@MXWest

Category: Film and Story

  • The Sonic Trilogy

    Why so [not] serious?

    For a good long while, Jim Carrey had put his goofy, larger-than-life characters on the shelf. The comedic madness of his Ace Ventura or The Mask era? A thing of the past. Carrey wanted to be a serious artist.

    Then came Sonic the Hedgehog—a franchise that didn’t need to be more than a nostalgia-fueled cash grab. And yet, it’s better than it has to be.

    And it gave us the return of Full-Silly Jim Carrey. And it’s a lot of fun.

    As Dr. Robotnik, his mustache-twirling, eyebrow-waggling antics are vintage Carrey, perfectly in sync with the amusement park energy of Sonic. It reminds you why he became a household name in the first place.

    What makes his return to this kind of comedy so satisfying is how unapologetic it is. Carrey doesn’t hold back or try to ground Robotnik in realism—he goes big, bold, and unhinged. Carrey’s willingness to embrace silliness is refreshing and welcome in an era when so many performances feel calculated or overly self-aware.

    The Sonic trilogy doesn’t reinvent cinema, but it doesn’t need to. Its secret weapon (besides the last-minute rework of the titular character before the original film’s release) is Jim Carrey, cutting loose in a way we hadn’t seen in years. If this is the kind of fun he’s bringing back, we’re here for it.

  • Men of No Name

    Sergio Leone and George Miller

    The Man with No Name trilogy and George Miller’s Mad Max films share a narrative philosophy that transcends conventional storytelling. Both series build vivid worlds that feel immense, yet their characters and arcs remain loosely connected. These stories thrive not on strict continuity but on recurring motifs, archetypes, and the timeless pull of myth.

    At their core are two enigmatic protagonists: the Man with No Name and Max Rockatansky, wanderers who move like spectral figures through landscapes of violence, greed, and survival. They are less individuals with linear histories and more like the recurring symbols found in epic tales—Prometheus stealing fire, Odysseus navigating uncharted seas. Their stories suggest countless untold adventures, their legacies unfolding as much in imagination as on screen.

    Sergio Leone and George Miller bring these mythic figures to life through their singular cinematic visions, each defining their series. Leone’s deliberate pacing and iconic standoffs transform his Westerns into high-stakes operas, every glance and gesture imbued with tension. Ennio Morricone’s haunting scores amplify this sense of gravitas, evoking a world of grandeur and decay. In contrast, Miller’s primal, kinetic style strips his apocalyptic landscapes to their raw essence. His balletic action sequences and stark minimalism elevate human struggle to near-wordless poetry. In both, style becomes substance, reinforcing their universal appeal.

    The worlds these directors create amplify their mythic resonance. Leone’s barren deserts and decaying towns feel eternal, a stage for the rise and fall of men. Miller’s post-apocalyptic wastelands, littered with remnants of a broken civilization, echo this timeless decay. In both, the landscapes are not mere backdrops but essential players, shaping the stories as much as the actions of their protagonists.

    By embracing archetypes, both series shift the focus from plot minutiae to broader, timeless questions: How does one survive a fractured world? What defines heroism amid moral ambiguity? What legacies do wanderers leave behind? Leone and Miller create stories that transcend their genres, resonating not as mere tales but as enduring modern myths.

  • World without Mercy

    The Humans of Godzilla Minus One

    Godzilla Minus One and the Legendary Films’ Godzilla series represent two very different approaches to the same mythos. The former focuses on human drama as the lens for a force beyond comprehension; the latter prioritizes spectacle, turning its monster into a character. The difference lies not just in narrative focus but in how each understands the balance between humanity and chaos.

    In Godzilla Minus One, the monster is impersonal, neither a hero nor a villain. It is chaos itself, unyielding and indifferent. The film’s power lies in its human story, an exploration of grief, survival, trauma, and resilience. We are invested in the characters, thus every appearance of Godzilla is a genuine, existential threat. The destruction carries weight because it impacts people we care about, grounding the chaos in emotional reality.

    The Legendary Films, by contrast, anthropomorphize Godzilla—and Kong—to the point where they seem like protagonists in their own right. The humans in these films are secondary, existing to bridge elaborate and often disjointed action sequences. Lacking meaningful stakes or emotional depth, the destruction becomes superficial—visually overwhelming but ultimately forgettable.

    Godzilla Minus One avoids this by tying its visuals to its narrative. Its Academy Award-winning special effects (2024) support the story rather than overwhelm it. Godzilla is not the center of attention but a force that shapes the lives of the people caught in its wake. Much like the 1954 Godzilla, this film understands that the monster’s power comes not from its roar but from what it represents—a reminder of humanity’s fragility in the face of forces beyond control.