Watched it “too late” after a decade of memes and it still landed — that’s craft. Fincher shooting consumer numbness like a perfume ad for the void, Norton narrating his own unraveling, and a twist that rewires every scene before it. The people who mistake it for a lifestyle guide missed the joke; the joke is the point.

Ten years of homework and it paid off with the boldest blockbuster ending ever shipped: the villain wins, half the cast turns to ash, credits. I have never heard a packed theater go that quiet. Thanos carrying an entire crossover as basically the protagonist should not have worked — it worked.

A perfect machine. Every frame is doing three jobs and the tonal turn halfway through is one of the cleanest gear-changes in film. Not quite holy for me only because it’s flawless rather than transcendent — but excellent is not a consolation prize.

Ledger turned a comic-book villain into a force of nature. The interrogation scene still crackles. The bar I hold every “serious blockbuster” to.

Two people in a room and it’s tenser than most thrillers. That final drum solo earns every second. “Not quite my tempo” lives rent-free in my head.

The action movie that reminded Hollywood what choreography is for. Long takes, real falls, gun-fu that reads like dance notation, and a mythology (the Continental! gold coins!) sketched with two lines of dialogue and total confidence. The sequels got bigger; this one stayed perfect-sized.

Messier than the first one and everyone knows it — but this is where the MCU learned to swagger. Rockwell being slimy, Monaco going sideways, and the suitcase suit-up that made an entire generation lose it in the theater. Comfort-rewatch Marvel: you don’t put it on for the plot, you put it on for the vibes.

The book’s oral-history brain got traded for Brad Pitt sprinting through set pieces, and as a pure zombie-scale spectacle it still rips — the Jerusalem wall swarm is one of the great “oh no” images in the genre. Lean, loud, and smart enough to keep moving before you ask questions.

3/10 and I cannot stop thinking about it. Nothing in it works — the dialogue, the framing, the spoons — and yet it’s one of the most watchable things ever committed to film. This is exactly what the wtf bucket is for: not bad, not good, unrankable. “You’re tearing me apart, Lisa!”

Dread as a craft. The sound design alone — that constant clicking — does more than most horror. “What is the cost of lies?” is the thesis and it never blinks. Five episodes, no fat.

The only time-travel story I’ve seen that respects its own rules to the last frame. Needs a notebook and rewards one. Cold, precise, and quietly devastating.

A panic attack you voluntarily rewatch. Nothing on TV captures pressure like this kitchen — “Review” and “Forks” are two of the best single episodes of the decade, one pure adrenaline, one pure grace. It’s about food the way Whiplash is about drums: not at all, completely.

A kids’ show with better arcs than most prestige drama. Zuko’s redemption is the gold standard. Earns good on craft and rewatchability alone.

A K-drama that locks a zombie outbreak inside one high-rise and realizes the real monsters are the neighbors arguing over floor plans and who “deserves” the penthouse. Tense, occasionally tender, and smarter about class than most prestige shows — with infected in the stairwell for pacing.

The best thing the MCU did on TV, and it’s the production design doing the heavy lifting — brutalist offices, orange folders, analog sci-fi everywhere. He Who Remains is a top-tier single-scene performance, and season two’s finale actually sticks the landing: the god of mischief choosing the burden. Glorious purpose, earned.

Season one is a perfect little Spielberg-Carpenter mixtape — kids on bikes, synths, a monster in the walls. The later seasons trade tight for big and mostly get away with it (Running Up That Hill earned every stream). The Byers’ fairy-light alphabet wall is an all-time TV image.

Twelve seasons of background-TV excellence. It’s not cool to love it and I don’t care — Sheldon knocking three times is embedded in my brain, and “Bazinga” survived the memes. The rare sitcom you can drop into at any episode of any season and be home.

Built the most-watched story on earth and then forgot how stories end. The first four seasons are a 9; the last two drag the whole average down. A 6 is generous and can-do-better is the kindest tier it has any right to. So much potential, set on fire — literally.

The most relentless self-improvement machine the game has seen. Made himself great by force of will where others were just gifted it. The other half of the argument that defined two decades — and the rivalry made both of them better.

Made a brutal sport look like calligraphy. The one-handed backhand is the most beautiful motion in any game. Watching him was less like watching tennis and more like watching someone get away with something.

Slowed down to celebrate before the line and still set a world record. Made the hardest thing in sport — being the fastest human alive — look like a party. Pure joy, weaponised.

I have genuinely no idea how to rate this. As a contest it collapsed inside ten minutes — a 4 at best. As an event it’s one of the most surreal things I’ve ever watched live: a host nation coming apart on the world’s biggest stage in real time, six goals in a daze. Unrankable. Belongs nowhere on the ladder, so it goes in wtf.

Gets quoted to death precisely because it got everything right. The horror isn’t the surveillance — it’s the editing of the past, the deliberate murder of the word. The last line still lands like a punch.

Worldbuilding that makes everything after it look like a sketch. Ecology, religion, politics, and a hero story that’s secretly a warning about hero stories. Dense, demanding, worth it.

Three hundred pages inside one guilty man’s skull and it never stops being gripping. The fever-dream prose is the point — you don’t read his guilt, you catch it. Heavy, but never a slog.

Everyone’s favourite book to gift and I’ve never quite felt it. The fable is fine, the “follow your dream” message is fine — it’s all just fine. A 6 and a shrug. Maybe I read it at the wrong age.

One genuinely good idea — systems over goals — stretched across three hundred pages of repetition and stock anecdotes. Could’ve been a great essay. A 5: useful, but I resent how long it took to say it.

Took the Souls formula and let it breathe across an open world without losing its teeth. The sense of discovery — cresting a hill onto something impossible — is unmatched. Some late bosses overstay their welcome, but what a thing to build.

A fifteen-dollar indie that out-scopes studio games ten times its budget. Hand- drawn, melancholy, enormous. The mapping-as-mechanic still feels novel. I keep meaning to finish the true ending and keep getting lost on purpose.

The one that taught a whole generation that difficulty can be respect. The interconnected world of the first game is a piece of architecture I still think about. Ringing the first bell is a rite of passage.

The launch was a broken promise and I won’t pretend otherwise — a 6 is me grading on the curve of what it eventually became. Night City is genuinely stunning and the Phantom Liberty arc is excellent, but the gap between the pitch and the release still stings. Can-do-better is the whole story of this game.

A cat-and-mouse thriller where both animals think they’re the cat. The first 25 episodes are as tight as TV gets — two geniuses escalating against each other with the world as the board. It loses a step after the halfway twist (everyone knows which one), but the highs are so high it doesn’t matter. L tilting his head at a screen is more tense than most action scenes.

Twelve episodes of microwave bananas and chuuni posturing, and then the trap springs and it becomes the most emotionally brutal time-travel story ever told. The slow start isn’t a flaw — it’s the show making you love the lab members so the loops can hurt. Okabe’s arc from cringe mad-scientist cosplay to actual desperate scientist is all-time.

Objectively riddled with filler and stretched fights, and I don’t care. This is the show that taught a generation what shonen feels like — the Zabuza arc still hits, the Chunin Exams are still perfect tournament television, and “I never go back on my word” got embedded somewhere deep. Nostalgia is doing some lifting here. Let it.

The most beautiful production in shonen history wrapped around a story that’s merely fine. Ufotable animates every fight like the budget is infinite, and episode 19 is a genuine landmark — but the writing runs on repeated flashbacks and shouting your feelings mid-swing. Gorgeous, watchable, a little hollow.