? That depends. The film is strange, illogical, and morally questionable—but unique. I’ve never seen anything quite like it. (Sasquatch Sunset might be next on my A-to-Z list.)

Yes, you should see it. With an asterisk.

7/10

My 27 movie A-Z film-a-thon: Day 17.

A colorful whir of technological bliss.

It’s impossible to watch Paprika without thinking of Inception (2010). In Inception, Dominic Cobb (Leonardo DiCaprio) enters people’s dreams to extract secrets from their subconscious. In Paprika, Dr. Atsuko Chiba does something similar, using a device called the DC Mini to enter dreams and help patients through their therapy. The twist: the DC Mini is stolen, and its thief begins to manipulate people’s dreams—and minds—on a mass scale.

The idea of dream infiltration isn’t new. Roger Zelazny’s novel The Dream Master (1966)  shares a premise that closely resembles Paprika’s in broad strokes, and Philip K. Dick’s Ubik isn’t far off either. But Paprika takes those seeds and runs wild with them, injecting the concept with color, chaos, and visual invention. The result feels like a dream within a dream—not unlike a fantasy RPG campaign, full of wild, surreal encounters and world mechanics waiting to be explored.

The animation bears a clear influence from Hayao Miyazaki’s Spirited Away. The dream world sequences—especially the parade—are filled with characters and creatures that feel spiritually descended from Miyazaki’s more whimsical creations. “Granny” even makes a cameo of sorts. But where Spirited Away is magical and serene, Paprika is frenzied, glitchy, and technological.

Having seen director Satoshi Kon’s previous film, Tokyo Godfathers, I was surprised by how different Paprika feels. Tokyo Godfathers is dingy and dialogue-heavy, grounded in a gritty, real-world setting. I often struggled to keep up with the subtitles, and the story—while simple—felt hard to follow without a recap.

Paprika is the opposite: colorful, fast-paced, and visually stunning. The action doesn’t rely on walls of text to explain itself, and the subtitles are easy to read without falling behind. Where Tokyo Godfathers felt drab, Paprika bursts with vivid blues, reds, and golds, animated with fluidity and precision. Characters are distinctive and memorable. The soundtrack, with its glitchy electronic palette, feels right at home alongside the cutting-edge video game music of its era.

I especially appreciate works that pick up the baton and keep running with it. Has Paprika invented wholly new ideas? Maybe not. You can see traces of A Nightmare on Elm Street in its horror elements, and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind in its emotional dissection through surrealism. But Paprika refines and reimagines those ideas in its own hypnotic, high-tech voice. (And for the record, Paprika is based on a 1993 novel, so Eternal Sunshine likely drew from it—not the other way around.)

Is it a little confusing? Sure. The story is clear at first, but around the halfway mark, plot developments start coming fast, and the rules of the dream world get hazier. The villain, while intriguing, could have been more clearly defined—I wasn’t even sure what he looked like for most of the film. It’s one of those cases where a quick Wikipedia read helps connect the dots.

But compared to the convoluted multiverse films of the past decade, Paprika is refreshingly streamlined. It’s dense, but not overloaded. You can follow it, even if some pieces slip by on first watch.

More than anything, Paprika is a sensory experience. The music, animation, editing, and pacing all work in tandem to create a world that feels as real as it is unreal. It is dream logic, sharpened into high art. The film doesn’t just explore dreams—it feels like one.

Sadly, Satoshi Kon passed away in 2010 from pancreatic cancer, leaving this as his final feature. That makes Paprika not just a masterpiece, but a culmination—the crowning achievement of an artist and team at the height of their powers.

9/10

My 27 movie A-Z film-a-thon’: day 16.

Onibaba (1964)

Onibaba: Demon Woman feels like a 1970s grindhouse movie — except it came out of Japan in 1964. Though “pink films” and exploitation movies had already been made since 1959, Onibaba isn’t a sex picture. It’s a folk-horror art film, and it features some of the best black-and-white cinematography of all time. It looks like Seven Samurai in its craftsmanship. That much effort was put into it.

The plot is slight and semi-ludicrous. Two women, a mother and daughter-in-law, have no way to fend for themselves while the son is off fighting a war. They kill wandering samurai and sell their belongings. I expected them to lure men and poison them, or attack them in their sleep — something two normal women could plausibly do. Nope. When a samurai happens to wander near, they stab him with a spear or bludgeon him with a rock. Killing a fully armored samurai with a single spear thrust seems as far-fetched as saying: Hungry? Just bend this crowbar with your bare hands!

The story centers on Hachi, a soldier who returns home without the son. He claims the son was killed, but the mother suspects Hachi may have murdered him. Hachi quickly discovers the women’s killing scheme and demands a share of the spoils. “Mind your own business,” the mother tells him.

Tension builds as Hachi becomes attracted to the daughter-in-law, now a widow, much to the mother’s horror. She fears losing her killing partner — and maybe something more. She tries to drive a wedge between them, but her interference only fuels their desire.

Tarantino has never explicitly cited Onibaba, but it’s hard to believe he hasn’t seen it. He loves both Japanese art films and pink films from this era, and the ending here feels very Death Proof-esque. The movie wrings everything it can from its setting: a well-scouted marsh, a fearsome demon mask, and immaculate framing. It is unforgettable visually — any frame could be hung in a gallery. It looks exquisite.

The movie has atmosphere, but not necessarily much content. About 30% of the dialogue is filler, with characters repeating key lines three or four times. Still, it is never boring, which is a rare thing for me to say about a 1960s film. Onibaba is rich with emotion, captured against the wild beauty of nature. It’s a rare hybrid: an exploitation film with real artistry, and an art film that embraces sex and nudity with surprising frankness for its time.

If you’re a fan of cult cinema, Japanese film, old horror, or any combination thereof, Onibaba is a relic worth unearthing.

8/10