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Sometimes a movie arrives with a premise so simple and so ridiculous that it sounds impossible to pull off.
Wile E. Coyote, after decades of being crushed, blown up, launched from cliffs, and otherwise betrayed by Acme products, decides he has finally had enough.
So he sues them.
That is the wonderfully absurd setup of Coyote vs. Acme, a live-action and animated comedy that plays like Who Framed Roger Rabbit crossed with Erin Brockovich—all wrapped around a surprisingly heartfelt David-versus-Goliath.
The plotting is solid, the characters possess more complexity than you might expect, and the filmmakers clearly understand and love the Looney Tunes legacy. The movie is packed with visual jokes, Easter eggs, and affectionate nods to these characters, while still finding room for a genuinely warm story about courage, failure, and standing up to people with more money, power, and polish than you.
And given the movie’s own history—completed, shelved, and eventually released—that underdog story takes on an almost accidental layer of meaning. The movie itself became something of a Wile E. Coyote, refusing to disappear no matter how many times corporate machinery tried to drop an anvil on it. 
Joining me once again is friend of the show Sean Boelman, film critic, member of the Critics Choice Association, and editor at FandomWire.

For over 15 years, horror audiences have been returning to one particular location: the Further. And today, we are reviewing this most recent return in Insidious: Out of the Further, the sixth installment in the Insidious franchise.
This franchise has always understood the importance of atmosphere. The red door, the astral plane, the unsettling creatures, and the performances—particularly Lin Shaye’s portrayal of Elise Rainier—have helped establish a mythology that audiences continue to revisit.
But horror, like every other genre, requires more than individual ingredients.
A creepy setting can create tension. A frightening image can create a memorable moment. A beloved franchise can bring audiences back to theaters. But ultimately, a motion picture requires something more: characters we care about, conflict that develops naturally, and a screenplay that connects those individual pieces into a cohesive dramatic experience.
Insidious: Out of the Further introduces several intriguing ideas: a new protagonist dealing with grief and trauma, a new exploration of the Further, and a fascinating expansion of what that supernatural realm can do.
Horror has always been a genre built on imagination. A door. A shadow. A sound from another room. A place we should not enter.
Insidious: Out of the Further understands those elements. It understands atmosphere, mythology, and the power of unsettling imagery. But ultimately, even the most frightening ideas need a strong foundation beneath them.
Because the difference between a collection of scary moments and a memorable horror film is not simply what scares us. It is why we care.

Dinosaurs are scary again.
That may be the simplest way to describe The End of Oak Street, a summertime creature feature that takes prehistoric predators and drops them into one of the most familiar environments imaginable: suburbia.
Shot on 35mm film, the movie has a wonderfully warm, slightly soft texture that gives the picture an old-school personality—almost like a 1960s B-movie somehow wandered into the present day. And despite some tonal uncertainty and several thematic ideas that never receive the development they deserve, the movie has heart, momentum, and enough creature-feature energy to make it an entertaining capstone to the summer season.
What I particularly enjoyed is how effectively it taps into that childhood fear many of us probably had after seeing Jurassic Park: what if the dinosaurs weren't on some remote island?
What if they were in your neighborhood?
The End of Oak Street may not fully develop every idea it introduces, and its uncertain balance between horror and dark comedy keeps the movie from becoming quite as cohesive as it could have been.
But sometimes a creature feature succeeds because it understands something much simpler:
Monsters are supposed to be fun—and occasionally they're supposed to scare us.
With its warm 35mm presentation, old-school B-movie personality, brisk pacing, and prehistoric predators invading the comforts of suburbia, The End of Oak Street delivers an enjoyable final dose of summertime movie escapism.
Most importantly, dinosaurs are scary again.
Joining me today is a guy who's uniquely qualified to answer that question—Steve, half of the duo otherwise known around as “the dinosaur people,” from the Everything I Learned from Movies podcast. Izzy, unfortunately isn't able to join the show.
I've appeared on their show many times, and today we're finally turning the tables.

For more than sixty years, Spider-Man has endured because, beneath the mask and the extraordinary abilities, Peter Parker remains one of the most recognizably human superheroes ever created.
He worries about money. He disappoints the people he loves. He makes mistakes. And no matter how many times he saves New York—or perhaps the entire world—his victories nearly always come at a personal cost.
That humanity is at the center of Spider-Man: Brand New Day, perhaps the darkest Spider-Man movie since The Amazing Spider-Man 2. This is a Peter Parker who bleeds, bruises, and carries the physical and psychological consequences of everything he has endured. The vulnerability gives Tom Holland some of the strongest material he has received as the character and perhaps results in his best performance to date.
At the same time, the film makes the unusual decision to tell a superhero story without a traditional central villain. There are threats and adversaries, but no enduring character of opposition to propel Peter through the conventional hero’s journey. The result is a film I found dramatically uneven: thoughtful and well performed, but also slow, heavily melodramatic, and lacking some of the excitement I expect from Spider-Man.
Spider-Man: Brand New Day takes Peter Parker into darker and more human territory than most previous entries, giving Tom Holland an opportunity to deliver perhaps his finest performance beneath—or outside—the mask.
Whether the movie succeeds may depend on what audiences want from Spider-Man. Those looking for a somber character study may appreciate its focus on injury, trauma, and consequence. Those expecting a more traditional superhero adventure may feel the absence of a central villain and the lack of sustained momentum.
For me, it is a thoughtful and strongly performed film that never completely develops into satisfying Spider-Man entertainment. Still, its willingness to show Peter Parker as vulnerable, frightened, and physically fallible reminds us why the character has endured for generations.
Spider-Man may possess extraordinary powers, but it is his humanity that keeps audiences returning.
Joining me today is someone who has shared many Spider-Man adventures with me—although ours usually involve waiting in queue before riding Spider-Man attraction at Universal’s Islands of Adventure.

Gloriously unhinged!
Some movies ask us to admire their stories.
Others ask us to admire the craftsmanship that brought them to life.
Pinocchio Unstrung, the latest horror reimagining from the creative team behind Winnie the Pooh: Blood and Honey, isn't a film I'll remember for its screenplay. The dialogue is often clunky or just bad, the characters are thinly drawn, and the story rarely surprises.
Yet within minutes, I found myself grinning from ear to ear.
Why? Because this is a movie made by artists who clearly love movie magic.
From handcrafted puppets and practical makeup to animatronic creatures and inventive production design, nearly every frame reminds us what can happen when filmmakers choose tangible craftsmanship over digital convenience.
Pinocchio Unstrung may never be remembered as one of horror's great screenplays, but I sincerely hope it's remembered for something equally important.
At a time when computer-generated imagery has become the industry's default solution, this film reminds us that movie magic can still be built by hand. Puppeteers. Makeup artists. Creature designers. Animatronic engineers. Craftsmen whose work is tangible enough to touch—and whose passion is visible in every frame.
Whether or not the story completely works, the artistry certainly does.
Joining ReelTalk once again is friend of the show film critic Sean Boelman, editor at FandomWire and member of the Critics Choice Association.

Magnificent moments in search of equally epic dramatic architecture? We shall see, as we review The Odyssey.
Christopher Nolan has built a career on making films that inspire conversation long after the credits roll. Whether it's Memento, The Prestige, Inception, or Oppenheimer, audiences rarely leave simply talking about whether they liked the movie—they leave debating what Nolan was trying to accomplish.
His latest film, may prove to be his most divisive work yet—at least that has been my experience since I made my thoughts known on that pool of constructive criticism and thoughtful discourse that is social media—oh how I wish.
On one hand, it's a staggering technical achievement, bringing Homer's legendary epic to the screen with a sense of scale that reminds us why the theatrical experience still matters. On the other hand, Nolan once again challenges traditional narrative conventions, prompting an interesting question:
Can spectacle alone carry an epic, or does every great epic ultimately depend upon dramatic architecture?
And we will be able to do more than critique the film itself, as my guest today has recently completed a re-read of the Iliad and The Odyssey, so he’ll be able to bring the literary dimension to our conversation as well.

When we talk about movies that celebrate cinema itself, our minds usually drift toward films like Singin' in the Rain, Hugo, a personal favorite of my mom’s, or perhaps The Artist.
They're movies about moviemaking, about Hollywood, and about why the medium has endured for more than a century.
Rarely would anyone expect to add a Minions movie to that list. And yet, Minions & Monsters surprised me—and many other critics.
Rather than simply repeating the familiar formula of the Minions searching for their next great villain to serve, the filmmakers take these delightfully chaotic little yellow creatures and place them at the birth of Hollywood itself.
The result is a film that functions simultaneously as a love letter to cinema, a playful history lesson, and a heartfelt story about discovering the thing that gives your life purpose.
What impressed me most wasn't simply the humor or the endless visual references to film history. It was the sincerity.
Beneath the slapstick lies a genuine affection for movies—not as content, but as an art form capable of inspiring dreams, preserving history, and connecting generations.
The film channels the optimism and craftsmanship of classical Hollywood storytelling while reminding audiences that cinema isn't merely something we watch.
It's something we feel.
Joining me once again is returning guest and friend of the show, film critic Brad Biewer, host of the CinemaSpeak Podcast

For nearly a decade, superhero movies have found themselves in something of an identity crisis.
Some have become increasingly dark and self-serious. Others have tried to deconstruct the genre or expand sprawling cinematic universes until individual stories became secondary to future installments. Somewhere along the way, many forgot one simple truth:
These movies are supposed to be fun.
Supergirl remembers.
No, it isn't reinventing the superhero genre. It isn't trying to dismantle every convention that came before it, nor is it interested in convincing audiences they're watching something more profound than a comic-book adventure.
Instead, it embraces the fundamentals of storytelling: engaging characters, clear emotional stakes, imaginative world-building, and a narrative that moves confidently from beginning to end.
And honestly, that's refreshing.
This has quietly become one of the more enjoyable summers for blockbuster filmmaking. Between Mortal Kombat II, Masters of the Universe, and now Supergirl, audiences have been reminded that spectacle and sincerity can coexist.
These films understand that entertainment isn't a compromise—it's the assignment.
Supergirl certainly isn't perfect. A few action scenes suffer from muddy lighting, and the editing occasionally lacks polish.
But those shortcomings are outweighed by memorable characters, imaginative alien worlds, genuine humor, and perhaps most importantly, a screenplay that understands classical dramatic structure.
Sometimes following the rules exceptionally well is more satisfying than trying to rewrite them.
Today we're discussing Supergirl, why it works why it may be one of the most entertaining superhero films we've had in quite some time.

Full disclosure, this movie is in need of higher intelligence.
For nearly fifty years, few filmmakers have shaped our collective vision of extraterrestrial life more than Steven Spielberg.
From Close Encounters of the Third Kind to E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial, Spielberg helped define what alien stories could be.
Sometimes they were wondrous. Sometimes they were frightening. But they almost always possessed a sense of curiosity about humanity itself.
His latest film, Disclosure Day, returns to familiar territory.
Working once again with screenwriter David Koepp, Spielberg tackles a premise that immediately captures the imagination: what happens when humanity receives undeniable proof that we are not alone?
It's the kind of idea that has fueled science fiction for generations. Films, novels, television programs, and even episodes of The Twilight Zone have explored the possibilities, the fears, and the profound implications of first contact.
Yet an intriguing premise and a compelling story are not always the same thing.
While Disclosure Day contains interesting ideas, strong technical craftsmanship, and occasional flashes of the emotional warmth that has defined Spielberg's best work, it also raises an important question about modern filmmaking:
Is a collection of fascinating moments enough to sustain a feature-length story?
Today, we're discussing Disclosure Day, its strengths, its frustrations, and why a film built around one of the most intriguing concepts imaginable ultimately left me wanting to revisit Spielberg's earlier explorations of the unknown.

When we think of D-Day, we tend to think of the beaches.
We think of Omaha. Utah. The landing craft. The paratroopers. The extraordinary courage displayed by thousands of Allied troops on June 6, 1944.
What we rarely think about is the weather.
Yet one of the most consequential decisions of World War II had nothing to do with troop movements or battlefield tactics. It involved a forecast.
Before the first soldier landed in Normandy, military planners needed to know whether conditions would allow the invasion to proceed. Too much wind, poor visibility, rough seas, or low cloud cover could jeopardize the operation before it ever began.
And at the center of that decision was a Scottish meteorologist named Dr. James Stagg.
That unlikely story forms the basis of Pressure, a film adapted from David Haig's stage play about the days leading up to D-Day and the enormous responsibility resting on the shoulders of one man tasked with predicting the unpredictable.
What makes Pressure so effective is that it transforms what should be a dry procedural into a compelling thriller. The audience knows D-Day happens.
History has already revealed the outcome. Yet the film still manages to create suspense because the question is not whether the invasion occurs—but whether the forecast is right.
Joining me once again is returning guest and friend of the show, film critic Brad Biewer, host of the CinemaSpeak Podcast.