The row in front of me was filled with a group of kids no older than fourteen. They were talking during the previews, but I was willing to let that slide because the movie hadn’t technically started yet. But right off the bat, despite the very large “no photography/videography” notice that had appeared on the screen seconds before, one of the kids started filming. She unashamedly recorded the entire opening sequence. It appeared as if she was waiting for the title card, but gave up and put her camera down when it seemed to take forever to appear. Her phone, however, made a reappearance during the scene where Clark first enters the backrooms. She proceeded to take multiple photos, no doubt to post as an Instagram story to prove to people that she was there and that she actually “saw the thing.”

She wasn’t the only offender. Throughout the film, the kids were a massive disruption who would not stop talking (except one, who was asleep the whole time). They kept fighting over the communal popcorn they’d bought, and at one point, the debate got so heated that a kid hoisted the box above his head like Rafiki holding up Simba, blocking an annoyingly large portion of the screen. That was clearly the final straw for the man directly behind them, who delivered a resounding shush. It quieted the shenanigans, but only temporarily — before long the noise crept back up, until one of the friends in the group finally snapped and told them all to “shut up!”

Maybe part of me should have expected this. The Backrooms began in a niche corner — a single 4chan post — but has since cemented itself as an internet staple. From that creepypasta came not just Parsons’ web series, but a flood of memes and multiple video games that gained serious traction on Roblox and Fortnite, drawing in exactly this young crowd. But here’s the thing: as much as they think otherwise, Gen Alpha is not the target audience of the Backrooms. The film takes on the sinister, eerie tone of the shorts — which makes sense, given it’s a direct extension of the world Parsons has spent years building on YouTube. But these kids’ introduction to the Backrooms wasn’t Parsons’ videos. It was the game playthroughs. And what’s integral to those? Dramatic “I’m freaking out” reactions from the streamer; because a horror reaction video with no reaction isn’t much fun. That makes perfect sense for the medium. The problem is that these kids have grown so accustomed to those loud, view-baiting reactions that they’ve started mimicking them in the theatre.

But is that necessarily their fault? This generation never received cinema etiquette training the way we did — not to the point where it’s ingrained. Movies aren’t the medium they grew up on; videos and streams are, and that’s one more thing the pandemic quietly took from them. They’re used to consuming media at home, where a movie is often a second thought playing in the background while they look at another screen. And even the streams they watch are usually just background noise to something else. So when they walk into a Backrooms screening, two problems come with them. The first is the bad behaviour we’ve all clocked, again and again, and not just at Backrooms: the open chatting, the obliviousness to the theatre as a public space, the constant phones. It’s the clear product of an education these kids never got, and it has plagued every cinema hall since the pandemic.

This isn’t to say phone use is unique to Gen Alpha — it’s crept into adults too, as watching a film alongside a second screen at home became normal. But what’s most frustrating is the blatant disrespect, possibly not even conscious, in kids straight up recording bits of the film to post online. It’s disrespectful to the other people in the room, and to the art itself. Since Backrooms premiered, bootlegged clips have flooded TikTok and Reels and been chopped into memes, racking up millions of views without the slightest attempt to hide that the footage was illegally taken. Given how much of it is out there, no wonder these kids shrug off the anti-piracy disclaimers before the film — they’ve seen the clips already, so what are the odds anyone stops them? Plenty of them sneak in below the age rating in the first place, so the same flippancy carries right through to taking out a phone and recording in plain sight. And as concert culture trains everyone to document everything, the “I need to record this to prove I was here” instinct has bled into the theatre — in direct defiance of one of its oldest rules.

The second problem is the recreation of the big reactions they’re used to seeing their favourite streamers have. I went around asking friends about their own Backrooms screenings, and quickly realised my experience wasn’t unique. One told me a row of boys sat directly behind her were so loud that “every time there was a jumpscare they would scream so loud, making it scarier than it was.” Another said the group behind him was “rowdy and not really engaged, poking in with random remarks and chuckles at the worst times.” Because commentary-over-content media has exploded in popularity, people now carry that instinct into the cinema with them. I’ve nothing against commentary — it’s a big chunk of my own YouTube diet. But that commentary is made in private and put out for people to watch on their own time, not performed live in a public room. There’s now a constant need to be “funny” in the theatre — to elicit reactions to your reactions, to get people laughing at you laughing at the movie. And even if the first crack lands, every one after it lands a little less, until it stops being funny and just becomes a nuisance.

But then this got me thinking: wasn’t going to the theatre meant to be a communal experience? And if there’s one genre where that’s most true, it’s horror. No one wants to be scared alone. Even if you go by yourself, buying a cinema ticket means choosing to be scared in company — just not people you know. You’re there for a sense of community.

But theatres now seem split into two camps: people who think they’re entitled to talk because they paid for the ticket, and people who think they’re entitled to the experience they signed up for — which, for as long as anyone can remember, has been quiet company. There’s a right answer here. At its core, the theatre is a public space. You buy a ticket to sit with a community, not to carve out a private box for you and your friends.

Part of me feels bad complaining about children this much, because a lot of this genuinely isn’t their fault — they couldn’t control the pandemic. But the stubborn, repeated failure to register that other people are in the room starts to wear you down. And I’ve realised that both problems they bring into the cinema stem from the same place: these kids have never had to exist in an environment they don’t control. They’re not used to sharing space with anyone beyond family and friends. They make themselves at home in the theatre because they’ve never had to be anywhere that wasn’t home. And when outright lawbreaking happens in plain sight, alongside that blatant disregard for everyone around them, it’s clearer than ever what all that control has curdled into: entitlement.

Sympathy wanes after a realisation like that, and you’re left with the question: have we become too lenient? The pandemic took this etiquette away, but nothing says we can’t put it back. Right now, the only people I know who’ve had a decent Backrooms screening went at odd hours — and it isn’t fair that respecting the rules should mean hiding from everyone who doesn’t. “You do you, I’ll do me” might pass as a philosophy everywhere else, but bring it into a cinema and it stops being live-and-let-live. It becomes a wrecking ball.

A movie screening isn’t a private show. We aren’t here to watch you, or to find out how funny you are. We’re here to watch the film in quiet solidarity. That’s the backbone of the cinema experience — and it’s starting to crack. It’ll keep cracking if we let it.

Backrooms is now showing in Malaysian cinemas.

The post Quiet Solidarity Is Dying in Row F appeared first on Goggler.

I made it on time, got my drink and settled down in the cinema. As the lights turned down, everything fell into silence. And there it was. 

Snoring. 

I go to the cinema at least once a week. Whether it’s a weekend new release, or a weekday rewatch, chances are you can probably find me in a hall at some point.

In recent months, however, I have been forced to go to the cinema at either the most ungodly hours of the night, or at the crack of dawn (read: 10AM on a Sunday) just to enjoy a peaceful, interruption-free moviegoing experience. Because apparently people have forgotten how to be human beings in the cinema. 

Exhibit A: The Yi Yi Sleeper

Edward Yang’s timeless masterpiece is an examination of familial bonds in late 90s Taiwan. It is a slow film that warrants you to be present and to experience all the emotions on screen together with its characters. It is a layered, nuanced film that is supposed to wash all over you like the ocean. 

What I got, instead, was an asshole snoring behind me the entire time. 

Look, I’m not going to pretend that Yi Yi is the most engaging film of all time. It requires a bit of effort, but it pays off. Falling asleep half way into the film is something that doesn’t actually surprise me. But what’s almost impressive here is that the snoring started before the Palme D’Or logo even finished flashing on screen. The film hadn’t even started yet. 

The hall was small enough that people three rows down began turning their heads in a mix of disbelief and rage. Especially during the quiet, tender scenes. You are supposed to sit with these characters in the (purposeful) silence, but now you have the added sound of someone snoring, which then makes you laugh at how comically absurd the whole situation is, pulling you out of the film.

And yes, we tried to wake him up. He kept falling asleep. 

I don’t think the erosion of cinema etiquette stems from people wanting to be assholes. I genuinely don’t believe that someone would pay RM22 to come into a space and fucking inconvenience others for 3 hours. (If you are someone like that, I’d highly suggest therapy.) I think it stems from a culture of inaction which then morphs into a culture of permission. 

Exhibit B: The Materialists Mansplainer

If you know me, you probably know that I’m a Celine Song superfan. I don’t play when it comes to her movies, which is why when Materialists released in Malaysia, I decided that it was something worth a little splurge on. I headed over to GSC’s Velvet for a bit of a nicer experience. I thought that if you’re paying three times more to see a film in a smaller cinema, you’d have a little more decorum. 

Wrong. 

Throughout the entire runtime, there was a couple seated next to me, and the boyfriend kept commenting and explaining the film to his girlfriend, like some glorified, mansplaining chatbot. 

Let me quote you a memorable line from the night. (Try your best not to facepalm) “Yeah so, Pedro’s character is super rich, right, and he’s like a statistical improbability, that’s why she calls him a unicorn.” 

When I confronted them, they were visibly offended and got a little angry. See, now, that’s a problem. If they were offended that I asked them to be quiet in a cinema, that means that they think that it is generally acceptable to speak in normal speaking volume in a cinema. 

Most people don’t like confrontation. Especially in a cinema where a confrontation is very public and open. Which is why people aren’t held accountable for shit like this. No one calls anyone out anymore. When we start to give in, people start to think that it is “okay” to be a nuisance in the cinema. In a way, because they aren’t called out, these people think that it is perfectly fine and acceptable to act like assholes. 

Exhibit C: The Bring Her Back Blinder

Bring Her Back is one of my favourite horror films of all time. It’s dark and utterly bleak. The Phillippous know exactly how to craft tension and dread that never lets up, providing a masterclass in sound design and practical effects. 

At a pivotal moment of the film, when [REDACTED] is about to chew on the sharp object, a moment very clearly designed for you to not peel your eyes off the screen, there it is: A PHONE. On full fucking brightness. This person started checking their emails and messages. 

Let me make myself super clear here: if you are consciously using your phone at full brightness in a cinema, you are either, 1) a prick, or 2) a PRICK. Phones have no place in a cinema hall. I acknowledge that sometimes you have to take a message or there’s an emergency. Simple fix. Lean forward, put your phone low, and turn the brightness down. And even this should be in a life or death situation. If it isn’t, then put your fucking phone away.

Where does this stem from? I cannot say for certain, but my hunch is that it is a consequence of the pandemic. At a time when entertainment has been primarily accessible through streaming and television, people have simply lost sight of the fact that cinemas are a shared, communal space where distractions can derail the entire experience. To be fair, most teenagers today grew up on streaming services — no one was teaching them to be respectful in cinemas because cinemas were closed when they were kids. The rise of TikTok hasn’t helped either. Attention spans are shrinking. No one can sit still for more than ten minutes without needing a dopamine hit — like vape-addicted teenagers hunting for their next fix.

I fell in love with cinema as a kid because it was (and always has been) a shared, communal experience. There is something magical about sitting in a darkened room with a group of strangers and letting yourself be swept away by a film – feeling the same emotions at the same time together. When I was sobbing in the cinema at the end of Hamnet, the person sitting next to me (who was also crying) handed me tissues in silence, as if it was a reflex. I became friends with my rowmates during Yi Yi as we bonded over the absurdity of “The Snoring Man.” When I was in the cinema for Bring Her Back, I became friends with the person sitting next to me as we bonded over our love for horror after the film. 

The cinema has always been a shared experience. That is what we are protecting when we ask someone to put their phones away. And now, because of people who cannot understand simple etiquette, that communal experience is eroding. We are retreating to different days and later showtimes just to be able to enjoy a film. That is not how cinema is meant to be experienced. 

The post Is Cinema Etiquette Dead? appeared first on Goggler.

The elevator pitch for Season 3 would be that it centers around individuals in search of an escape. But that would be an overly simplistic description of a season that, in truth, attempts to unearth so much more than its predecessors ever have. And whether it’s being confronted, escaped, or merely contemplated as a concept, the looming presence of death also lingered throughout pretty much every episode.

Symbolism and mystery are also rightfully scattered throughout this season, which is fitting given Mike White’s attempt to dissect faith, belief systems, and mysticism, making Thailand the perfect location for such an endeavor.

One aspect I found particularly well-executed, a recurrent theme throughout pervious seasons, but one that felt more central in this one: the notion of reconciling one’s projections of themselves with their true identity. Many scenes repeatedly showed characters defining themselves, or attempting to do so, only to later be confronted by their inner demons, or forced to admit some uncomfortable truths.

This season also introduced us to a fresh group of guests and hotel staff. Each one is grappling with personal dilemmas, or entangled in some kind of messy relationship dynamic, and I absolutely ate up every single one of them.

Rick and Chelsea

There was Rick, seeking closure from an unhealed childhood trauma by planning a murder, when what he truly needed all along was therapy.

And then there was Chelsea, one half of the star-crossed lovers, caught in a crossfire. Appearing rather self-aware and least prone to bad decisions, yet willingly staying in a toxic relationship as she continued to romanticize the misguided notion of soulmates. 

And somehow, these two still felt like the most genuine couple the show has given us. Think of all the others – built on deception, pretense, or mind games – while these two were always brutally honest with each other and stayed loyal despite their many differences. A breath of fresh air, even if she deserved much better. (Or ought to have known better!)

The Ratliffs

Then there was the absolute chaos that is the Ratliff family. The patriarch, Timothy, spent 90% of his screen time wrestling with the idea that death might be his (and his family’s…) only way out of an impending downfall.

His daughter Piper, who longed to stay in a monastery in Thailand, but never once dressed for the occasion. She also self-righteously believed she wasn’t as out-of-touch as her family, yet remained just as oblivious to everything around her, much like her blissfully ignorant mother.

But what we can’t leave out from the discourse is that infamous moment of incest that traumatized not only the two brothers, Saxon and Lochlan, but the rest of us as well. As Saxon spiraled in its aftermath, the show began hinting at a nuance we’ve never quite seen in his equivalents from past seasons, Shane and Cameron — neither of whom ever showed any potential for redemption. 

One moment alluding to this was when Saxon admits to his father that his nepo baby privilege was all he had going for him. And while he started out ogling every woman who walked by, his decision to respect Chelsea’s request to leave her room felt like a direct response to having had his own consent violated. Did he leave a better man than when he arrived? Maybe. But let’s be real, not by that much.

Belinda, Gaitok, and Greg

This season also marked the return of some familiar faces. We’re reunited with Belinda, who once again found herself tied to Tanya, even in the latter’s death.

Greg, now going by Gary, is also back, and remains the only character central to a plot spanning all three seasons. (He is ironically the one who robbed us of the one character we’d have liked to see throughout every season). And (of course!) he’s hiding out in Thailand in an attempt to erase the murderous sins of his past. 

On this note, we need to also consider sweet, lovelorn Gaitok. Both Belinda and Gaitok ended up exactly where they’d always dreamed of, but in getting there, they allowed themselves to be corrupted. That said, both of their choices felt realistically human.

Belinda tasted wealth for just a moment, and already, she pulled a Tanya on poor Pornchai. Gaitok, who never wanted to hurt anyone, hesitated, but eventually pulled a trigger to a man’s back, one literally carrying another seemingly dead body. He then ended up “winning” Mook, who seemed far more interested in his “status” than who we was as a person. 

At the end of the day, Belinda let Greg get away with murder, while Gaitok let Valentin and his compadres get away with robbery. 

When we later catch a sinister glimpse of Greg’s happy ending, we also spot Chloe, seemingly unaffected by Chelsea’s death. Though their friendship was admittedly short-lived, they did seem to have formed a genuine bond. Or so it appeared.

Jaclyn, Laurie, and Kate

​​The trio of childhood friends might seem like the most grounded of the main characters, or at least, they initially appear that way. 

We very quickly discover the fact that their childhood connections are but a thin thread tying them together. Trapped for a week after years apart, their reunion amplified the unresolved issues at the heart of their inability to have a genuine friendship, even as adults.

Each character also represents very different dilemmas. Jaclyn craves the spotlight and constantly dodges the inevitability of aging, a pursuit she achieves through questionable means, even at the expense of people she genuinely cares about.

Kate, on the other hand, would rather pretend than face confrontations. A friend to all is a friend to none. Is she fake, or is her desire to choose harmony over conflict simply an authentic part of who she is?

Finally, Laurie, who started out on a less cheerful note than the other two, eventually found solace in just having a seat at the table. (Carrie Coon was fantastic and stole every scene!)

There are some who believe that the ladies will just go back to ignoring each other after their time in Thailand. Perhaps. But the point here is they’ve come to accept and excuse each other’s flaws (vanity, voting for Trump, corporate servitude, and all), the way we all do when we’ve known someone our whole lives.

Was This Season Lesser Than the Previous Ones?

Despite everything I liked, I had my fair share of frustrations too.

Why did the previous seasons of The White Lotus feel superior. At first, I thought that maybe Season 1’s commentary on colonial power imbalances was simply easier to convey through satire. Season 2, on the other hand, tackled the dynamics of sex and relationships, which are inherently relatable themes, given how central lust and love are to the human psyche. And while Season 3’s core themes may echo those of Season 1, maybe part of what made the latter so appealing was that it didn’t take itself quite as seriously. I also appreciated how Season 2 offered a more compelling look into everyone’s motivations and desires.

So it was a little unortunate that this latest season — which aimed to take on the most daunting and intricate issues yet — seemed to lack all of the above. But having mulled over the entire series upon its finale, I’m starting to realise how completely false that line of reasoning was. For example, was this season really not as playful as the previous ones? Or did it continuously tease us with exhilarating moments, only to snatch them away almost immediately, as though it was laughing in our faces? Take Gaitok retrieving the gun, for instance, how lucky was he? He didn’t have to face the fact that he was simply bad at his job. Instead, he got to wonder about his tolerance for violence.

In fact, if you really think about it, it’s pretty ironic that the season which most explicitly explores the nature of good and bad, ends with no one actually becoming a better version of themselves. Sure, that’s not new for The White Lotus, but it feels especially significant here.

If you ask me, part of why the ending felt somewhat predictable is because most of these characters either lacked much depth to begin with or had always been fairly transparent about who they were. Yes, even Belinda and Gaitok, their moral dilemmas lingered because there are others who would simply do the right thing.

I also felt that this season’s characters didn’t quite measure up to those from earlier seasons of The White Lotus. Take Chloe, for instance, as captivating as she was on screen, she often came across as one-dimensional, reduced to a caricature of a trope, with most of her scenes revolving around trash-talking Greg or talking about sex and little else. But then again, people like her, who instigate chaos purely for the thrill of it, very much exist.

Even fan-favourite Victoria, while certainly memorable, seemed to pale in comparison to Tanya, who was far more complex and layered. But what if that was the point? Victoria was, quite plainly, shallow and elitist, and that’s about it. When her daughter broke down, realising she couldn’t live without the comforts of their wealth, Victoria’s response was to remark, in all seriousness, that not enjoying their wealth would be offensive to those who didn’t have it.

I liked that the show didn’t bother justifying anyone’s mean streak. It simply presented people making immoral or unethical choices as they are. Sometimes, people are just selfish because of their upbringing — the Ratliffs have their riches, while Belinda, Gaitok, and Mook are survivors of a harsh world made harsher by poverty. And sometimes, the Gregs of the world never face justice simply because their wealth affords them that opportunity.

And then there is the pacing. The White Lotus has thrived on slow-burn storytelling, carefully unpacking each gripping plot, before bringing them all together in a moment of choreographed chaos. So how did this season’s longer runtime fare in this regard. Did the tension fizzle out? Not for me it didn’t. I honestly believe that a show built around character observations absolutely earns the right to take its time.

So many factors contribute to the continued success of The White Lotus. We have the eery anxiety-inducing soundtrack by Cristobal Tapia de Veer, setting just the right mood for every scene. (I’m still in denial about him not returning for Season 4). The breathtaking landscapes and majestic-looking hotels that further elevate the satire. And the guests are always styled to glamorous perfection. 

Isn’t it hilarious how we participate in ridiculing these characters, yet find ourselves mesmerised by the very superficial elements that make their world seem irresistibly inviting? (Check out How The White Lotus does Satire for an insightful take on this.)

But really, what in fact makes this anthology so effective is its colourful mix of characters and the brilliantly written, superbly awkward conversations they usually find themselves in. And this season certainly didn’t fall short of that. The debates sparked by this series, and this season in particular, are a testament to Mike White’s genius in poking fun at everything.

So I guess the only thing left for me to say is… bring on Season 4.

All episodes of The White Lotus are now streaming on Max.

The post The White Lotus May Not Be at Its Best, but It’s Still Pretty Damn Great appeared first on Goggler.

From production disruptions to a shifting cinematic landscape, we break down the four reasons why Mickey 17 failed to achieve the success that its inherent quality deserved.

Pre-Release Maladies

Following the success of Parasite, Variety reported in January 2022 that Bong Joon-ho was set to direct an adaptation of Edward Ashton’s recently released novel, Mickey7. From the outset, however, the film faced a series of production setbacks that blunted its momentum.

The first major delay was unavoidable — the 2022 SAG-AFTRA strike pushed the film’s release by a full 10 months (from March 2024 to January 2025). While numerous productions had been affected, such an extended delay would inevitably dampen audience anticipation.

Another hurdle arose from a dispute between Bong Joon-ho and Warner Bros. over the final cut rights of the film. Determined to retain full creative control, Bong resisted any studio-enforced changes to the final film. This standoff led to another postponement from January 2025 to March 2025. While Bong’s artistic integrity was preserved, the additional delay caused a further loss to the film’s momentum.

In an entertainment landscape that moves at breakneck speed, prolonged delays can erode excitement. By the time Mickey 17 finally hit theatres in March 2025, the cinematic landscape had shifted. Dune: Part Two had dominated the pop culture conversation in early 2024. A year later, the box office juggernaut, Ne Zha 2, commanded audience attention.

Science Fiction Struggles

Sci-fi as a genre — particularly those that are more intellectually stimulating (we’re looking at you, Interstellar) — doesn’t always command mainstream success.

One major hurdle is the genre’s reliance on elaborate special effects, which significantly inflates production budgets. Higher costs mean higher break-even points, making profitability more difficult. As of 2024, four of the twelve most expensive movies fell under the sci-fi genre.

Another challenge is its niche appeal. While cinephiles appreciate thought-provoking stories, cerebral sci-fi often struggles to attract mass-market audiences. Recent films such as Blade Runner 2049 and The Creator both received critical acclaim yet underperformed at the box office.

That said, there is one director who consistently defies this trend: Christopher Nolan. His films, such as Inception and Interstellar, are both critically and commercially successful. This anomaly could largely be attributed to Nolan’s very distinct brand of filmmaking — his emphasis on practical effects and emotionally resonant storytelling, has built him a reputation that fosters audience trust. As a result, viewers are more willing to engage in his unique mix of spectacle and depth.

The Ides of March

When it comes to enjoying success at the box office, there’s another crucial factor at play: a film’s release window. 

Unfortunately, March has historically been a risky month for major film releases. While it has produced breakout successes (The Hunger Games in 2012 launched the YA adaptation boom), it has also been a dumping ground for films that struggle to find an audience, such as A Wrinkle In Time which faded into financial obscurity. Mickey 17 landed in this unpredictable period and struggled to establish its foothold.

Despite a lack of direct, high-level competition (the live-action Snow White was mired in controversy, while Novocaine was a low-budget genre flick), Mickey 17 still struggled to carve out a niche for itself. Meanwhile, Ne Zha 2, a Chinese animated movie, was proving to be an unstoppable force, further limiting Mickey 17’s reach.

With the benefit of hindsight, a summer or winter release could have primed Mickey 17 for better success, which would have allowed it to build some buzz around the film and gain more widespread attention. Instead, its March 2025 release date left it in an awkward, suboptimal window where shifting audience preferences and an evolving box office landscape compounded its struggles.

Shifting Viewing Habits

With the rise of streaming services and a shift in audience viewing preference, box office success is now an increasingly uphill battle, especially for original sci-fi films like Mickey 17.

In the past decade, various streaming platforms like Netflix, Disney+, and Apple TV have altered how audiences consume content. Viewers have now come to expect multiple high-quality films from the comfort of their homes. This shift was further accelerated by the pandemic, which conditioned audiences to be more selective about what was worth a trip to the cinema. As such, films that aren’t familiar franchises or provide Barbenheimer-level hype often struggle to draw crowds away from their homes.

This shift is even more pronounced in cerebral sci-fi. While Denis Villeneuve’s Dune films have thrived at the box office, it did so with an existing fanbase from Frank Herbert’s classic novel, and years of anticipation. Mickey 17, meanwhile, was an adaptation of Mickey7, a relatively recent novel with little mainstream recognition. Without an existing franchise or brand identity, Mickey 17 had to rely on marketing and word of mouth, which have both been affected by the factors mentioned above.

The results? Mickey 17 found itself in a tricky situation between these shifting market forces — too expensive to thrive as a niche indie hit on streaming services, yet lacking the mainstream appeal of a blockbuster franchise. As such, the film struggled to make a significant impact in theatres.

What Does the Future Hold for Sci-Fi Films?

Mickey 17 had all the makings of a great film — an acclaimed director, a talented lead actor, and a thought-provoking premise. Still, despite its strengths, it struggled to gain a foothold at the box office.

Hampered by production delays, an ill-timed release window and the evolving dynamics of modern cinema, Mickey 17 struggled to carve out an audience to underscore the growing difficulty of launching original sci-fi films in an era of streaming platforms. Without an existing fanbase, even a visionary director like Bong Joon-ho faces an uphill battle in attracting audiences.

Ultimately, Mickey 17’s underperformance is not a reflection of its quality but rather an indication of Hollywood’s evolving priorities. As studios shift their focus on franchise-driven films, and audiences grow more selective about their cinematic experiences, original sci-fi films may continue to struggle to justify their continued existence at the box office. 

The question is no longer whether ambitious, thought-provoking sci-fi should be made, but whether it can still thrive in cinemas, or if its future lies in streaming platforms.

This article was written with contributions from Hew Hoong Liang.

The post Why Mickey 17 Bombed at the Box Office? appeared first on Goggler.

In recent years, films like The Menu (2022) and The Platform (2019) have peeled back the dark connection between the politics of food and the power dynamics of eating. Closer to home, the Thai film Hunger (2023) cut open the dark heart of celebrity chef culture, worker abuse, and elite dining. Now, another distinctly Asian production has joined the banquet: Vietnam’s Devil’s Diner.

Directed by Ham Tran, Devil’s Diner is a horror anthology that serves up tales of desire and karmic reckoning with uniquely Vietnamese flavours. Each of the six episodes pairs a carnal human sin with a local dish. We’re treated to strange and dreamlike combinations such as greed and blood pudding, delusion and candied gooseberries, suspicion and heart porridge, and moon-faced snails with karma (these pairings also form the delightful title of each episode).   

The series’ narrative format sounds like the set-up for a joke: in each episode, an emotionally beaten person walks into a diner. The bartender/chef asks them to share their problems. After listening patiently, he offers to cook them a special meal. If they can finish eating it, their greatest wish shall be granted. The only payment is their soul, which the bartender collects to pay his own debt to the diner’s demonic owner. 

While the bartender, played by Lê Quốc Nam with both a sparkle in his eye and genuine remorse for his patrons, is the one constant character, there is no doubt that the extraordinary dishes he prepares are the standout characters. The elaborate care, attention to aesthetics, presentational detail, and showmanship he lavishes on each dish would make Julian Slowik, the diabolical master chef of The Menu, deeply proud.

For example, in Episode 1, a penniless husband, Luan, feasts on chicken blood pudding and crushed nuts served in a whimsical egg-shaped bowl. As a reward for finishing this meal, the bartender gives Luan a crying box that grants unimaginable riches. Although it’s never spelt out explicitly, I’m convinced the box is haunted by something like a kuman thong, and it is deeply freaky. 

Naturally, there is no such thing as a free meal in life and every gift has its price. The box’s demonic baby feeds on blood as payment. Just like the box’s bottomless appetite, Luan’s craving for money spirals and the box starts feeding on more than just blood. The metaphors are unmissable: beware of the insatiable hunger for wealth, which is endless and can never be fulfilled. Those afflicted with the sin of greed will find themselves eaten in the end. 

Unlike so many other stories about deals with the devil, what makes Devil’s Diner refreshing is that the bartender/chef is fully upfront with each person he cuts a deal with. None of his patrons are ignorant about the terms and conditions they are entering into. Maybe that’s what makes things so much more tragic: taking a bite of the proverbial forbidden fruit, each patron is a willing participant in their own self-damnation in this life and beyond. 

Each dish served is unique to the eater and conveys a pointedly Vietnamese understanding of the world, both this Earthly one and those to come. Steeping the series so deeply in Vietnamese culture was a gamble that paid off. An international, especially a Western audience, may find the series’ Buddhist cosmology and conception of sin, Nirvana and higher realms, a little hard to digest, but surely anyone can relate to the series’ universal themes of human struggle and desire to free ourselves.

Devil’s Diner may be fairly predictable, but the finale closes with a surprise visitor when one of the bartender/chef’s victims comes looking for answers. The final dish, melon leaves with a chance at forgiveness and freedom, may prove that revenge really is a dish best served cold. In this place, the dinner plate is a battleground for good against evil and where the cultural and the personal mesh with every mouthful.

Devil’s Diner is now streaming on Netflix.

The post Devil’s Diner Brings Together Food, Horror, and Vietnamese Culture appeared first on Goggler.

Obviously, you can’t have an erotic movie without an orgasm, and Nicole Kidman absolutely nails it. She accentuates every ounce of that sensation with every fiber of her being, making you feel every real orgasm she’s experienced, as well as all the fake ones she’s had to squeeze out. But when she does have a genuine climax, her face shows a pure ecstasy.

But there’s also something else.

Beneath the bliss, there’s guilt. Shame. A subtle flicker that whispers: “this isn’t okay.” Even when she’s alone, or with someone else, that shame lingers. But why? Why is there shame?

Are You Ashamed of Your Pleasures?

If you grew up in Malaysia, the chances are you learned what “sex” was through something you saw on screen — wild guess, it’s probably from some Hollywood blockbuster that your parents put on. It was probably a two-minute scene: two people under the sheets, there’s dim lighting, and you can see the skin from nondescript parts of their body. He’s always on top. She’s always below him. Your cheeks are flushed, but you have no idea what’s really going on. Even so, those 120 seconds probably sealed your expectations for intimacy for life. That’s the kind of sex you were raised on — quick, traditional, and supposedly romantic. 

Babygirl isn’t made up such typical montages. It’s a two-hour deep dive into a woman’s kink, more explicitly, her inherent and uncontrollable desire for danger, the kind that electrifies her like nothing else. Halina Reijn takes us all through this journey of sensuality, forcing us to pay attention to every little quiver, frown, and shudder; with the meticulous use of shallow focus. All of it feels very… exposed. Naked, even. It’s the kind of intimacy you don’t usually see on the big screen in our local cinemas – or in any cinema. It’s rather uncommon, much like how Romy perceives herself. Raised in a conservative (in her scenario, “cultish”) environment, Romy has deemed her fantasies as dirty, and she has grown to bury them deep within. 

I mean, how could she not? We’ve been shown time and time again how sex is “supposed” to look. We’ve been lectured to about what kind of sex is the most “normal.” Most people crave nothing more than a passionate lover like Romy’s husband, because that’s what’s supposed to feel good, right? But what happens when it doesn’t? For Romy, it’s that all hell breaks loose within her.

This made me wonder, how many women out there felt shame bubbling within them simply because their desires fall outside the conventional box of sex? 

Why Don’t We Talk About Kinks at Brunch?

The day after my girl friends and I caught Babygirl in the cinema, we found ourselves obsessed with conversations about sex and intimacy. For context, we’re all twenty, born and raised in a conservative country, and had just witnessed Nicole Kidman eating candy out of Harris Dickinson’s palm. The film opened a floodgate of revelations — like how we didn’t even know kinks were a thing until we got to universities and started seeing people romantically. “It’s never really in Hollywood movies, though,” one of my friends remarked. It was like a brunch with a side of “what actually turns you on?”, and an extra dipping of “is this normal?”. 

But here’s the reality: these conversations don’t happen often. Quite frankly, they don’t happen often enough. God knows most group conversations involve someone spelling out s-e-x like it’s forbidden fruit. So, the idea of talking about what we might want — let alone exploring it — feels almost too bold, even unattainable. All those confusing thoughts and emotions seem to boil down to one shared experience, and it’s the same one Romy grapples with in Babygirl: shame. 

Intimacy then becomes something to fear. You feel ashamed for not knowing, yet equally ashamed for even trying to see what’s outside of the box. It’s a vicious cycle, and it’s exhausting. 

You Don’t Know What You’re Doing? They Don’t Either!

Here’s the thing: sex shouldn’t be terrifying. And this is where Babygirl deserves credit. While the movie has its flaws, it does one thing exceptionally well — capturing the cluelessness and ambiguity of its characters. Romy and Samuel spend half the time unsure of what they’re doing. They’re confused, but still trying to figure out what they want from each other, and what they’re willing to give. 

He cracks up when he tells her to get on her knees, and he stutters when he gives his first commands. She tries to assert her dominance, only to end up handing the reins right back to him. But amid all of that tension, they’re having fun, and constantly discovering pleasure in each other. It’s even unexpectedly tender. We find Samuel allaying her insecurities like no one else, constantly reminding her that what she feels isn’t shameful. Together, they create this unspoken bubble of mutual vulnerability, a space where they can exist without judgement — even if it does come at the expense of an affair (which, for the record, is not condoned). It’s a real, hot mess. But it’s theirs. 

That’s the truth about navigating one’s sexuality. Most of the time, you will have no idea what you’re doing. All you know is that it makes you feel good, and in that moment, that’s enough (Which, let’s be honest, could also explain a lot of our more questionable choices at times). This constant shift, this trial and error, doesn’t mean there’s something wrong — it’s just part of the human experience. You shouldn’t feel pressured to always be in control, and you don’t owe anyone their version of you.

Which brings me to this: have you ever thought about whether you’re dominant or submissive? 

Power, Independence, and the Bedroom

One of the major conflicts Romy faces in Babygirl is navigating her place in the whole dominant and submissive conversation. She’s a high-powered figure in her career and life, someone who, on paper, should have no trouble being vocal about what she wants. But in the bedroom? She craves submission with a hint of danger. She’s quiet when she’s told to be, and make no mistake, she wants to be told. At first glance, this might seem contradictory, or like a loss of agency. But I believe that understanding what someone wants, even if it’s not what you’d expect from them, is one of the deepest forms of respect. 

Being independent as a person doesn’t mean you necessarily have to take charge in bed. Likewise, being seen as the “softer” person in a relationship doesn’t mean you can’t drive the stick. I have friends who thrive on calling the shots, though they’re more laid-back in their day-to-day lives. Others fully embrace being pillow princesses and own it. Some even switch between the two. It’s all valid. Romy and Samuel’s whirlwind only shows how sexy it can be to embrace all sides of yourself with the right partner. Being on either side doesn’t make anyone less powerful either.

Babygirl is no Secretary, or anything David Cronenberg, and it’s probably not making anyone’s top 10 erotic films list, but it remains a delightful addition to horny cinema. Unlike movies that dive straight into the whipping and chains with characters who already have it all figured out, Babygirl takes us through the process of getting there, with all the gritty, yet fun bits of exploring kinks and power dynamics. I, for one, had a blast in the cinema with my legs crossed (it is, hands down, the perfect movie for a girls’ night out!).

Sexuality is all about exploration, and kinks are all about pleasure. Intimacy isn’t just a random two-minute montage that leads to the climax of a blockbuster. It’s a layered and vulnerable exchange. Films like this might feel uncomfortable or even shameful to discuss, but let’s be clear — sex is never shameful, and what turns you on isn’t either.

Click here to read Sue Ann’s other articles on Goggler.

The post Let’s Talk About Babygirl, Shame, Kinks, and Liberation appeared first on Goggler.

When the first Sonic film was announced back in 2017, I don’t think anyone was expecting it to work on any level. That feeling of dread was then compounded when they released the now infamous teaser trailer with possibly the most uncanny valley looking CGI Sonic we could have ever imagined. The events that followed “Teethgate,” however, should have been a sign of how fantastic this film was going to turn out, because unlike most other productions, the team around the first installment actually listened to the fanbase and made the necessary changes.

After the massive success of Sonic the Hedgehog, a lot of people woke up to the idea that a video game movie could actually be good, and fun, and appeal to audiences of all ages. The first installment in the franchise was a feel-good film filled with pop culture references, tongue-in-cheek humour, and plenty of heart. It was the perfect recipe for a great day out at the movies with the family.

It also served as something of a wake-up call to the other studios that it was time to up their game. Sonic’s Nintendo rival Mario got an equally well-deserved treatment and the stakes had definitely risen.

Now you would think that the first Sonic movie might have been a fluke, but Sega and Paramount doubled down with its sequel and proved that this was indeed a formula that worked. Now with Sonic the Hedgehog 3 delivering yet another success, it might be time to regard the franchise as possibly the best example of how to make a video game adaptation.

If you watched the first two Sonic movies, I’m pretty sure you’ll love this one too. Sonic 3 is still filled with all of the franchise’s trademark humour and heart, as well as copious amounts of action. as well as some truly heartbreaking moments with the arrival of the fan favourite Shadow. While the first two movie were a fast paced and hilarious time from start to finish, the arrival of the fan favourite Shadow and the inclusion of some devastatingly heartbreaking moments keeps things fresh and new.

It is, once again, a testament to why this formula keeps working. The filmmakers know what the audience want.

With most adaptations, the studios are in it for the IP. If we’re lucky, they might stay true to the source material. If we’re not, then we end up with Prince of Persia: The Sands of Time. What sets The Last of Us, The Super Mario Bros. Movie, and Sonic apart, is the fact that they were able to not only respect the source material, but add enough new material in order to bring to it an exciting narrative energy.

The Sonic franchise also stands out by virtue of having a personality of its own. The filmmakers have jammed so many pop culture references into this that it would make Deadpool proud. It allows for fans to connect to these characters on a deeper level. They make the same inside jokes and references as us, they suffer the same emotional problems as us, and they even love the same chilli dogs as us (okay, that one may be purely personal to me, but I’m sure it’s still relatable). And they do it all with style and grace, with homages to both the video game, and anime as well – Dragon Ball Z and Akira feature prominently in Sonic 3.

And then there are the easter eggs, which are essentially a love letter to all of us who grew up with these games. But that isn’t to say that you won’t enjoy this franchise if you didn’t grow up a gamer. Because at it’s core, these Sonic movies have always been a deeply relatable story about family, overcoming your fears, and staying true to yourself.

Lastly, the most important thing that a lot of other video game adaptations could learn from the Sonic franchise is to not take themselves so seriously. Sure, you’re adapting something that’s based on an iconic franchise, but that doesn’t mean you can’t have a little fun in the process.

The whole concept of a speedy blue alien hedgehog is utterly absurd, but instead of shying away from the insanity of it all, the filmmakers lean into it, they poke fun at themselves, they break the fourth wall, and amp it up, without ever losing sight of the humanity of it all.

So when you book your tickets to see Sonic the Hedgehog 3, take a moment to appreciate just how far the industry has come with its video game adaptations, and soak in the many reasons why Sonic has succeeded in areas where others have failed. Hopefully in years to come, Sonic will start facing some real competition at the box office. I for one believe that Sonic, like Iron Man before it, is a genre game changer. And after watching this threequel, I think it’s safe to say that the Sonic success train, isn’t going to be stopping anytime soon.

Sonic the Hedgehog 3 opens in Malaysian cinemas on Thursday, December 26.

The post Sonic Is a Great Example of How to Make a Video Game Movie appeared first on Goggler.

Elisabeth Sparkle has faded into the background. She is so much of a has been that her Hollywood star sign is cracked in the middle and no one cares enough to repair it. On the brink of a meltdown, she turns to “The Substance,” a miracle drug, a quick fix that will restore her to what she was before. She takes the drug and out of her extrudes “Sue,” a younger, canonically “perfect” version of herself. Now, the deal with “The Substance” is simple, all the have to do is respect the balance, alternating lives every two weeks. Easy enough… right?

Not really. And director Coralie Fargeat doesn’t just tell you it’s not – she drags you kicking and screaming into why it’s not. 

Watching The Substance feels, in a word… jarring. This has been a year of directors loving the intense close-ups (see: Longlegs, Strange Darling, et al.), but none have really come close to what Fargeat has achieved. It’s eerie, it’s uncomfortable, and frankly, it’s kind of genius. Watching Dennis Quaid crunch down a bowl of shrimp shouldn’t be one of the most revolting things I’ve seen in a horror film this year, but here we are. The camera’s unrelenting proximity to its characters, especially under that disturbing male gaze, leaves you feeling as exposed and violated as Elisabeth and Sue. 

Visually, the film is drenched in high-gloss and vibrant colors, with a cameo of star earrings that have become unmistakably Classic Fargeat — a style carried over from her 2017 debut, Revenge. Alongside this striking aesthetic are moments of sharp, unhinged humor that catch you slightly off guard, yet somehow feel perfectly aligned with the film’s identity, making everything you’re watching feel as though it exists just outside the boundaries of reality. 

And that’s the magic: The Substance thrives in its surrealism. Half the time, you’re sitting there wondering, “Wait, but how does any of this make sense?” But that’s exactly the point – it doesn’t! The deliberate exaggeration and chaos only fuels the film’s satire, and intensifies the disorientation it wants you to feel. Normally, questioning a film’s plausibility mid-watch would be a dealbreaker. Here? It’s part of the charm, and none of it would work without Fargeat’s audacious vision for what the film sets out to be.

What grounds all this chaos is also how extra purposeful everything feels. The film is so over-the-top that it should turn you off — and rest assured, it does — yet you can’t look away. From the camera work and chapter headings, to the soundtrack and choreography, every element is put together with such precision. Even the direction is unpredictable; you never quite know where the film is headed until you’re already there, and by then, you’re squinting while perched at the edge of your seat. 

No discussion of The Substance would be complete without a round of applause for the practical effects team, whose work brings the film’s most stomach-turning moments to life, with a special mention going to that monstrous abomination that anchors the bloody, grotesque ending.

But the film wouldn’t soar without its two stellar leads. Demi Moore successfully delivers a career-defining performance that stays with you long after the credits roll. As for Margaret Qualley, she is pure magnetic energy, exuding the captivating, almost otherworldly aura that Sue needs to sell the whole concept. Together, they are electric. Believe me when I tell you that the names Elisabeth Sparkles and Sue will forever be seared into your mind.

Now let’s address the elephant in the room: the ongoing “feminist or not?” debate circling The Substance. Let’s be clear: if you’re expecting a neatly wrapped feminist message with a triumphant ending, you’re likely to be disappointed. That said, I’d argue that there’s something undeniably powerful about using the female body — not as a vehicle for eroticism — but as a horror spectacle for fear and discomfort. Yes, we’re seeing an excessive amount of asses — and I mean a lot of asses — but none of them feel remotely sexualized. Instead, they’re framed in ways that feel odd, unsettling, even confrontational. Isn’t it refreshing to see female bodies depicted without the safety of traditional representation? Isn’t this raw, unfiltered portrayal its own form of representation? 

And honestly, what better way to explore our fraught relationship with body image than through some meticulously crafted body horror? If the film is a commentary on anything, it’s a reflection of the sad, self-destructive tendencies we all carry, shaped by the deeply ingrained societal expectations that haunt us when we’re looking at ourselves in the mirror. By the end, all of it will leave you feeling nauseous, gagged, but also deeply saddened. It’s the kind of experience you could genuinely call cinematic. 

The debate may never reach a definitive conclusion, but one thing’s for sure: with 2017’s Revenge and now The Substance, Fargeat’s really got it. She has truly found her voice. 

The post The Substance Is the Gag Fest You Need to Experience appeared first on Goggler.

But first, a quick explainer for if you happened to just wake up for a coma. Wicked delves into the origins of Glinda, the Good Witch, and Elphaba, the Wicked Witch of the West, offering a nuanced take on their complicated relationship. By expanding the World of Oz, Wicked charms us with its tale of political intrigue, social commentary, and adolescent trials wrapped in magical wonder.

It works. But not every prequel does. So what makes for a successful prequel as opposed to a prequel that is wholly unnecessary?

Prequels: Origins!

Almost every conversation about movies will inevitably descend into a diatribe about the ubiquity of franchise fare, of prequels and sequels, of spinoffs and reboots. God knows we’ve all read enough think pieces that bemoan the lack of original ideas in Hollywood. It’s an argument that is hyperbolic at best, and misinformed at worst. Because the practice of crafting prequels has been a feature of media for the longest time.

Just take C.S. Lewis’ The Chronicles of Narnia. While The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe was the first novel published in 1950, a prequel titled The Magician’s Nephew was released five years later. It fleshed out the world of Narnia and even featured a minor character that appeared in the original novel.

The great William Shakespeare also partook in the prequel phenomenon. He wrote a tetralogy of plays (Richard II, Henry IV: Part I, Henry IV: Part 2, and Henry V) which were written cohesively and meant to serve as prequels that lead up to some of his earlier works which were focused on The War of the Roses (Henry VI: Part I, Henry VI: Part 2, Henry VI: Part 3, and Richard III).

Not All Prequels Are Created Equal

Despite the languid reputation that prequels tend to get, several examples have notably bucked the trend. The Godfather Part II further developed Michael Corleone’s character and provided a foil by contrasting him with his father, Vito Corleone. Fast Five (yes, Fast Five!) didn’t just inject new thrills into the Fast and Furious franchise, but also served to set the series down a new narrative path. And lest we forget, Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom takes place before Raiders of the Lost Ark.

But not all prequels are necessary, nor do they adequately expand the world. The seminal case for this would be the infamous Star Wars prequels (also known as Episodes I, II, and III). Whilst there are undeniable highlights to the prequel trilogy, the general fan consensus has been decidedly mixed regarding George Lucas’ storytelling choices.

Recent years have also seen the rise of villain-focused prequels of classic tales, with Cruella and Maleficent being two of the biggest names. These “prequels” serve as interesting origin stories for classic villains and give audiences a more three-dimensional look at these antagonists beyond the context of their original story. 

In the case of Wicked, what marks it as an effective prequel would be the deliberate and thoughtful expansion of the world of Oz — giving us a glimpse into what it was like before Dorothy, giving it further context to the events of the seminal movie. In addition, familiar characters such as Glinda and the Wizard are given additional screentime and layers that shed new light on their actions in the original tale. The biggest twist, however, was giving the Wicked Witch of the West a new backstory and motivation. Adding elements of social disillusionment and political propaganda made her a far more complex character than merely the two dimensional villain we were lead to believe she was.

The One Oz Prequel to Rule Them All

The success of Wicked also makes for an interesting contrast with Oz: The Great and the Powerful – Disney’s own take on a prequel to The Wizard of Oz.

Oz focuses on the adventures of one Oscar Diggs, a small-time magician and con artist who gets transported into the magical land of Oz. Despite adapting a well-known story, Oz fails as a prequel by having wildly different characterizations of familiar characters, such as The Wicked Witch of the West (Theodora) and The Good Witch of the North (Evanora). In addition, there is also very little exploration of the magical world of Oz in this mostly disconnected story.

Wicked embraces the darker side of the original story by spinning a tale filled with social intrigue that seeks to reframe The Wicked Witch’s actions by providing a nuanced motivation for going against the Wizard. Plus, themes such as the power of propaganda in distorting the truth remain relevant in the modern information age.

Balancing the Past for a Brighter Present

Prequels are difficult things to do. Justifying their worth might be one of the hardest storytelling maneuvers to pull off. So maybe instead of criticizing it as being something derivative, we should focus instead on how successful it is in adding to the original source material.

The Fox X-Men movies, for example, which have been a mixed bag, nevertheless had their fair share of bright spark. 2011’s X-Men First Class really developed the central relationship of Magneto and Professor X whilst showcasing a unique dimension to the X-Men world. It tied into the real-life history of the Cuban Missile Crisis, and was a great example of a worthy prequel that offered intriguing insights and further revelations about what we had already seen in previous movies.

A successful prequel balances honouring the original source material while forging its own path. The best prequels expand the original world, add further depth to its characters, and offer fresh perspectives to established canon. Prequels that merely retread familiar ground often fall flat, as audiences question their reason for being. Ultimately, by striking the right balance between nostalgia and innovation, creators can elevate the story of an established work by adding their own voice to the existing conversation.

Wicked, Part 1 is now showing in Malaysian cinemas. Mufasa: The Lion King opens nationwide on Thursday, December 19.

The post Wicked, Mufasa, and the Ubiquity of the Prequel appeared first on Goggler.

I ask people: “So, who do you root for, Tom or Summer?” Even if the vodka mixer doesn’t quite kickstart the conversation, this question always seems to do the trick. And let me tell you, things heat up fast.

On one side, you’ve got the Summer supporters, who argue that she was always clear about her boundaries from the start — “she never wanted anything serious.” While the Tom defenders fire back, “But you catch feelings over time. How could you do all of that and call it casual?” But it always circles back to the same question, one echoed by Chappell Roan when she asks: “so… is it casual now?”

Are We Really Okay with Casual?

Seriously though, what does casual really mean? Can people truly embrace and understand the idea of a so-called “casual” relationship? The fact that we’re still dissecting Tom and Summer’s dynamic — or endlessly discussing Carrie Bradshaw and Mr. Big — suggests that we might not be as comfortable with this whole idea as we think. We keep inventing new words all the time — situationships, for instance — to define what can’t be neatly labeled. 

Labels. It’s ironic how there are now more labels than ever, yet it seems infinitely harder to call someone your “boyfriend” or “girlfriend.” The line between what two people can do without proper labels has never been blurrier, so it’s no wonder we are still stuck in the middle of this debate.

For those of you needing a refresher on 500 Days of Summer, allow me to catch you up. Tom Hansen is what you would call a hopeless romantic. He’s the nice guy, the loverboy, one who falls head-over-heels just because of a shared love for The Smiths and Bananafish. Summer Finn, on the other hand, doesn’t quite believe in love; one minute she kisses you in the copy room, and another she tells you that you’re only friends. Despite their obvious incompatibility, they start something we’d call “a casual relationship.” What follows is an emotional tug-of-war. When Tom tries to pull Summer into commitment, Summer pushes away. When he backs off, she reels him in again. It’s this agonizing cycle of mixed signals that fuels this ongoing argument about who’s right and who’s wrong. 

What Wasn’t Summer Sure Of?

So what is it that makes this argument so intense? It’s because after months of their back-and-forth, they eventually break it off and Summer later marries someone else. When Tom asks her why, she simply says there was something about her husband she was sure of — something she never felt with him. This leaves us baffled again: if Summer could commit to the whole label bit, and even marriage, what did Tom do wrong?

One brunch, a friend and I were going on about the whole “manic pixie dream girl” trope in movies when we suddenly realized that it might help explain what happened between Tom and Summer. Tom has always romanticized Summer. He saw her through rose-tinted glasses, finding beauty in things like her heart-shaped birthmark and her crooked teeth, and turning everything they do into some dreamy, cinematic experience. In his mind, it was all part of this perfect, quirky love story. 

The reality, however, was that Summer was far from flawless. She wasn’t just the dream girl who loved the Smiths, or enjoyed roleplaying at IKEA. She was a fully-fleshed human, who was deeply uncommunicative, with an abundance of unresolved issues of her own, and – just hear me out on this – she was aware of the way Tom idealized her.

That scared her.

Someone once told me that when you’re in love, you naturally see the other person in this magical light. While that’s sweet, I have to wonder — isn’t that far too much pressure? To be loved for a version of yourself that you don’t even recognize? While we may never know precisely what Summer needed, Tom’s fantasy version of her certainly wasn’t it. 

So… Who Wins? 

Frankly, Tom and Summer each represent the various points we inhabit in our own romantic journeys. Two years ago, I’d fall for someone just because we liked the same niche album. Now, freshly into my twenties, I push away anything that could potentially be worthwhile because I don’t always know what I want. The early twenties love life crisis really is a thing. 

A guy I met told me that he sees a lot of himself in Tom, which actually helped him reflect on how pathetic he’d acted in a past relationship. There’s another close friend of mine who admits she identifies with Summer’s tendency to “detach” whenever things start to get serious.

One could watch the movie at different stages in their lives and uncover layers of themselves in both characters. We could easily be the Tom to someone’s Summer, or the Summer’s to someone’s Tom, and that’s exactly why there’s never going to be a side that’s universally agreed upon. Some might argue that if only Tom and Summer had focused on the “c” in communication instead of casual, things might have worked out. Sure, communication can perhaps save a relationship, but sometimes, the hard truth is that the other person is simply not the one. 

While we may never get any real closure with this debate, I for one genuinely love how divided the opinions are. The side a person takes often reveals a lot about their experiences with love, or how they view relationships. It’s that one-hit question that instantly tells you who you’re dealing with. And although I usually dislike ambiguity, I must admit I’ve enjoyed keeping this discourse alive through parties and gatherings — it’s become quite a guilty pleasure of mine.

So, if you’re at a party, and you’re vibing with someone, maybe try asking them this question — you might learn a lot. And lastly, a word of advice, if you’re still waiting around hoping for something casual to flip its coin, do yourself a favor: rewatch 500 Days of Summer. You might just find out why that’s a bad idea.

The post Is it Casual Now? The Endless Debate of (500) Days of Summer appeared first on Goggler.