Sinners is director Ryan Coogler at his most unhinged—and perhaps his most inspired.

Imagine The Social Network’s twin-tech trickery meets Inglourious Basterds with a pinch of Get Out, and you’re somewhere in the ballpark of Sinners.

Something feels stagnant about our cultural engagement with sex.

Yes, autonomy and empowerment exist, but only within a system that reinforces the very structures it purports to question.

Warfare is not a film in the conventional sense.

There are barely any characters to speak of, no arcs, and no anchors. We’re embedded with a SEAL squad on deployment, but these men are not introduced or developed. They are silhouettes, pulses, steady gazes, and trembling fingers on triggers.

It’s a dark, unpolished dive.

The bar is charmingly rough around the edges, where the walls feel like they’ve absorbed sweat and spilled drinks over countless unforgettable nights. It’s a place where the beer is exceptional, the floors are affectionately sticky, and the music is loud—beautifully so, chaotically so.

What on earth is a woke scone?

A snack with a land acknowledgement? A pastry that self-identifies as a croissant? A radical leftist baked good demanding reparations for colonial tea plantations? No. Apparently, it’s just a scone without butter…

Not even the broad shoulders of Jack Black as Steve could carry this picture to success.

Ultimately, the creators of this picture were so absorbed with whether or not they could, they forgot to ask whether or not they should.

In the world of finance, a unicorn is something to be caught, dissected, and monetized.

In Death of a Unicorn, Alex Scharfman takes this premise to a grotesquely literal conclusion.

To call Opus a critique of celebrity culture is to reduce it.

It does not merely criticize. It embodies, extends, and ultimately deranges the phenomenon.

Misogyny is not an instinct. It is an education.

For many, fraternities provide it. To fight misogyny is to fight the culture of indoctrination that exists for men and women alike, wherever it may be found, through the disruption of misogynistic echo chambers.

FINNEAS does not present the charisma of excess or spectacle.

Instead, he embodies a melancholic observer of love and fame. Can a song about lonely souls survive when sung by thousands?

Consider Joe Rogan, the barbarian Khan of podcasting.

His cultural influence is immense, his ideological commitments slippery, his posture one of insatiable curiosity—unless it comes to skepticism toward institutions, reverence for a vague ideal of masculinity, and a deep distrust of intellectual elites.

In Chicago, it is February. But for this moment, it is summer.

DIVE leaves one imagining vignettes of summertime love and longing, recalling memories of a misspent youth.