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

Flash Gordon and the Lost Art of Escapism

As I recently stated in my review of She (1935), I will not knowingly subject myself to the current dross passing itself off as science fiction and fantasy. Thankfully, there are still plenty of older films and shows worth watching and rewatching. Last movie night, I broke out my copy of Mike Hodges’s Flash Gordon (1980), produced by the legendary Dino De Laurentiis, and it was a blast from the past, as we spilled our popcorn and sang along to Queen's unforgettable theme song.

The film is colorful, extravagant, campy, and wonderfully over-the-top. Rather than apologizing for its pulp origins, it embraces them completely, transporting us to the strange and fantastical world of Mongo, with its rival kingdoms, bizarre creatures, elaborate costumes, beautiful women, battles, daring escapes, rocket ships, and larger-than-life villains.

Max von Sydow is magnificent as Ming the Merciless, while Brian Blessed nearly steals the film with his thunderous performance as Prince Vultan. Sam J. Jones makes for an appropriately straightforward, old-fashioned hero, while the sultry Ornella Muti is unforgettable as the seductive Princess Aura. And, of course, Melody Anderson brings plenty of charm and spirit to the role of Dale Arden.

Flash Gordon is not interested in realism, cynicism, or taking itself too seriously. Nor does it berate or preach to its audience, burdening its escapist pleasures with the ideological messaging, fashionable nihilism, and calculated vulgarity so common today. It is heroic, romantic, ridiculous, imaginative, and, above all, immensely entertaining, something much of modern fantasy seems to have forgotten.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, September 11th, Feast of Saints Protus and Hyacinth

She: A Haunting Vision of Lost Worlds

“Often I sit alone at night, staring with the eyes of the mind into the darkness of unborn time, and wondering in what shape and form the great drama will be finally developed, and where the scene of its next act will be laid.” ~ H. Rider Haggard, She

I have become increasingly frustrated, and frankly disgusted, with the state of modern fantasy and science fiction films. So much of it feels soulless and derivative, overwhelmed by spectacle, ideology, and subversive messaging at the expense of mystery, imagination, and wonder. As a result, I have taken to watching and re-watching old favorites and classics, returning to an era when filmmakers still understood that the fantastic should transport us somewhere strange, beautiful, and beyond the ordinary.

She (1935) is a wonderfully atmospheric tale, based on H. Rider Haggard’s celebrated 1887 novel She: A History of Adventure, one of the great works of Victorian imaginative literature. Filled with peril, adventure, and the supernatural, the film blends romance, archaeology, and the arcane.

Helen Gahagan as Queen Hash-A-Mo-Tep
in She (1935), wearing the regal costume
and headdress that would influence the
appearance of Disney's Queen Grimhilde in
Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs (1937)

In this adaptation, the immortal Ayesha, known as “She-who-must-be-obeyed,” becomes Queen Hash-A-Mo-Tep, portrayed unforgettably by Helen Gahagan with an imperious beauty and otherworldly presence. Her striking appearance would later serve as a model for Disney's Evil Queen in Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs (1937). The film’s lavish visual design and dreamlike imagery bring this Gothic epic vividly to life.

The novel’s vision of an ancient civilization hidden from the modern world helped establish many of the conventions of the lost-world genre and has inspired generations of writers and artists. The 1935 adaptation captures the author’s fascination with forbidden places, the mysterious past, and the allure of immortality.

One of the film’s most significant departures from the novel is its shift from the remote interior of Africa to the frozen reaches of Muscovy. Beyond the forbidding Shugal Barrier lies the forgotten Kingdom of Kôr, a mythical land seemingly cut off from the known world and the course of history.

The change opened a new frontier while giving the picture a haunting atmosphere of glaciers, savage troglodytes, and an ancient kingdom concealed beneath snowbound mountains. It also helped distinguish the 1935 version from earlier adaptations, transforming Haggard’s tropical lost world into a strange, subterranean realm. Although far removed from the novel’s geography, the Siberian setting preserves the essential idea at the heart of the original story: an arduous expedition into a place seemingly untouched by time.

My two editions of H. Rider Haggard's She

Rewatching She only deepened my appreciation for the film. The magnificent sets, elaborate costumes, evocative cinematography, and Max Steiner’s sweeping musical score create a sense of grandeur and enchantment that I find sorely missing from so much modern filmmaking. Nearly a century later, She remains a captivating relic of Hollywood fantasy at its most imaginative and romantic.

I also enjoyed the smaller details: the way people spoke, carried themselves, dressed, and interacted with one another. There is a formality and courtesy even in ordinary exchanges that belongs to another world as surely as the film’s lost kingdom does. Watching She was therefore more than an escape into fantasy. It was also, in its own way, an escape into the past, and for a little while I was happy to lose myself in both.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, September 1st, Feast of Sant’Egidio 

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