A Sexy Blog

Argo isn’t merely a tense, glossy recounting of a CIA caper, it’s Hollywood’s sneakiest sleight-of-hand on itself, a canny distillation of the movies' perpetual promise and perennial absurdity. I went into Affleck’s film without foreknowledge, as untutored as the embassy staffers in their makeshift hideout, and the result was a giddy, queasy experience, poised on a knife-edge between farce and terror. “Based on a true story,” it insists, an audacious phrase in this context, considering what follows.

Dept. Q, premiering on Netflix in May 2025, is a British crime thriller series that plunges viewers into the dark, complex world of cold cases under the stewardship of Detective Chief Inspector Carl Morck. Created by Scott Frank and Chandni Lakhani, and based on Jussi Adler-Olsen's Danish novels, the show evokes a tense, riveting atmosphere where justice, trauma, and moral ambiguity intertwine. The tone strikes a smart balance between gritty realism and sharp banter, weaving mystery and emotional depth into a seamless narrative that grips audiences from start to finish.

How delicious, in this era of franchise bloat and less-than-simple sequels, to be handed a second helping that leaves you sated rather than queasy. If Paul Feig's Another Simple Favor is a cocktail, it's one shaken with a confidence, a dash of vermouth and a twist of lemon, sipped poolside in Capri while the bodies float by (sometimes literally, sometimes, more enjoyably, in spirit). Rarely does a film invite the audience to marvel at its gorgeous surface and still let them dive, giggling, into its undertow. Here, we have that rare, effervescent tonic: a thriller that dresses up as a comedy, or the other way 'round; a parade of “thrills” that remembers to be, above all, fun.

There are films that, like a splashy dinner party hosted between power surges, seem to teeter joyfully on the brink of self-immolation: too bright, too eager, altogether too much. A Simple Favor, Paul Feig’s giddy, knowing leap into nonsensical noir (with quotation marks around both “noir” and “knowing”), belongs to that breed. One watches it, if one watches it at all, and I admit I was blissfully unaware of its existence until the 2025 sequel crept up like a podcast auto-play, and feels at once the tug of modern anxieties and the shriek of a fashionista’s ringtone: Are we to be shocked, amused, or both at these women’s deadly games of friendship and deception?

There’s a special kind of letdown reserved for sequels to movies that had no business being as bracing as they were. The Accountant (2016) was, in its own chilly way, a genre cocktail so sharp it could clean wounds, a pulpy thriller where Ben Affleck’s Christian Wolff moved through the world with the precision of a human abacus lashed to a suppressed scream. The violence, when it landed, felt both willed and suffered; every bruise, a mark on his actuarial soul. It was a film content to be odd, morose, even embarrassing in its sincerity, neurosis and action stitched together with genuine ache for difference.

There are movies which, with all their gloss and calculated ambition, remain pieces of machinery, oiled and in motion, but never quite alive. The Accountant is not one of those. It rumbles, clicks, and suddenly roars as if its protagonist’s sharp edges were etched with lightning, each narrative gear turning inevitably toward violence and revelation. That familiar yet unexpected pleasure, the sensation of a genre movie actually delivering on its promises, finds a rare showcase here. For once, the machine’s hum is exhilarating.