There are films that astonish with their brilliance, and then there are films that live just shy of greatness—achingly close, yet all the more affecting for it. This is one of those films: desperately optimistic, quietly devastating, and utterly intoxicating in its charm.

Set in a time that feels just out of reach, the film captures the wistfulness of a bygone era without ever lapsing into nostalgia. Instead, it leans into something more elusive—a feeling, a mood, a particular kind of exhaustion that settles in after a long, indulgent night. Watching it is like making an omelette with a hangover: tender, familiar, slightly painful, and wholly necessary.

Every performance is delicately measured, adjusting to the film’s stakes with an ease that never calls attention to itself. The characters, each in their own way, navigate a shifting reality—gaining and losing their footing in ways that feel as heartbreaking as they are inevitable.

For those who love food not just as sustenance but as a language, a memory, a philosophy, this is a film worth savoring.

I loved that this film shows San Francisco’s true self—beautiful, yes, but also confusing and eerie.

If you had given me a thousand chances to guess this film’s plot, I wouldn’t have come close. It kept me engaged from start to finish—a modern-feeling film that still feels deeply rooted in the era in which it was made. Any awkward, lingering scene is more than compensated for by sharp performances and stunning cinematography.

Admittedly, my interest waned in the second act, where the film veers into predictability and drags its feet. But just when I thought it had lost momentum, it delivered a jolt of adrenaline, launching into a finale that is as gripping as it is unsettling. As more is revealed, the unease settles in—a testament to the film’s craftsmanship. This is a concept that could have easily crumbled in the wrong hands, but with the precision of Hitchcock, it is handled masterfully. Every shot is lush; every frame, deliberate.

This is a film I had put off watching for years—one that loomed over me when I first began approaching movies with real intentionality. Now that I’ve finally seen it, I know one viewing won’t be enough. To fully grasp its layers, I’ll have to watch it again—probably several times. And even then, I’ll still convince myself I’m missing something. The balance of grandeur and restraint creates a film that lingers in the mind—one that I clearly do not understand in just one viewing.

Swashbuckling Rebellion with a Forced Heaping Side of Nationalism.

Few films manage to balance cheerful high-seas adventure with a pointed jab at authoritarian rule quite like Captain Blood. Directed by Michael Curtiz, this buoyant spectacle not only cemented Errol Flynn’s place in Hollywood but also introduced audiences to the first fully symphonic film score, courtesy of the legendary Erich Wolfgang Korngold.

Flynn’s mischievous charisma keeps the film afloat, even as it occasionally lingers too long on exposition. Based on Rafael Sabatini’s 1922 novel, Captain Blood marked the first of eight electric on-screen pairings between Flynn and Olivia de Havilland—one of which, The Adventures of Robin Hood, would become equally iconic. Here, Flynn commands Curtiz’s often densely packed frames with sweeping emotional gestures and an energetic physicality that makes him impossible to ignore.

However, the film’s third act takes a hard right turn into nationalism, abruptly shifting gears in a way that dampens its rebellious spark. The character we’ve admired for his defiance suddenly submits to the very system he spent the entire film resisting—an arc that feels forced, if not entirely dissonant.

And yet, I dare anyone to resist Flynn’s charm. Whatever missteps Captain Blood makes, its exhilarating action and undeniable levity make them easy to forgive. In the grand tradition of pirate films, this one still reigns supreme.

Jimmy Stewart is great, even though he is playing what I assume is a twenty year old when he has the crows-feet and jowls of a man pushing Forty. The film has an energy to it that took me a moment to settle into, but weaved its way into my emotions. It was transcendental. I was surprised that the ultimate message is one that leans on opposing the exploitation of a wealthy elite; trusting entirely in one's laws and community. 
The death of Liberty Valance is subtle and brutal in a human way. It’s unsanctimonious. While at times preachy, the overall character of the film is something I really appreciate.