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Send us Fan Mail Dark Crimes wants to be a grim, prestige-leaning true crime thriller, but the further we follow it, the less it holds together. We sit down with our notes and try to track basic things a crime mystery should make clear: who wants what, what the evidence means, and why Jim Carrey’s detective is even making these choices. Instead, we find missing motivation, unclear timelines, and a “reveal” that feels like it changes the vibe more than the story. The most heated part of our conversation is the adaptation problem. The real case that inspires the film has a genuinely interesting hook, yet the movie pivots into a sex cult angle that we think adds nothing to the central mystery while pushing the material toward exploitation. We talk about what that choice does to the theme, why the ending lands with a thud, and how basic screenwriting tools like dialogue and a strong investigative partner are oddly absent. If you like film criticism, movie podcasts, and honest breakdowns of plot holes, this one is a full teardown. After we finally put the movie down, we cleanse the palate with what we actually enjoyed this week, from Scream 7 to the return of American Gladiators, plus a few side quests into reality TV and why Traitors works. We also get into a surprisingly real topic: the influencer career dream and what happens when the audience moves on, then connect it to the creative trap of waiting for perfect camera gear before you make anything. If you’re listening, subscribe for more movie chaos, share the episode with a friend who loves a good bad-movie autopsy, and leave a review telling us your all-time most confusing thriller twist. Written Lovingly by AI Be our friend! Dan: @shakybacon Tony: @tonydczech And follow the podcast on IG: @hatewatchingDAT

Send us Fan Mail A three-hour sci-fi epic shouldn’t feel like you accidentally hit replay, yet that’s the vibe we can’t shake while breaking down Avatar 3: Fire and Ash. We’re Dan and Tony, and we watch the movies everyone’s already seen, then pull on the threads that the hype cycle ignores: character logic, story structure, and whether the emotional moments are actually earned. We dig into the big question the movie flirts with and then seems to abandon: what’s the real moral dilemma here? From Jake Sully’s sudden turn toward “maybe I should kill Spider” to the recycled son-rebels-again storyline, we talk about why stakes don’t work when they show up without buildup. We also get into the film’s environmental themes, whale hunting brutality, and the colonialism allegory, especially when the humans are cartoonishly cruel and the Na’vi feel oddly disconnected from the animals the franchise used to treat as sacred. Then we hit the craft stuff: CGI that still looks impressive, creature design that almost saves scenes, sound design choices that make us scream at our screens, and worldbuilding rules that seem to change depending on what the plot needs. Plus, an intermission you have to hear to believe: a mouse breaks into Tony’s Girl Scout cookies and sparks an all-out household war. Subscribe for more movie reviews, share this with a friend who loves film criticism, and leave a review if you want us to keep surviving blockbusters like this. What’s the one moment in Fire and Ash you think should have worked but didn’t? Lovingly written by AI Be our friend! Dan: @shakybacon Tony: @tonydczech And follow the podcast on IG: @hatewatchingDAT

Send us Fan Mail A sequel can be bigger, darker, and meaner, but it still has to make sense. We take on Greenland: Migration as a natural disaster movie and post-apocalyptic survival thriller that keeps sprinting past its own logic: rations that magically last years, bunker life that feels weirdly comfortable, and character deaths that happen so fast they barely register. We’re not asking for a documentary. We’re asking for cause and effect, stakes that stick, and a world that doesn’t collapse the second you think about fuel, medicine, or basic survival behavior. We also try to untangle the movie’s endgame, from the “civil war” language to the supposed war zone guarding a fertile crater in France. That’s where we introduce our favorite concept from the show: the “Dan Goodsell line,” the one sentence a script uses to explain away something bizarre so you’ll stop asking questions. When that line works, it’s a cheat we’ll happily accept. When it doesn’t, it becomes the loudest problem in the scene. After we vent, we pivot to stuff we actually enjoyed, including Brawl in Cellblock 99 as a reminder of what it looks like when a movie sits in a situation and lets tension build. We also hit quick recommendations and TV talk, from Send Help to Jury Duty, and we tee up what we’re watching next. If you’re into movie podcast reviews, disaster movie debates, and screenwriting craft, you’ll have plenty to argue with us about. Subscribe, share the show, and leave a review, then tell us: what’s the worst plot hole you’ll still forgive? Written lovingly by AI Be our friend! Dan: @shakybacon Tony: @tonydczech And follow the podcast on IG: @hatewatchingDAT

Send us Fan Mail An AI judge. A 90-minute timer. One chair that can end you. Mercy sells itself like a sleek future-court thriller, but the more we follow its rules, the less the world holds together and that’s where our review gets viciously fun. We walk through the movie’s central idea: Judge Maddox runs the Mercy Court as judge, jury, and (indirectly) executioner, while Chris Pratt’s Detective Chris Raven has to prove his innocence with no lawyer and almost no real investigation happening on the system’s side. We dig into the “guilt percentage” threshold, the film’s obsession with interconnected twists, and the strange choice to make the supposed hero an abusive alcoholic, which flips the entire emotional engine of the story. If you care about screenwriting, pacing, and believable stakes, we call out the exact moments where the logic collapses. The conversation also goes bigger than one movie. We argue about what AI can and can’t do, why people over-trust chatbots, and why any story about algorithmic justice needs an actual point of view on ethics, bias, and accountability. Mercy keeps teasing a message about AI courts and policing, then swerves into a finale where the AI behaves however the plot demands, leaving us asking what the movie even thinks it’s saying. We wrap with what we’re enjoying right now (Bait and Company Retreat) and tee up the next review: Greenland 2. If you listen, share your take, subscribe for the next one, and leave a review or a comment telling us where you think we’re dead wrong. Written Lovingly by AI Be our friend! Dan: @shakybacon Tony: @tonydczech And follow the podcast on IG: @hatewatchingDAT

Send us Fan Mail A time portal opens on a soccer field, a future soldier somehow addresses the whole stadium without a mic, and the world immediately agrees to a draft that sends regular people into an alien war with barely any training. That’s the kind of logic we can’t let go, so we put The Tomorrow War (2021) on the table and ask what happened to the “streaming blockbuster” era where huge movies drop on Prime Video and vanish from everyone’s brain by Monday. We walk through what works and what collapses: the video game structure, the unclear mission goals, the action geography that keeps getting fuzzier, and the time travel movie rules that change whenever the script needs a shortcut. We also get specific about casting and emotion, including why Chris Pratt’s approach doesn’t sell the family story, why Betty Gilpin deserved more to do, and how J.K. Simmons shows up and immediately makes the movie feel more alive. And yes, we give Sam Richardson his flowers because he threads the needle of being funny without breaking the tone. From alien design to the toxin plotline to the government decisions that make no sense, we keep pitching the cleaner, meaner sci fi version hiding inside the premise, including the ending we thought they were building toward. We wrap with what we’re watching next and our next pick, Mercy, because apparently we’re doing a Chris Pratt double feature whether anyone asked for it or not. Subscribe, share the show with a movie nerd friend, and leave a review if you want more deep dives into forgotten sci fi action movies. What’s the one change that would’ve fixed The Tomorrow War for you? Written Lovingly by AI Be our friend! Dan: @shakybacon Tony: @tonydczech And follow the podcast on IG: @hatewatchingDAT

Send us Fan Mail A reboot can survive a bad budget, cheap CGI, and even a silly premise. What it cannot survive is refusing to be the movie it advertises. We dig into the Anaconda remake and the strange choice to set up jump scares, a Brazil jungle prologue, and a “we’re living the movie we’re making” hook, then drain it all of horror, tension, and consequences the moment the story gets moving. We break down the biggest screenwriting and structure problems: the movie within a movie never becomes a real, trackable film with real scenes, so every setback feels weightless. We compare it to Tropic Thunder to show why that format works when the inner production is coherent and the danger forces characters to change. From there we pitch practical fixes that would have made this reboot a stronger horror comedy, including a clearer snake-driven goal, escalating stakes on the river, and character arcs that actually clash. We also give credit where it is due. Steve Zahn repeatedly steals scenes with commitment and sharp delivery, and a handful of gags genuinely hit, from Buffalo Sober to the absurd “pee on it” bit to late-stage slapstick that finally feels like a creature feature. We wrap by sharing what we watched this week, then tee up next week’s review of The Tomorrow War for another round of big budget pain. If you enjoy movie podcasts, film criticism, reboot debates, and craft talk about comedy writing, hit subscribe, share the show with a friend who loves bad remakes, and leave a review. What is the one change you would make to turn this into a real Anaconda movie? Written lovingly with AI Be our friend! Dan: @shakybacon Tony: @tonydczech And follow the podcast on IG: @hatewatchingDAT

Send us Fan Mail Three timelines. One supposed “grand message.” And somehow we’re left asking the simplest question a movie can provoke: what was the point? We take on In The Blink Of An Eye, the Hulu sci-fi drama that jumps from a prehistoric survival story to a modern relationship to a far-future space mission, then expects the connections to feel profound just because the music swells. We walk through what works, what absolutely doesn’t, and why the film’s structure keeps dodging real stakes. We talk about the acorn artifact that looks like a meaningful thread but never pays off, the “impossible” sick plants that should drive the plot but get brushed aside, and the AI companion relationship that should be emotionally loaded after centuries but lands with a thud. Along the way, we compare the finished film to details from the original blacklist script and call out the changes that flatten conflict and drain tension. We also dig into the movie’s big themes: mortality, longevity, and the idea that death gives life meaning. If you’re into movie reviews, screenwriting lessons, sci-fi storytelling, and debates about theme versus payoff, you’ll get a clear map of why this one feels like it’s reaching for Cloud Atlas energy without doing the hard work. Subscribe, share the show with a friend who loves a good hate-watch, and leave a review. What’s your best explanation for why these three stories belong together? Written lovingly by AI Be our friend! Dan: @shakybacon Tony: @tonydczech And follow the podcast on IG: @hatewatchingDAT

Send us Fan Mail A great heist hums like clockwork: clear motives, sharp reversals, and rules the audience can trust. Play Dirty aims for that swagger but keeps slipping on its own tone, ricocheting between hard-boiled grit and broad comedy. We dive into why that mismatch turns big swings—a racetrack robbery, a physics-defying train derailment, a billionaire kidnapping—into set pieces that don’t carry weight, and how characters without real wants leave tension on the table. We start with Shane Black’s arc from Kiss Kiss Bang Bang and The Nice Guys to this Amazon release, then stack the movie against the Parker novels’ dry, ruthless DNA. Parker claims a code, but the story rarely honors it; the Outfit looms, but stakes feel abstract. Meanwhile, Lakeith Stanfield and Tony Shalhoub hint at a better film—one where wit lands and menace breathes—if only the script slowed down to let relationships form. When your thief’s vendetta shows up as a twist rather than a compass, the final reveal can’t resolve the mess behind it. From the vault that pops like tin foil to a New York that forgets to populate its streets, we also talk craft: why spatial logic matters, how music can sabotage momentum, and what separates chaotic noise from thrilling escalation. Then we hold Play Dirty against the genre’s gold standards—The Killing, Heat, even the breezy precision of classic capers—to map the ingredients that make heists sing: competence, consequence, and a world with firm rules. If you love capers, botched or brilliant, you’ll have fun arguing with us. Hit play, then tell us your take: did the tone clash wreck the con, or did the ride still deliver? Subscribe, share with a friend who swears by heist movies, and drop a review with your favorite caper twist. Written Lovingly by AI Be our friend! Dan: @shakybacon Tony: @tonydczech And follow the podcast on IG: @hatewatchingDAT

Send us Fan Mail Knights, Nazis, submarines, and a three-headed robo-dragon walk into a Transformers sequel… and somehow the wildest ingredients still feel weightless. We dig into Transformers: The Last Knight to figure out why the VFX slap while the story slips, how the Arthurian hook gets buried under MacGuffins, and where the franchise lost the character charm that made the first film sing. We compare Shia’s live-wire energy to Mark Wahlberg’s steady center, debate Cogman’s C-3PO-adjacent chaos, and explain why Anthony Hopkins turning exposition into mischief nearly steals the movie. From the medieval prologue to a London chase that forgets who’s in which car, we track the editing choices that drain tension and the dialogue tics that mistake “joke density” for personality. The TRF heel turn, the Witwiccan lore tangle, and Optimus Prime’s mind-controlled pivot to Nemesis Prime get a clear-eyed autopsy. We also spotlight what works: Bumblebee’s mid-fight reassembly is kinetic and clever, the robot silhouettes are finally readable, and the sound design keeps even thin scenes feeling huge. When Bumblebee briefly regains his voice, you glimpse the beating heart this franchise can still find—if the script lets it. If you love franchise archaeology, blockbuster craft talk, and a fair share of roast with your reverence, you’ll feel at home. We sketch the version that might have landed: fewer MacGuffins, real consequences, a focused treasure trail for Vivian’s historian skills, and a talisman that pays off a character arc rather than a single slow-motion block. By the end, we answer the big question: underrated chaos or unwatchable noise? Enjoy the ride, then tell us your pick for the series’ last truly good entry. Subscribe, drop a review, and share this one with a friend who still quotes “more than meets the eye.” Written Lovingly by AI Be our friend! Dan: @shakybacon Tony: @tonydczech And follow the podcast on IG: @hatewatchingDAT

Send us Fan Mail What happens when a movie you once despised suddenly makes you laugh out loud? We dive back into Strange Wilderness and pull apart why some of its dumbest jokes still work—and why the “movie” around them often doesn’t. We set the table with the film’s sketch roots, the Sandler-adjacent cast, and the loose, improv-first approach that leaves scenes searching for an ending. Then we zero in on the bright spots: the nature documentary parodies that deliver clean, quotable lines with a confident, wrong-on-purpose voiceover. When the film sticks to that angle, the jokes snap; when it wanders, setups die before their payoffs. We get specific. The turkey clinic should be a premise machine; instead it blinks at the exact moment heightening should kick in. The scar-trading campfire misses easy layups. A promised punch to a rival’s face never lands. But Steve Zahn’s full-throttle commitment wrings laughs from chaos, Justin Long’s spaced-out physicality adds texture, and Jonah Hill’s stream-of-consciousness bursts occasionally hit surreal gold. The Bigfoot finale is dark and oddly honest—humans panic and ruin discovery—followed by a ludicrous “fix” that somehow fits the crew’s shameless logic. And yes, the late shark montage is a 10/10 showcase for tight edits and confidently stupid science, the kind of bit that proves craft can elevate silliness. Along the way we talk joke structure, UCB-style game, and why committing to escalation matters more than shock value. If you care about how comedy lands—writing, rhythm, and payoffs—you’ll find plenty to argue with and steal for your own creative brain. Stay for the punchy breakdowns, the debate over dated gags, and our case for why the right edit can redeem a bad scene. Enjoy the ride, then tell us: secret classic or still a glorious mess? Subscribe, share with a friend who loves movie autopsies, and drop your take in a review so we can feature it next time. Written lovingly by AI Be our friend! Dan: @shakybacon Tony: @tonydczech And follow the podcast on IG: @hatewatchingDAT

Send us Fan Mail What happens when a massive sequel forgets the one thing epics can’t live without—emotion? We take a scalpel to Gladiator 2 and dig into why the arena feels quiet even when the crowd is screaming. From a “last free city” setup that strains belief to a retconned bloodline that muddies legacy, the movie races for scale without building the spine that made the original unforgettable. We talk through the action that should define character but doesn’t: a rhino fight with no ripple effect, a boat battle staged for fireworks over logic, and CGI creatures that steal attention from the grit that gives gladiator stories weight. Leadership arcs are earned through choices, not titles. If Lucius is meant to inspire, show the moments he protects his own, the beat where he decides to stand, and the speech he actually earns. Without that, set pieces become noise. And the politics? Denzel Washington’s Macrinus hints at a master plan, then self-sabotages when a pragmatist would pivot, leaving palace intrigue to the monkey consul gag and a rubber head reveal that play like satire instead of strategy. We also get specific about what would fix it. Trade Rome’s vague ideals of “freedom” for concrete stakes—grain routes, aqueduct power, Praetorian numbers—and let tactics shape the fights. Give the final duel a purpose beyond vengeance by tying it to promises made and debts paid. The result wouldn’t just be bigger; it would feel truer, the way great epics do when pain, duty, and choice collide. If you enjoy honest breakdowns with jokes sharp enough to cut through bad CGI, hit follow, share with a friend who loved the original, and tell us: what’s the one change that would have saved Gladiator 2 for you? Be our friend! Dan: @shakybacon Tony: @tonydczech And follow the podcast on IG: @hatewatchingDAT

Send us Fan Mail A killer marionette, a sleepy music box, and a town that throws a FazFest for reasons no one can explain—welcome to our breakdown of Five Nights at Freddy’s 2, where the lore expands and the logic contracts. We dig into the 1982 prologue that binds Charlotte’s ghost to the puppet, the early-2000s reset that reopens old wounds, and the sequel’s habit of inventing rules only to ignore them when the plot needs a shortcut. We walk through the set pieces that actually slap: the ghost-hunter incursion at the original location and the eerie boat-ride tunnel lined with tiny puppet figures that swarm like piranhas. The craft shines in these scenes—moody lighting, tactile animatronics, and a sense of place that finally feels dangerous. Then the film pivots back to a perimeter lock that makes little sense, a remote-control marionette that can apparently signal anywhere, and a town-wide FazFest that’s constantly mentioned but never shown. Horror thrives on rules and payoff; this story keeps moving the goalposts. Characters nearly rescue the chaos. Abby’s robotics arc and the science fair debacle give us a grounded angle that could have centered the movie’s heart. Vanessa’s dream duel with her father hints at an internal battle that deserved more time. And when Mike tricks an animatronic with a faceplate “friendly” scan—a wink to the games—we’re reminded how playful this universe can be. Our biggest plea: honor the music box. It’s the most elegant mechanic in the film, a physical clock for dread, and the climax forgets to keep it wound. By the end, ghost kids rip apart the villains and ascend, the body count stays oddly low for a sequel, and we’re left convinced there’s a sharper movie beneath the noise—one where children’s belief keeps Freddy’s legend alive while adults try to bury it. If that tension drives part three, there’s still hope for this franchise to feel both scary and coherent. Enjoy the ride, shout along at the plot holes, and tell us what worked for you. If you’re into thoughtful takedowns of messy sequels, hit follow, share with a friend, and drop your hottest FazFest theory in a review. Be our friend! Dan: @shakybacon Tony: @tonydczech And follow the podcast on IG: @hatewatchingDAT

Send us Fan Mail A ghost’s-eye horror should feel like slipping between walls, time, and truth. Instead, Presence hands us a floating wide-angle lens that wanders rooms, hides in closets, and forgets why it’s haunting anyone. We dive straight into why the concept is intriguing and how the execution leaves story, character, and suspense on the cutting room floor. We unpack the core craft problems: a viewpoint with no rules, cuts to black that read like scene avoidance, and power limits that shift for convenience. If the ghost is the brother, anchor that early with behavior, guilt, and visual logic. Give us tether rules, a cost to interference, and a clear cue for time distortion—mirror refractions, low-frequency rumble, corridor stretch—so the audience can navigate the supernatural rather than guess the edit. We also press on performance and plot: a family subplot about money that never matters, grief that doesn’t register, and a villain who monologues without psychology. Horror lives on specificity. Here, vagueness blunts every scare. Then we build the better movie. We outline how a few smart choices—consistent ghost mechanics, meaningful object work, escalating interventions, and a climax that pays off the setup—could transform the same premise into a tense, character-driven thriller. The final twist still works if it’s earned: a brother bound by guilt who learns to spend himself to save his sister, dissolving only when he breaks the loop he created. Along the way we trade war stories about clumsy props, burrito-ordering sins, and why a single practical effect can sink a tone. Hit play to hear the full breakdown, our proposed fixes, and a spirited debate about form versus story in modern horror. If this kind of deep-dive makes your movie brain happy, follow the show, share with a friend, and drop your take on whether the ghost rules should be strict or strange—we’ll read our favorites on the next episode. Be our friend! Dan: @shakybacon Tony: @tonydczech And follow the podcast on IG: @hatewatchingDAT

Send us Fan Mail A goat gag, a blow dart, and one perfect Norm Macdonald riff walk into a movie. We dive into The Animal with our gloves off and our sense of humor intact, asking a simple question that unlocks the whole watch: can lowbrow comedy land when the lead can’t elevate the bit? One of us relishes the film’s shameless silliness and second-screen charm; the other sees a conveyor belt of half-built jokes that never earn their own punchlines. From the evidence-room meltdown to the press conference “what’s in my butt” moment, we break down why justification is the secret ingredient that turns a smirk into an actual laugh. We pull on the bigger comedy thread too—what separates Rob Schneider’s neutral energy from Jim Carrey’s bit-running force of nature, and why even a brief cameo can reveal the gulf. Then Norm Macdonald storms in with a mob scene so precisely built—questions, rhythm, escalation—that it becomes a mini masterclass in how to make a premise sing. Around that, we interrogate the movie’s inconsistent “animal science,” the romance logic that never makes sense, and the tonal snapping between mailbox-humping discomfort and a dolphin-style hero save that forgets the seal on the poster. Beyond the laughs and groans, we branch into what keeps movies in the culture. We celebrate the early-2000s needle drops that still slap, contrast box office muscle with cultural cachet through the Avatar lens, and talk about spectacle that satisfies in the moment but leaves no totems behind. We also swap notes on Under the Silver Lake, where mood can outlast meaning, and wrestle with the Stranger Things finale—how manipulation and catharsis can coexist when the craft is confident. Stick around to the end for our next watch: Steven Soderbergh’s Presence, a ghost’s-eye experiment that promises rules, restraint, and plenty to argue about. Enjoyed the ride? Follow, rate, and share the show with a friend who knows the difference between a setup and a payoff. Your rec keeps the bits running. Written Lovingly by AI Be our friend! Dan: @shakybacon Tony: @tonydczech And follow the podcast on IG: @hatewatchingDAT

Send us Fan Mail We had questions the moment Playdate 2025 opened on a joyless car chase and a baffling lacrosse scene—and then Isla Fisher strolled in with the “Mama Mafia” and Alan Ritchson arrived like a golden retriever with black-ops training. That’s the whiplash of this Prime Video action-comedy: when the energy is right, it’s hilarious; when the foundation wobbles, even a decent gag falls flat. We break down why the first act muddies everything a comedy needs to thrive—clear relationships, clean stakes, and jokes that sit inside structure. The stepdad-stepkid bond veers from clingy devotion to cold indifference, making the “learning to protect” arc impossible to buy. Then the movie’s best ideas surface: coin-sock mayhem at a Chuck E. Cheese knockoff, a killer phone-call bit mid-car-chase, and Stephen Root delivering a masterclass in character POV in under five minutes. We dig into how Ritchson nails a weird tone—sweet, blunt, and physically sharp—while Kevin James never finds the same wavelength. Yes, we get into the clone twist. On paper, it’s a playful genre swing that could power the back half. In practice, CGI crowds replace practical chaos, the chase geography collapses, and a sharp final brawl is undercut by shaky-cam that hides the good choreography. And then there’s the choice that derails goodwill: the “kaboom” that wipes out a building of clone kids. Dark comedy needs purpose and release; this feels like shock for shock’s sake and breaks the one humane thread the movie earns with CJ. We don’t just roast—we rebuild. Tighten the stepdad arc, anchor the chase with real geography, keep the coin-sock, bring Mama Mafia back for a third-act save, and swap the finale’s cruelty for a convoy of silver vans whisking kids to safety. With a strategic recast and a structural pass, this could have been a tight, rewatchable romp. If you enjoy craft talk—comedy structure, tone management, practical vs CGI, and performances that recalibrate scenes—press play. Then tell us: is Playdate 2025 one smart rewrite away from great, or does the ending lose you for good? Subscribe, share with a friend, and drop your fix in a review. Be our friend! Dan: @shakybacon Tony: @tonydczech And follow the podcast on IG: @hatewatchingDAT