Jurassic Park and Jurassic World are prophesies about modern technological hubris. From the endless continuation of the franchise to thrill-seeking expeditions, the line between wonder and ruin is a fine one.

When Taylor Holmes performed Rudyard Kipling's “Boots," cinema as we know it didn’t even exist. Yet over a century later, that same voice acts as the emotional engine for 28 Years Later. With every hiss and crack, the performance becomes prophecy, turning distant memory into living dread.

The movie industry doesn't just tell stories. It consumes them. And nowhere is that clearer than in a black comedy noir and a satirical comedy TV series released thirty years apart.

The Studio and The Player strip away the glitz and glam to reveal a cycle of belief, betrayal, and self-mythology. Celluloid itself is both the art and the ammunition. The industry…a passion and a poison. Side by side, the two projects reveal a system where the script (or, in this case, the posters) changes, but the machine itself doesn't.

For nearly a decade, Monroe let Eve Arnold in. Not because she had to, but because she trusted her to look without wanting to possess her. More than a hallmark of on-set photography, it was a final collaboration between two women who refused to be only seen as two-dimensional.

By the production of The Misfits, Monroe became the embodiment of the outsider. While the men around her throughout her career (from directors Olivier and Huston to her husband Arthur Miller, and later photographer Bert Stern) projected their fears and desires onto her, Arnold's photographs from the set are grounded in something Monroe rarely received: consent.

Sir Laurence Olivier directed her. Eve Arnold observed her.

Where The Prince and the Showgirl delivered 117 minutes of Technicolor fantasy, Eve Arnold's black-and-white photograph of Marilyn Monroe amid a crowd of reporters reveals the scrutiny beneath the stardom. In a moment orchestrated for headlines, Arnold captured something rarely afforded to the mid-century icon: stillness, subtlety, and the assertion of agency.

The Oscar wasn’t just panned, it was nearly purged.

The Oscar is a film so overproduced, overacted, and overdesigned that it circles the block back to relevance. For all its missteps and miscastings, it exposes the machinery of Hollywood mythmaking better than a dozen prestige pictures. More importantly, its resurrection on Blu-ray reveals why boutique labels matter.

Physical media, in this case, captures The Oscar for what it is: a flawed, fascinating artifact of an industry in Golden Age denial.

You probably didn’t expect the definitive history of Hollywood’s most prestigious night to be launched on a daytime talk show.

More than a record of categories, dates, and names, Robert Osbourne's Academy Awards Ilustrated is a tribute to the permanence of print in a culture obsessed with ephemeral media. It laid the foundation for Oscar commentary and scholarship in the decades that followed. It also highlights the disconnect between cultural memory and archival truth.

Liza: A Truly Terrific Absolutely True Story (2024) explores what it means to be born into a very bright spotlight, and what it takes to live up to it.

The 2025 DVD release from Kino Lorber offers audiences a chance to discover (or rediscover) a living legend while helping preserve her legacy through the power of physical media and independent film.

Please note: this episode contains spoilers.