Why I Won’t Be Reviewing The Odyssey (2026)

Ulysses deriding Polyphemus, 1829, J.M.W. Turner

Several friends were genuinely surprised when I told them I had absolutely no interest in seeing Christopher Nolan’s The Odyssey (2026). Given my lifelong love of mythology, fantasy, and science fiction, they assumed it would be at the top of my list. In a saner age, they would probably be right.

Unfortunately, we no longer live in that world. We live in a cultural landscape that gave us The Rings of Power, where beloved myths are routinely stripped of their spirit and rebuilt according to modern ideological fashions. I have too much love and respect for Homer to spend my time or money on what appears to be another exercise in the same destructive impulse.

The casting choices and costume design were enough to make me skeptical from the beginning. However, reports that the film embraces modern dialogue and contemporary political framing removed any lingering curiosity. I do not need to see it to know it is not the Odyssey I want.

What surprised me most is how much faith people place in Christopher Nolan. Apparently, his name alone is enough to draw audiences into theaters. I confess I do not understand the reverence. Of his thirteen feature films, I have only seen Dunkirk (2017) and the Dark Knight trilogy. None left much of an impression on me. I considered watching Oppenheimer (2023), but never got around to it, and I remain in no hurry.

I also have no interest in participating in the endless online culture war surrounding this film.

I’d rather revisit films that still understand wonder without apology: The 7th Voyage of Sinbad (1958), The Golden Voyage of Sinbad (1973), Sinbad and the Eye of the Tiger (1977), Clash of the Titans (1981), Excalibur (1981), and Conan the Barbarian (1982). Those films remain magical because they approached myth with reverence, imagination, and sincerity. They invited audiences into legendary worlds rather than dragging those worlds into the fashions and preoccupations of the present.

As for new releases, the only films I am genuinely looking forward to this year are I Play Rocky (2026), Godzilla Minus Zero (2026), and Robert Eggers’ Werwulf (2026).

There will be no review of Christopher Nolan’s The Odyssey here. Some films are simply not worth three hours of my life.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, July 22nd, Feast Day of Santa Maria Maddalena

Review: Citizen Vigilante (2026)

Spoiler Alert

“This film is dedicated to the thousands of rape and murder victims in Europe who were betrayed by our legal system.” ~ The closing dedication

After hearing Citizen Vigilante (2026) was banned in Germany and described as timely by some, condemned as racist by others, and dismissed as a false flag, I was curious to see whether it lived up to the controversy.

Produced, written, and directed by Uwe Boll, the film stars Armie Hammer as Michael Sanders, a vigilante who takes justice into his own hands after losing faith in the legal system.

The film opens with a brutal daylight stabbing of a woman walking with her young son. The scene is bloody and shocking, and it immediately reminded me of the unprovoked killing of Iryna Zarutska in Charlotte, North Carolina.

Almost immediately, the film stumbles as it cuts to a breaking news report that laughably presents the news media establishment as an impartial and trustworthy source of information. As we routinely see, today’s media is ideologically driven and plays a significant role in shielding crooked politicians, selectively reporting certain crimes, and helping normalize the broader social decline that the film claims to condemn.

The film also portrays the vigilante’s growing popularity by showing ordinary people celebrating his violent methods. While revenge fantasies certainly have their audience, I found this depiction of widespread public support to be more a projection of the Left’s glorification of political violence. Just consider the unapologetic admiration expressed for Luigi Mangione, Tyler James Robinson, and the would-be assassins of Donald Trump.

For all its flaws, Citizen Vigilante is at its strongest when it explores public frustration with violent crime and a two-tier justice system perceived by many as placing ideology above the needs of victims. Its portrayal of corrupt judges whose decisions fuel public outrage is among its more convincing elements.

Rather than creating a compelling antihero, Michael frequents brothels, is a slumlord, and deliberately runs an innocent motorist off the road simply to "own" a drugged and sedated judge he is about to kill. As if that were not bizarre enough, in one scene he stops mid-coitus with a prostitute to inspect mold in the room—only to resume as though nothing had happened.

Most glaringly, he massacres a police tactical team in an over-the-top sequence that again resembles the kind of anti-police fantasy more commonly associated with the radical Left than with a law-and-order vigilante. Since the officers are never depicted as corrupt or complicit, one cannot help but wonder why he did not simply flee through the escape hatch instead of slaughtering them. This is a major contradiction that weakens both the character and the film’s so-called message.

While Citizen Vigilante raises important questions about crime, justice, immigration, and public confidence in legal institutions, those questions are ultimately overshadowed by implausible action, inconsistent characterization, and excessive violence.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, July 12th, Feast of Santa Veronica

Catholic Movie Night at Atrium Stadium Cinemas in Staten Island, New York

Awaiting Werwulf

Few films have me genuinely counting the days, but Robert Eggers’ forthcoming Werwulf is one of them. Judging from the trailer alone, it promises everything I enjoy in a horror film: darkness, dread, folklore, superstition, and that wonderfully macabre atmosphere Eggers has made his signature. It looks unsettling in all the right ways.

A longtime fan of Robert Eggers’ work, I especially enjoyed Nosferatu. It was beautifully crafted, genuinely eerie, and refreshingly willing to embrace the Gothic without apology. If Werwulf captures even a fraction of that same haunting power, opening day cannot come soon enough.

Of course, there may be another explanation for my enthusiasm. As someone of Irpinian ancestry, perhaps I am simply answering an ancient call. After all, the ancient Hirpini took their name from the Oscan word for “wolf,” and later tradition associated them with wolf-men. Maybe this is nothing more than blood memory stirring beneath the surface—or perhaps my inner lupumanare has caught the scent of another Robert Eggers masterpiece.

Spider-Noir: Shadows Without Substance

Spider-Noir playbills clinging to a weathered wall in Little Italy, New York

Spider-Noir arrives wrapped in all the familiar trappings of classic noir: rain-slicked streets, deep shadows, corrupt officials, gangsters, the voice of a sultry lounge singer drifting through smoke-filled clubs, and a weary masked vigilante brooding over a decaying city.

The series even offers dual visual formats—“Authentic Black and White” and “True-Hue Full Color.” I chose the black-and-white version, which I believe suits the somber milieu far better.

Visually and audibly, the series succeeds. The stark lighting and decaying cityscapes effectively evoke the noir films of the 1930s and ’40s. Li Jun Li plays Felicia “Cat” Hardy well as an elegant femme fatale nightclub singer, though she bears little resemblance to the original comic character.

Felicia “Cat” Hardy (Li Jun Li), beneath the spotlight,
channeling the melancholy glamour of classic noir cabaret

Yet beneath the striking aesthetic lies a familiar problem: Spider-Noir imitates the external form of noir without fully capturing its deeper substance. The story is often formulaic, lacks genuine surprises, and many of the supporting characters fail to leave much of an impression.

Chauncey “Flat-Face” Frog

I generally like Nicolas Cage as Ben Reilly / The Spider—he’s pulpy, theatrical, and eccentric—but his voice here repeatedly reminded me of Chauncey “Flat-Face” Frog, the derby-hatted Edward G. Robinson parody from the old animated series Courageous Cat and Minute Mouse. The resemblance became distracting enough that I occasionally found myself doing a Flat-Face impersonation out loud: “Yeah, see! I’m the frog, see!”

Classic noir was more than a style. It reflected a civilization confronting exhaustion, corruption, and spiritual decline. Spider-Noir gestures toward that darkness but too often falls back into modern superhero conventions—predictable emotional beats, unnecessary quips, and contemporary sensibilities awkwardly inserted into an interwar setting.

The result is a series that is compelling to look at and occasionally atmospheric, but ultimately feels more like a simulation of noir than a true revival. The shadows remain, but the worldview that once gave them meaning is largely absent.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, May 30th, Feast of Santa Giovanna d’Arco and San Ferdinando III

Destino (2003) — Disney at Its Most Surreal and Haunting

Scene from Destino (2003)

I only just discovered this wonderful film thanks to a friend who brought it to my attention (she couldn’t believe I’d never heard of it before, and neither could I). As someone who isn’t particularly fond of modern Disney, finding something this strange, mythological, and artistically daring was a genuine surprise.

Destino feels less like a traditional animated short (it's under 7 minutes long) and more like a dream pulled from the subconscious, filled with melting landscapes, impossible transformations, tragic romance, and dark mythic imagery. Originally conceived as a collaboration between Walt Disney and Salvador Dalí in 1945, the film brings the Spaniard’s unmistakable surrealism to life in a way that feels hypnotic and haunting.

It’s beautiful, eerie, melancholic, and unlike almost anything modern Disney has made, at least from what I’ve seen. Sharing this in case anyone else somehow missed it, too.

Watch it here on YouTube

Rumors and Revivals

"When I became a man, I put away childish things, including the fear of childishness and the desire to be very grown up.” ~ C.S. Lewis

I recently learned that a remake of Barbarella (1968) is in the works, starring Sydney Sweeney as the eponymous space vixen. After being mocked by younger critics for “showing my age” in last year’s False Dichotomy article, I’ve at least caught up enough to know who she is.

As a childhood fan of the original starring Jane Fonda, I can’t help but worry that Hollywood will once again mishandle an iconic cult character. To be clear, the film was never meant for children, given its overt sexual themes. My parents didn’t realize this when they let me buy a copy on RCA's CED format; they assumed it was just another campy space romp in the vein of Flash Gordon (1980) or Buck Rogers in the 25th Century (1979).

Based on clips of Ms. Sweeney circulating online, this new adaptation will likely follow the same adult tone, which is unsurprising given her willingness to appear in the buff.

Another project that may finally be coming to fruition is King Conan, the long-awaited sequel to Conan the Barbarian (1982), starring Arnold Schwarzenegger. It’s a film I’ve been waiting decades to see.

I say “sequel,” and not the third in a trilogy, because Conan the Destroyer (1984) felt more like a departure in spirit rather than a true continuation. That judgment is no doubt sharpened by the fact that I grew up reading Robert E. Howard, whose stories first shaped my sense of the character.

While I still feel that way, I recently rewatched Conan the Destroyer and found it less bad than I remembered, perhaps because the bar is now so low that it compares favorably to much of what is produced today.

Another rumor making the rounds suggests that a new installment in the Planet of the Apes series—said to be a direct sequel to Kingdom of the Planet of the Apes (2024)—is already in production. If true, it would mark the fifth entry in the current cycle of films.

I admit a soft spot here. I’ve been a fan of these films (and television series) since childhood, even if they stray considerably from Pierre Boulle's 1962 novel. The original cycle still holds a particular place for me, especially Planet of the Apes (1968) starring Charlton Heston and its darker successor Beneath the Planet of the Apes (1970). Few lines are as enduring as “Take your stinking paws off me, you damn dirty ape,” and fewer endings are as memorable as that final, devastating reveal.

Of the modern films, I was especially taken with Rise of the Planet of the Apes (2011)—still my favorite of the newer series—featuring James Franco. Whatever liberties these films take, they’ve managed, at their best, to capture something of the original’s spirit: a blend of spectacle, moral unease, and tragic inevitability.

Still, experience tempers enthusiasm. Hollywood’s track record with revivals—especially the misfires of Conan the Barbarian (2011), Red Sonja (2025), and Robin Hood (2025)—offers little reassurance.

Nor do the upcoming The Death of Robin Hood (2026) or The Odyssey (2026) inspire much confidence; from what has been shown so far, both appear poised to continue the same pattern of hollow spectacle and misplaced ambition—more revision than revival.

That said, not all is cause for pessimism. I find myself genuinely looking forward to the next season of A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms (2027), Godzilla Minus Zero (2026), and, to a lesser extent, Dune: Part Three (2026), even if I don’t hold this cycle in quite the same regard as Dune (1984). These, at least, reflect rare modern efforts to understand both source and audience. If any deserve a measure of anticipation, these do.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, April 23rd, Feast of San Giorgio Martire

Catholic Movie Night at Atrium Stadium Cinemas in Staten Island, New York

Foreclosing on Faith Film Screening and Conference with Filmmaker Viktoria Somogyi and Canon Law Expert Attorney Brody Hale

Movie Review — Dracula: A Love Tale (2026)

Spoiler Alert!

"I am just a poor soul condemned by God and cursed to walk in the shadow of death for all eternity." ~ Luc Besson's Dracula: A Love Tale (2026), as spoken by Prince Vladislav of Wallachia, played by Caleb Landry Jones

Dracula: A Love Tale, directed by Luc Besson, is less an adaptation of Bram Stoker’s famous novel than a sweeping gothic romance. Running over two hours, the film traces Vlad the Impaler’s centuries-long obsession with finding the reincarnation of his lost bride Elisabeta.

Since childhood, I’ve had a fascination with vampire stories (Dracula, Nosferatu, even Vampirella), so this was a film I had been looking forward to for quite some time. It should be noted that the film contains graphic violence and scenes some viewers may find disturbing.

Visually, the film is striking. The cinematography gives the story a brooding, painterly atmosphere. The production design is particularly memorable: suits of armor, elaborate helmets, and medieval weaponry dominate the early sequences, lending the battle scenes a mythic weight. The costumes throughout are excellent, especially the elaborate court attire. Even when the dancing itself feels oddly goofy, the clothing remains spectacular.

Danny Elfman’s score is one of the film’s greatest strengths. His music threads melancholy through the darker moments, elevating several scenes into something operatic. The lush score reinforces the film’s dark romantic mood.

Performance-wise, the cast is strong across the board. Caleb Landry Jones plays Dracula as a haunted, almost spectral figure—more cursed lover than monstrous predator. Christoph Waltz brings quiet intensity to the role of the soft-spoken yet relentless priest pursuing him, grounding the story in moral conviction.

The true standout, however, is Matilda De Angelis as Maria. Her performance infuses the film with genuine emotional energy, culminating in a shockingly brutal death scene. It is the one moment when the film fully embraces the gore and violence of the horror genre.

(L) Caleb Landry Jones as Count Dracula. (R) Matilda De Angelis as Maria

Zoë Bleu’s Elisabeta/Mina is visually striking, especially when she appears in eastern princess regalia—an aesthetic that fits perfectly with the film’s dreamlike Carpathian setting.

Not every creative choice works. The CGI gargoyles that attend Dracula are easily the film’s weakest element. Their presence feels distracting and unnecessary. The Count’s servants would have been far more effective as vampire thralls or perhaps villagers bound to him. That said, the small twist near the end—when the gargoyles transform into children—offers a partial explanation for their origin.

Another disturbing highlight comes in the monastery sequence, where Dracula seduces and massacres a group of nuns. The scene is unsettling, strikingly blasphemous in tone, and stands out for its intensity. It underscores the film’s darker impulses.

Ultimately, Dracula: A Love Tale feels closer in spirit to the dark fairy tales of Old Europe than to a horror film. At times it resembles the strange, mythic storytelling of Giambattista Basile—a world where romance, violence, and superstition intertwine. While it strays far from Stoker’s novel, it succeeds as a visually rich—if occasionally flawed—gothic fable.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, March 11th, Feast of Santa Teresa Margherita del Cuore di Gesù

My Thoughts on A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms

Spoiler Alert

I just finished watching A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms (2026) on HBO Max, and I’m happy to say I absolutely loved it. After waiting what felt like ages for a new fantasy series free of contrived modern messaging, I was not disappointed. With episodes averaging about thirty-six minutes, each installment left me wanting more and eagerly anticipating the next. Now that the six-episode run has concluded, it plays beautifully as a single, sweeping three-hour-plus cinematic experience.

As someone who hasn’t read George R.R. Martin’s books, I can’t comment on its faithfulness to the lore. But as a longtime fan of sword-and-sorcery tales and the chivalric and martial traditions of Europe, I can confidently say this is one of the best entries in the genre in recent years.

Set in the fictional land of Westeros—specifically around the tourney at Ashford Meadow—the series is both visually and audibly arresting. The performances and dialogue are consistently strong, but the chemistry between Dunk—Ser Duncan the Tall (played by Peter Claffey)—and young “Egg,” Prince Aegon Targaryen (played by Dextor Sol Ansell), is the heart of the show. Their dynamic is warm, often humorous, and at times moving.

The costumes, cinematography, and musical score are all first-rate. I especially appreciated the realistic brutality of the battle scenes, the unassuming heroism of the protagonist, the layered courtly intrigue, the betrayals, the sacrifices, the pageantry, and the genuine narrative twists. More than once, I found myself honestly surprised.

The show is not without its flaws. Even though it's brief, each episode has at least one scene involving excrement, vomit, or urine. While perhaps meant to underscore realism, these moments felt unnecessary and gratuitous. They detract from an otherwise elevated tone.

Other than that, the only continuity error I noticed was a brief scene where Dunk appears with his shield after he's already parted with it.

Reports indicate that showrunner Ira Parker has expressed interest in extending the series to twelve or fifteen seasons over several decades—a goal that may prove unrealistic given the limited source material at hand.

That said, even two or three additional seasons of comparable quality would be a rare achievement in today’s entertainment landscape. With season two reportedly already in production, we may not have to wait long. Hopefully, it will avoid the sharp decline in quality that often afflicts sophomore efforts.

If this first season is any indication, A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms stands as a refreshing return to character-driven fantasy rooted in honor, loyalty, masculinity, and the enduring allure of knighthood.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, February 24th, Feast of Beato Tommaso Maria Fusco

Foreclosing on Faith: America's Church Closing Crisis at the Mary House in New York City

Godzilla Minus One as Judgment

Memories linger.
Imprinted forever, like
The bite of a shark.
~ haiku by Troy Southgate, Where the Thames Flows into the Shinano

In response to my Cautious Hopes: A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms article, a reader suggested I watch Godzilla Minus One (2023). As much as I love science fiction and fantasy, my initial reaction was hesitation since I haven’t cared for most Godzilla films in recent years. Still, after a friend whose taste mirrors my own urged me to give it a chance, I finally did.

It’s funny how some readers would prefer I confine myself to Southern Italian matters, while others wish I would focus exclusively on Catholicism. And others still seem to appreciate when I write about culture more broadly—especially when it involves reclaiming it from the grip of ideologues. This review falls squarely in that last category.

As a boy, I loved the Godzilla films of the 1950s through the 1970s. Godzilla, to my young mind, was not a joke or a mascot; he was a terrible and tragic force—oddly dignified. In fact, I wept when he lost a fight to King Kong. Even in childhood, I sensed that the great kaiju was not merely a monster. He was a judgment—something unleashed in response to human transgression.

During a family road trip to Pennsylvania, I remember sitting in the back seat of the car, half-lost in thought, until I saw electrical transmission towers for the first time. To my parents’ great amusement, I suddenly shouted “Tokyo!”—having only ever seen such structures in films where Godzilla tore through them while leveling cities in Japan. To this day, my family still calls that stretch of highway Tokyo.

Those films—along with Battle of the Planets, Shogun Warriors, and The Micronauts—were my earliest exposure to Japanese popular culture. By high school, that interest had deepened and sharpened. Drawn to stories of samurai, geisha, and kamikaze, I encountered literary and martial figures like Yukio Mishima and Harukichi Shimoi, the latter a bridge between Italy and Japan, who pointed to a world where honor, aesthetics, and national character still mattered. In college, my interests expanded further into bushidō, Zen Buddhism, and the austere disciplines of haiku and tanka poetry.

That—more than nostalgia—is why Godzilla Minus One demanded my attention, and why it deserves to be taken seriously.

A force of reckoning, the film restores weight to Godzilla’s presence—moral, emotional, and physical. When he appears, the mood tightens. The destruction feels consequential, not playful, and dread is allowed to build rather than being buried under excess.

What sets the film apart is its seriousness. The human story matters, shaped by loss, responsibility, and limits. Godzilla does not interrupt the narrative; he completes it. The visual effects are disciplined, serving the story rather than overwhelming it. There are a few moments that verge on the absurd, but they remain contained. Restraint ultimately makes the monster far more terrifying than constant exposure ever could.

Godzilla Minus One rejects modern cynicism and self-parody. It treats myth, tragedy, and judgment without apology. In doing so, it reminds us that Godzilla once meant something—and can again.

A must-see for science fiction fans—and for anyone who still expects seriousness from the genre—I’m looking forward to the announced sequel, Godzilla Minus Zero, scheduled to be released later this year.

~ Giovanni di Napoli, January 16th, Feast o San Marcello I

Cautious Hopes: A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms

Looking for some new and worthwhile fantasy to watch, I find myself cautiously anticipating A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms, set to premiere on HBO Max on Sunday, January 18, 2026. Having never read George R.R. Martin's books, I’ve come to it only through its trailers, but I’m told that shouldn’t matter. Supposedly, this series stands on its own—unburdened by deep familiarity with Game of Thrones or House of the Dragon, both of which I declined to follow. My hope is simple: a fantasy story without the modern drama and gratuitous perversion that made those shows intolerable.

Recent history doesn’t inspire confidence. Between the abysmal Red Sonja, the hollow spectacle of The Green Knight, the limp streaming adaptations of Robin Hood and The Witcher, and early glimpses of The Death of Robin Hood and The Odyssey—whose costuming and casting choices already raise red flags—optimism feels naïve. And yet, I persist—apparently a glutton for punishment.

What’s been lost is a certain seriousness of myth: the kind found in Excalibur, Conan the Barbarian, and The Lord of the Rings trilogy—films I return to regularly. I’m not opposed to camp or fun; I enjoyed the original Clash of the Titans and Dungeons & Dragons: Honor Among Thieves. What I have no patience for is the effete sensibility of many contemporary epic fantasy productions (e.g., Rings of Power), which mistake ideology and moral posturing for world-building and substance.

Still, hope remains. Recent adaptations of Nosferatu and Frankenstein prove that, when they choose to, Hollywood can still produce works with atmosphere, restraint, and craft. Perhaps A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms will be another reminder that sword and sorcery need not be stupid, obscene, or cynical. I would be pleased to be surprised.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, January 10th, Feast of Pope St. Agatho

Pizza and Movie Night at the Church of the Holy Innocents in New York City

In Praise of Méliès’ Le Voyage dans la Lune (A Trip to the Moon)

Le Voyage dans la Lune (1902), drawing by Georges Méliès’

At long last, I finally watched Georges Méliès’ Le Voyage dans la Lune—that marvelous 1902 fantasy in which a band of adventurous astronomers launch themselves toward the moon in a cannon-propelled capsule. In just thirteen minutes, the film carried me not only to the dawn of cinema but back to my own childhood, when my father would spool up his old reel-to-reel projector and cast black-and-white dreams onto a bedsheet pinned to the wall. Those flickering phantoms—20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, The Land That Time Forgot, King Kong, and The Adventures of Baron Munchausen—were among my earliest and most cherished cinematic encounters with science fiction.

A scene from Le Voyage dans la Lune (1902)

Méliès’ masterpiece still holds the same spell. The fantastical Selenites—moon men who leap, dance, and vanish in curls of smoke—feel like creatures lifted from classical mythology or medieval bestiaries. He creates a universe where the improbable is welcomed, where curiosity is heroic, and where the heavens are an open invitation rather than a limit.

For anyone who wants to remember a time when art was playful, inventive, and unafraid of its own whimsy, Méliès’ lunar voyage remains a small but radiant treasure.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, December 3rd, Feast of St. Francis Xavier

Guillermo del Toro’s Frankenstein: A Requiem for the Dead, the Damned, and the Neapolitan Dawn of a Monster

Only monsters play God.

It feels strangely fitting that Guillermo del Toro’s Frankenstein (2025) premiered in November, the Church’s month of remembrance for the Poor and Forgotten Souls in Purgatory—and yet, at the same time, it's hauntingly odd that it did not open in theaters on Halloween. Perhaps that was by design. Del Toro’s reimagining is not about jump-scares and shrieks, but a lament for the lost—a requiem for the restless dead. It belongs to November’s cold breath, not October’s masquerade.

Del Toro, a master of the macabre, conjures a world where beauty festers and sorrow gleams. Every shot feels carved from marble and shadow. His creature—stitched together from ambition, grief, and the daemonic impulse to play God—is less a monster than a soul suspended between heaven and hell. Watching him stumble through his creator's ruins is like gazing into Purgatory itself, where love and sin burn side by side in the same flame.

Visually and audibly, the film is a triumph. The performances are uniformly superb, and the sets are grand yet desolate. The costumes seem woven from mourning veils and funeral silks, each rich with texture and sorrowful grace. The score hums with dread and pity, echoing like a hymn from a ruined chapel. Few recent films have looked or sounded so hauntingly beautiful.

There's a striking symmetry—almost providential—in this return to Frankenstein’s origins. Though conceived in Geneva, Mary Shelley’s novel gives life to its eponymous protagonist—the true monster—in Naples (a detail not depicted in del Toro's film), an ancient city where the sacred and profane share the same breath, where death is no stranger, and the stones seem to whisper with ghosts. Shelley was deeply inspired by the city’s vitality and decay, its charnel houses and shrines, its proximity to both beauty and oblivion—and it's said Naples helped influence her vision of life torn from death.

Naples, no stranger to monsters, is even said to cradle the bones—and perhaps the restless spirit—of Vlad Tepes, the Prince of Wallachia, whose dark legend would one day cast the shadow of Dracula. It's a city where resurrection feels possible, even perilous. Del Toro’s gothic sensibility seems to draw from that same well—the city’s volcanic heartbeat, its mingling of death and divinity.

Reanimated across genres and generations, the creature refuses to die

As someone who has loved Shelley’s masterpiece since childhood, I’ve spent a lifetime chasing its many incarnations across screen and shadow. I’ve seen Frankenstein reanimated in every form imaginable: humorous, as in Young Frankenstein; erotic, in Lady Frankenstein; set in the Wild West, in Jesse James Meets Frankenstein’s Daughter; reborn as kaiju terror, in The War of the Gargantuas (the sequel to Frankenstein vs. Baragon); and rendered with tragic grandeur in gothic science fiction like Bride of Frankenstein.

But none of those countless incarnations prepared me for del Toro’s vision. Though it's not a faithful retelling, his film stays true to Shelley’s original spirit—its anguish, its wonder, its holy terror at the act of creation. His Frankenstein isn't just an adaptation but an exhumation—it digs into myth and memory, unearthing the moral bones Shelley buried two centuries ago.

It might not have been released on Halloween, but perhaps that is just as well. Halloween delights in shadows; Frankenstein listens to the voices that linger within them. In November’s fading light, del Toro’s creature stirs—not to terrify, but to remind us that even the dead dream of mercy and forgiveness.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, November 11th, Feast of San Martino di Tours

Movie Review: Red Sonja (2025)

Spoiler Alert!

Fire and Fury in the Age of Conan. ~ Tagline from Red Sonja comics

I’m not sure what possessed me, but I sat down to watch M.J. Bassett’s Red Sonja (2025), fully aware it was going to be bad. Not “good-bad” (like the campy fun found in Flash Gordon (1980), Barbarella (1968), or even the zany cult oddity Forbidden Zone (1980)), but truly bad-bad—in the same vein as Conan the Barbarian (2011) starring Jason Mamoa, The Green Knight (2021) starring Dev Patel, and Amazon’s The Rings of Power (2022– ). My childhood obsession with Robert E. Howard’s Hyborian Age is no doubt to blame for why I subjected myself to it.

As a boy, I devoured Sword and Sorcery, High Fantasy, Sci-Fi, and Horror fiction. The stories of Robert E. Howard (Conan, Bran Mak Morn, etc.), J.R.R. Tolkien (The Hobbit, LOTR), Michael Moorcock (Elric, Corum), Edgar Rice Burroughs (Tarzan, Barsoom), H.P. Lovecraft (Cthulhu, etc.), Frank Herbert (Dune), and even John Norman (Gor) were my favorites. While my friends stuck with mainstream superhero comics (The X-Men, The Avengers), I gravitated toward the darker, more pulpier titles: Savage Sword of Conan, Vampirella, Savage Tales, Creepy, Eerie, and of course, Red Sonja. I even collected the full fifteen-issue self-titled run in the ‘70s, though truth be told, I always preferred Conan’s swashbuckling paramours—Bêlit and Valeria.

My collection of Red Sonja comics

Despite being a stickler for lore, I can forgive liberties in adaptation when they serve the story. John Milius’s Conan the Barbarian (1982) starring Arnold Schwarzenegger took plenty, but still captured the spirit and to this day remains one of my all-time favorite fantasy films. [1] But Red Sonja (2025) goes far beyond creative license. It doesn’t just take liberties, it guts the character entirely. By rewriting her origins, the film strips away the mythic weight that made the "she-devil with a sword" compelling and replaces it with a confused, hollow “girl-boss” caricature.

In Marvel’s original story “The Day of the Sword,” written by Roy Thomas, Sonja’s family is slaughtered by a group of mercenaries, and she is raped by their leader. Left to die, a mysterious “vision of madness” offers her a chance for revenge by granting her supernatural martial prowess, on the condition she never allows herself to be touched by another man unless he first defeats her in fair battle. It’s grim, tragic, and mythic. In the movie, by contrast, the red-haired hellion is a natural-born warrior, slaughtering her opponents with ease, without any training.

Splash panels from "The Day of the Sword," written by Roy Thomas. (Top) Illustrated by Howard Chaykin, Kull and the Barbarians, Vol. 1, No. 3, Marvel Comics, September 1975. (Bottom) Illustrated by Dick Giordano and Terry Austin, Savage Sword of Conan, Vol. 1, No. 78, Marvel Comics, July 1982

The plot doesn’t help. Reimagined as an eco-warrior, Sonja wages war against Emperor Dragan (Robert Sheehan), who is clear-cutting Hyrkania’s forests in his quest for an ancient, arcane manual of world-conquering technology. Along the way, she’s captured by the baboon-faced General Karlak (Martyn Ford), thrown into gladiatorial games, and forced to battle a giant cyclops. To give you an idea of what passes as dialogue, armed with only a wooden sword and wondering what they’ll face, a fellow gladiator says, "Well, you best hope it's not a giant beaver."

Naturally, Sonja breaks the creature's magical bonds with ease, convinces it to rebel against the emperor, and brings the cyclopean coliseum (no pun intended) crashing down. From there, the film devolves into a slog of poor performances, awkward fight scenes, and flat dialogue, with cheesy costumes and an uninspired score. By comparison, the much-maligned Red Sonja (1985) adaptation starring Brigitte Nielsen looks like a cinematic masterpiece.

My collectible Red Sonja pint glasses

If I’m being charitable, I’ll admit this much: Matilda Lutz looks the part. Though less ample than the original comic character, she still projects a certain Sonja-esque presence. While the film tones down the fighting first lady of sword and sorcery’s iconic assets, her provocative chain-mail bikini—to the chagrin of misandrists everywhere—still drew my male gaze. That’s the single compliment I can offer before the whole enterprise collapses under the weight of mediocrity.

Hollywood keeps trying to retrofit sword-and-sorcery pulp into contrived modern formulas, memory-holing its brutality, primal masculinity, and tragic grandeur. Strip those elements away, and you’re left with something empty—like this film. Red Sonja deserved better. So did we.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, September 11th, Feast of Beato Carlo Spinola

Notes:
[1] To give a sense of my cinematic taste across these genres, here are my top five picks I can always revisit: Excalibur (1981), Clash of the Titans (1981), Conan the Barbarian (1982), Blade Runner (1982), and Dune (1984).

Gothic Fiction Reawakened: Dracula and Frankenstein Return in 2025

"In seeking life, I created death." ~ Victor Frankenstein

Around this time last year, I shared my excitement for the then-upcoming films Nosferatu (2024) and Hellboy: The Crooked Man (2024). Now, once again, I find myself eagerly anticipating two new releases: Guillermo del Toro’s Frankenstein and Luc Besson’s Dracula. Both trailers look promising, and hopefully—like last year’s offerings—they’ll live up to expectations. As a longtime fan of horror and gothic fiction, I’m always looking forward to authentic retellings of classic tales.

Having said that, Besson’s Dracula appears to lean more toward a reimagining of Gary Shore’s Dracula Untold (2014) than a faithful adaptation of Bram Stoker’s 1897 novel. Given how nearly impossible it would be to surpass Robert Eggers’ Nosferatu, perhaps that’s for the best.

Watch the Dracula trailer

Del Toro’s Frankenstein, on the other hand, makes me especially hopeful. If he remains faithful to Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus (1818), we may finally get a cinematic version that captures the novel’s philosophical depth and romantic soul—qualities so often lost in film adaptations.

Watch the Frankenstein trailer

Luc Besson’s Dracula is scheduled for release on July 30, 2025, while Guillermo del Toro’s Frankenstein is set to premiere on Netflix in November.

Review: The Leopard on Netflix

Spoiler Alert!!!

“Unless we ourselves take a hand now, they’ll foist a republic on us. If we want things to stay as they are, things will have to change.” [1]

It seems the film industry can still produce quality shows after all. A veritable feast for the eyes, The Leopard—based on the celebrated 1958 novel Il Gattopardo by Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa (1896–1957)—was surprisingly good. I use “surprisingly” because we live in an era where much of what's released is utterly unwatchable. While by no means a faithful adaptation of the book, the show does capture the essence of the story.

Premiering on Netflix on March 5, 2025, the limited historical series, consisting of six episodes, has garnered a generally positive reception. However, like me, very few of my friends have actually watched it, as we were concerned it might suffer the same dreadful fate as most modern remakes. It wasn't until a friend whose taste in movies (and television) aligns closely with mine recommended it that I felt compelled to give it a chance.

Set in 1860s Sicily, The Leopard depicts the decline of the Sicilian aristocracy and the rise of the merchant class during the Risorgimento. Navigating the changing social and political landscape, Don Fabrizio Corbera, the Prince of Salina, also known as the Leopard, “grapples with the collision between his family’s ancient privilege and revolutionary change.” [2]

From the outset, the show is visually striking and aurally pleasing. The cinematography and score are outstanding, and the sets, costumes, and performances are exceptional. The salons, balls, luncheons, and parlor games are portrayed with great élan, while the familial, political, and business interactions perfectly capture the life of the waning nobility in 19th-century Sicily. Interestingly, despite the opulent interiors and historical splendor of the Baroque palaces (such as Palazzo Valguarnera-Gangi), churches (like the Martorana), and piazzas (including Piazza Pretoria and Quattro Canti), I was most captivated by the timeless beauty and tranquility of the Sicilian countryside. I especially loved the scene where Tancredi and Concetta gazed at the stunning sunset amidst the ruins of Piana degli Albanesi.

For all that, I believe the show’s true strength lies in its incisive critique of Italian unification and the anti-traditional forces of secularism and materialism that brought ruin to the Italian peninsula. The Prince’s realization that he was the last Salina (despite his sons Paolo and Francesco, and his beloved but impoverished nephew Tancredi Falconeri) was particularly pronounced in the book. Nonetheless, we catch glimpses of it throughout the series, especially after Tancredi breaks his cousin Concetta’s heart and willingness to pimp out his beautiful new wife Angelica for career advancement and financial gain.

Initially depicted as a young and heroic idealist who joined the Garibaldini and suffered injuries for the Italian cause, Tancredi revealed himself to be an unscrupulous and vulgar cad. During a dinner party with Mayor Don Calogero Sedara and his daughter Angelica, Tancredi recounted how he purportedly injured his eye while protecting a group of nuns at a convent from a band of inebriated recruits. In an appalling act typical of revolutionaries, the abbess was thrown from a high window by the redshirts, yet Tancredi boasted, “Not one of the others was defiled or dishonored in any way.” Trying to inject humor into the grim situation, he crudely quipped, “Maybe it was simply because they were too old or unattractive.” Taking the jest too far, he added, “But Signorina Angelica, I’m certain things would have turned out very differently had you caught the novices’ attention. I doubt a single soldier from that whole battalion could have kept their hands off you.” Scandalized, Concetta storms off in a huff.

Discussing the upcoming plebiscite, Don Fabrizio tells his dinner guests that he has no intentions of voting, stating, “It’s all a charade.” He continues, “Do you really believe Garibaldi, as well as his king, will simply forget about their victory, recall all their troops, and finally leave Sicily if the people vote no?”

During a montage showing the Prince’s children in the garden performing scenes from Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream, as well as the blossoming "friendship" between Concetta and Angelica, Don Fabrizio confesses his lust for Angelica to Father Pirrone.

“That girl, Father,” says the Prince, “I’m happy to confess that I wish I could have been Zeus, that I could have transformed into a white bull and have taken her there and then.”

“Keep praying, Your Excellency,” advises his confessor.

“None of that will help,” he scoffs, dismissing his sexual urges as trivial. Channeling his inner Übermensch, the Prince discloses the deeper conflicts he faces, namely protecting his family from cultural decline and the insidious rise of the bourgeoisie and nouveau riche. “I’m not worried about a few lustful thoughts preoccupying me,” says the Leopard. “I long for the death of them. These people who desire to walk all over us, who smile and laugh and bow to us during the day, and rob us blind by night. If I were a heathen king, to protect my family, I’d have them all killed. It pains me to struggle to find a more civil way to reclaim all that they’ve stolen. I’d prefer to use a pistol or knife. For those thoughts, I pray.”

Unable to “wield a pistol or a knife,” Don Fabrizio adopts his nephew's Machiavellian approach and determines that the most effective way to navigate the shifting political landscape is to arrange a marriage between Tancredi and the affluent but low-born Angelica. This decision comes at the cost of his daughter Concetta's happiness, all while he feigns assent and casts his vote in support of annexation and unification.

When the results of the vote came back—after being “sorted and counted” and “scrutinized and recounted and scrutinized again”—Mayor Sedara announced the astounding tally of 543 to 0 in favor from a balcony to the cheering crowd below. However, a lone dissenter confronted the smarmy Mayor:

“What kind of fabrication is this? Not a single vote against? What has happened to my vote, Don Calogero? You know you could have won anyway, so why resort to lies? Is this how Italy is going to be born—like a deformed calf entering the world, corrupt and profane, just like you, Don Calogero Sedara? You’re as corrupt as the rest. You are dishonorable and will forever be nothing more than a deceitful liar.” 

As the baying mob forcefully dragged the man away, he shouted defiantly, “You cannot silence me! You are all being deceived!”

It seems that very little has changed today, and the slavish masses still put blind faith in that corrupt system.

Certain overly sensitive guerrieri da tastiera ("keyboard warriors") have complained that the show perpetuates negative stereotypes of treachery and disloyalty supposedly associated with Southern Italians. In this instance, these claims are baseless and made by those who are merely seeking offense or are afraid of the unpleasant truth that Italian unification was achieved through subversive means.

It is undeniable that Servant of God King Francesco II of the Two Sicilies was betrayed by his subjects, and corruption played a significant role in the success of the Risorgimento. Not unique to our people, every revolution, from Lucifer's onward, has involved some form of betrayal. The traitors of that time were no less guilty than the French who turned against King Louis XVI, the Austrians who betrayed Blessed Emperor Karl, or the Russians who abandoned Tsar Nicholas II. If betrayal had not occurred, how could the pirate Garibaldi possibly conquer the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies, or the double-dealing House of Savoy "legitimately" establish the Kingdom of Italy? If you still believe that a thousand rag-tag adventurers managed to defeat an army of 80,000 to 100,000 troops or that the plebiscites were conducted fairly, I have a bridge to sell you.

Having only scratched the surface of this captivating story, I highly recommend watching The Leopard in its original Italian. This brings me to my main criticism: there isn’t enough Sicilian spoken. I suspect they did this to appeal to a broader audience, but as demonstrated by the popularity of shows like Gomorrah, this precaution was unwarranted, as the incorporation of the Neapolitan language did not detract from its appeal.

While I appreciate the Netflix adaptation, it should come as no surprise that I consider the novel far superior—this is generally true in most cases. If you haven’t read the book yet, I strongly encourage you to. It's not regarded as one of the most important modern Italian novels for nothing. Similarly, it's unsurprising that I prefer Luchino Visconti's iconic 1963 film, Il Gattopardo, starring Burt Lancaster and the incomparable Claudia Cardinale. Although it is not without its flaws, the movie remains an irrefutable cinematic masterpiece. A friend calls it, “Our Gone With the Wind.”

To conclude, I’d like to share one of my favorite quotes from the book that was regrettably omitted from the series:

“The tricolor! Tricolor indeed! They fill their mouths with these words, the rascals. What does that ugly geometric sign, that aping of the French mean, compared to our white banner with its golden lily in the middle? What hope can those clashing colors bring them?” [3]

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, April 23, Feast of San Giorgio

Notes:
[1] The Leopard, Giuseppe di Lampedusa, as spoken by Tancredi Falconeri

[2] Excerpt from the Netflix teaser.

[3] The Leopard, Giuseppe di Lampedusa, as spoken by Don Fabrizio Corbera, the Prince of Salina