Trashtacular

“Hostage” is the kind of British miniseries that seems designed by committee to fool you into mistaking formula for craft. Its premise drips with promise: a Prime Minister (Suranne Jones) and a French President (Julie Delpy) caught in the same noose of blackmail and international intrigue, their personal and political fates entwined as the world watches. What we get, instead, is a muddled soufflé of clichés, the kind that deflates before it’s even made it to the table.

You could say that WarGames: The Dead Code is an object lesson in Hollywood’s special gift: draining the life out of a semi-classic property, embalming it in digital gloss and algorithmic plotting, and then casting it back onto the market in hopes we’ll confuse the bluish afterglow for old-fashioned excitement. If the original WarGames was a deft adolescent fever dream about the nuclear terrors and computer-age naiveté of Reagan’s America, Gillard’s 2008 “sequel” is a reminder that nostalgia is sometimes best left in mothballs. Watching The Dead Code is like sitting through a pop quiz on modern surveillance anxiety written by copy editors who just discovered what phishing is.

Tyler Perry’s Duplicity—now streaming on Amazon Prime Video—wants to be urgent, topical, and bracing. It arrives with all the signals of “serious intent”: brooding about justice, the jagged aftermath of police violence, and a pair of ambitious Black women set against a system that doesn’t budge for grief or outrage. There is the shape here of a vital film, but what actually transpires is a parade of perfunctory gestures and canned dramatics; it’s as if Perry had borrowed the scaffolding of a social thriller and was content to let it creak.

In a universe not so far away, a film titled "Flight Risk" has landed—or more appropriately, crash-landed—straight onto streaming platforms, helmed by a name once synonymous with epic storytelling, Mel Gibson. Prepare yourselves, for this is not "Braveheart," nor is it a movie that wrestles with deep philosophical themes. Instead, it is a whirlwind, turbulence-riddled escapade of bewildering decisions and a plethora of questionable accents. Central to this cinematic odyssey is a pilot of questionable credentials—wink, wink—and a handcuffed accountant. Hats off to the daring filmmakers who decided the vast Alaskan wilderness would be best portrayed from inside one small cabin for 90% of the runtime.

The Platform (El Hoyo) graced us with a bleak and dystopian delight back in 2019. It served up brutal social commentary alongside prison horrors.