Well, it finally happened... we’ve stumbled into Martin Scorsese’s favourite innovation in film—the Marvel Cinematic Universe.

Before the corporate juggernaut that is Disney began force-feeding us this particular IP ad nauseam, there was a brief period of time known as “Phase 1,” when we all finally got to experience what it would be like to watch the ultimate crossover episode play out in all its glory on the big screen.

Great VFX, snappy writing, and the “face that launched a thousand ships” of a movie that would spearhead a sort of gold rush, leading to the domination of superhero movies in cinemas and tv screens for more than a decade (and counting). The Avengers is the ultimate buster of blocks, featuring the hardest of... abs... and I’m here for it.

Also, if you’re here to see Sean Connery, Uma Thurman, Ralph Fiennes, Jim Broadbent, Diana Rigg, or Honor Blackman—those are horses of entirely different colours...

A tiger, a bear, a black panther and a man-cub walk into a bar - and manage to re-create the true Disney classic that is... checks notes... The Lion King? Seriously, the number of shot-for-shot recreations of that movie is astounding, considering that the source material for this production was supposed to be some other intelectual property altogether.

The visuals are stunning, (voice) acting is mostly there, and everyone and their mums on Rotten Tomatoes seems to think this movie is the bees knees.

Shout out to Jon Favreau's commitment to pushing the CGI envelope and providing us with a digital Gigantopithecus that manages to throw shade at both DJT and Marlon Brando all at the same time. Shout out also to the antagonist in this movie for definitely, being absolutely, 100% in the right.. except for when he threw that dog off a cliff.. that sure was pretty ..."ruff"...

Bridge... Brijet... Bridjt.. Briget.. how on Earth do you spell this damn name? Oh well, guess I'm illiterate. You know who definitely isn't illiterate? The amazing team of, book-writing, script penning, comedic geniouses that created the razor-sharp and laugh-out-loud movie that may just even be Emily's favourite flick!

Expertly acted, the delightfully witty characters fly of the page and onto the screen to deliver us the endlessly entertaining playboy that is Hugh Grant's Daniel Cleaver, the second coming of Mr. Darcy in Colin Firth's Mark Darcy, and the delightfully relatable everywoman that is Renée Zellweger's Bridget Jones.

Join us for a wonderful movie we all like to call "Bridget Jones's Diary".... because that is it's name...

What, another DOUBLE FEATURE?! What is it about movies from 2004 that makes us itch to watch more than one at a time? Speaking of itching, something tells me a few characters from The Girl Next Door are no strangers to that particularly 'prickly' sensation...

Join us as we watch a walking bag of hormones, morning wood, and teenage naïveté, fumble around in the dark trying to land the insert "shallow-as-a-wading-pool, blonde sex-symbol, manic-pixie-dreamgirl archetype" here—in a movie that throws around more uh... "legacied" f-words than a bunch of high school hockey bros in an uncomfortable locker room.

It’s crass, it’s crude—but damned if it isn’t a magnificent time capsule and exaggerated snapshot of the early-2000s, all-American high school experience.

Oh, and then there’s the other movie, where everything dies at the end… not least of all Ron Howard’s once-ambitious and genuinely promising plans for what had, by all accounts, started off as a really good idea for a compelling film. Woops.

Come for the creature fights, stay for the VFX. But don't forget to bring your tomatoes to throw at the screen, because the real monsters in this movie are all the scenes that force you to endure what might be the most expositional dialogue you've ever heard since that time you accidentally turned on "descriptive video" on your TV or "Windows Narrator" on your laptop.

And yes, rolling your eyes as the screenwriter crams a step-by-step, pseudo-science, explanation of everything happening right in front of you down your throat—like you're foie gras—is just as frustrating as figuring out how to turn off those aforementioned accessibility features without throwing your laptop down the stairs.

You won’t remember any of the characters' names. The random skills and abilities will conveniently manifest for characters out of nowhere, despite their job titles being something like "linguist" or "geologist," will confuse you. But by God—the VFX teams knew the assignment. And hey, while this film didn't win any Oscars, I have heard that it does hold the Guinness World Record for "being part of a franchise with the most films that nobody remembers seeing or hearing about".

Everyone, enjoy your Scionic Uplink. Hmm... wasn’t that what happened to Chris Martin and Gwyneth Paltrow's marriage?

This movie has the same energy as excitedly going to grab some ice cream from the freezer but discovering that the only flavour left in the neopolitan container is strawberry. Or when you go to chow down on that perfect sandwich you made earlier and have been craving all day, only to take a bite and discover that the tomatoes, pickles, and sauces have made the bread all soggy. Or when you entrust the director of National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation to remake a revered French psychological thriller, adored by cinephiles for decades, inspiring the likes of Alfred Hitchcock's "Psycho"...

Oh wait a minute - that last one is what happened here.

Want to bungle Sharon Stone's titanic sex-symbol status in the prime of her carrer? This movie does! Want to hand five Oscar nominees a dogshit screenplay with nothing to work with? This movie does! Want to watch a teacher throw a kid into an e-coli infested swimming pool at school? Sure why not!

This movie was...so close. It had it all. The source material, the talent. But in the end, all we got were a few quippy one liners, a weird Catholic-sex thing, and Chazz Palminteri uncomfortably yelling at women in public.

I wanted to like it, but I also wanted to be hit in the head with a garden rake and thrown into a swimming pool.

Get your tea and crumpets ready as we travel back to enjoy the absolute staple of the British institution that is Four Weddings and a Funeral. You may have never realized that the likes of Love Actually, Bridget Jones's Diary, and Notting Hill were all born of this O.G. cultural touchstone and box office smash hit - that's ok because we'll tell you all about it here in excrucuating detail.

Never mind the fact that, upon closer inspection, this movie is essentially about two narcissistic, self-absorbed sex addicts who have, without a doubt, shattered the hearts, hopes, and overall faith in humanity of multiple so-called 'friends' along their journey to find whatever version of 'true love' might even be possible for individuals afflicted with their level of antisocial personality disorder.

Sheesh, these two characters were made for each other... but my my... that 32-year-old Hugh Grant is charming so it's probably all ok...

This movie will have you asking questions like, "where are we?" and, "is it ethical for white people playing non-white people to have dreadlocks?" or perhaps, "do the dinosaur-deniers have a point?" and maybe even, "how do the druid guys get any slaving done with nails that long?"

I don't think that the 'BC' in the title of this movie stands for "Bull-Crap"; but, if it did, it wouldn't be a complete stretch. This movie is like every supermodel that high-school aged teenagers fell in love with. Pretty gorgeous, if not some large percentage artificial, with all of its atributes splayed out on the surface and limited in depth... but maybe that's not fair to the supermodels.

This movie is... borderline fine. Looks pretty decent, sounds horrible, and has a plotline so weak it could for sure be confused for one of those historic dramatizations you saw at the last history museum you went to.

Come for the wooly mammthos, stay (or leave) for the janky accents and more bronzer than you shake a bone spear at.