A movie about a dog show somehow turns into a full-on personality test, and our reactions could not be more different. We’re talking Best in Show, Christopher Guest’s mockumentary where the dogs are basically props and the real comedy is watching adults melt down over pride, status, and tiny mistakes. One of us sees brilliant ensemble work hiding under the chaos; the other sees peak unserious behavior and keeps asking the same question: where is the story?

We get into what makes this film so distinctive: the heavily improvised style, the stacked cast (Eugene Levy, Catherine O’Hara, Parker Posey, Jennifer Coolidge, Jane Lynch), and the way each handler becomes an exaggerated type you’ve met in real life. We also nerd out on details like the real championship dogs, how the production recreated a full dog show environment on a modest budget, and why some jokes land harder once you know what the movie is trying to do.

And yes, we spend plenty of time on the MVP conversation. Fred Willard’s commentary is so confidently wrong it becomes the perfect running gag, and it might be the single best argument for giving the movie your attention. We wrap with our full rating breakdown across plot, acting, production, sound, and cultural impact, plus the final score that puts this one in rare company on our list.

If you enjoy movie debates, improvised comedy, and honest reviews that aren’t afraid to disagree, hit play, then subscribe, share the show with a friend, and leave us a review with your take: genius or nonsense?

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Snow, paranoia, and eight strangers who all feel guilty of something. We go back to Quentin Tarantino’s The Hateful Eight and review it the way it begs to be watched: as a chaptered Western mystery thriller where every story might be a lie and every smile might be a setup. From the stagecoach standoff to the uneasy “welcome” at Minnie’s Haberdashery, we follow how the tension keeps tightening even when the movie slows down on purpose.

We talk performances first because they are the engine. Samuel L. Jackson’s Major Marquis Warren runs the room with patience and menace, Walton Goggins’ Chris Mannix swings between charm and threat, and Jennifer Jason Leigh makes Daisy Domergue funny, brutal, and weirdly unbreakable. Then we dig into Tarantino’s choices: the heavy “telling” instead of “showing,” the sudden narrator moment, the mid-movie flashback, and why the movie still feels cold and beautiful thanks to its cinematography and blizzard atmosphere.

The second half turns into pure escalation: the poisoned coffee, the cabin turning into a crime scene, and a final negotiation where money, pride, and survival collide. We also bring trivia, including the Red Apple Tobacco callback and the infamous guitar smash that was way more real than it should have been. Hit play, drop your take on whether the Lincoln letter is truth or tactic, and if you enjoy the show, subscribe, share it with a Tarantino fan, and leave a review.

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Three larger-than-life movie stars. Full drag. A bright yellow Cadillac. And a 1995 road trip comedy that still sparks arguments nearly 30 years later. We’re revisiting *To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything! Julie Newmar* with zero nostalgia goggles and a lot of honesty about what hits, what misses, and what it meant to see drag culture pushed into mainstream Hollywood.

We talk through that unforgettable opening makeover sequence and why it can be genuinely jarring if you’ve never spent time around drag shows or LGBTQ nightlife. From there, we dig into the performances: Patrick Swayze’s grounded warmth as Vida, Wesley Snipes’ razor-sharp humor as Noxeema, and John Leguizamo’s hungry energy as Chi Chi. We also get into the questions the movie raises about representation, including whether Chi Chi is coded as transgender, and how much “authenticity” we should expect from a studio comedy built for a wide audience.

The conversation turns when the film flirts with darker material like harassment, violence, and the constant calculation of safety while traveling through small towns. We break down the sheriff storyline, why it doesn’t fully work for us, and how the movie’s tone sometimes sprints away from consequences. Then we land on what makes the Snydersville stretch so memorable: chosen family, unexpected acceptance, and the way confidence can spread when people feel seen.

If you love movie reviews, cult classics, and thoughtful debates about LGBTQ representation in film, hit play. Subscribe, share this episode with a friend, and leave a review telling us: does *To Wong Foo* hold up today?

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We revisit Enemy of the State and realize it hits even harder nearly 30 years later, once you map its paranoia onto today’s surveillance reality. We track how a random tape turns Will Smith’s life into a controlled demolition and why Gene Hackman’s spy craft makes the whole nightmare feel possible.

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What happens when a slasher knows you know the rules? We dive back into Scream (1996) and unpack why that opening phone call still rattles the nerves, how the film smuggles a satire inside a straight-up thriller, and where its physics-defying moments make us laugh out loud. We map the 90s-tastic cast—Neve Campbell’s steady center, Courtney Cox’s razor-edged Gale, David Arquette’s guileless Dewey, and Matthew Lillard’s chaotic Stu—and ask why Billy Loomis reads “killer” from his first greasy window entrance. Along the way, we revisit the film’s biggest swing: two killers. It’s a twist that scrambles alibis, doubles the dread, and humanizes Ghostface with pratfalls and door-to-the-face slapstick that make the mask feel real.

We also follow the money and the myth. A December counter-programming gamble turned a small budget into a box-office phenomenon and a long-running franchise. We run a live trivia gauntlet on top-grossing horror series and place Scream among the giants—Halloween, Friday the 13th, and A Nightmare on Elm Street—while tracking how its meta DNA birthed Scary Movie and a generation of self-aware scares. Then we push past nostalgia and interrogate motive: was Billy wounded or always wired wrong? Is Stu just along for the ride till reality bites? And does Sidney still count as a “final girl” when she breaks the purity rule and flips predator at the end?

Our scores land where the movie earns them: high marks for structure and cultural impact, solid craft and sound, modest acting and dialogue. But numbers aside, the reason Scream lasts is simple—it lets you be in on the joke without deflating the fear. Press play for sharp takes, shameless nitpicks, and a spirited case for why Ghostface might be a wizard when the plot needs him to be. If you’re into clever horror, 90s film lore, or arguments about what makes a killer tick, you’ll feel right at home. If you enjoyed this breakdown, follow, share with a horror-loving friend, and drop your top three slasher rankings in a review.

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We revisit Set It Off to celebrate Black History Month and unpack why a 90s heist film still cuts close today. We balance the laughs and chemistry with the film’s gutting realism on policing, poverty, and the price of survival.

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A black-and-white indie that still feels loud. We dive into Spike Lee’s She’s Gotta Have It and sit with the shockwaves it sent through 80s cinema: a black woman who won’t apologize for desire, three men who try to define her, and a city that frames it all. We talk about Nola Darling’s radical honesty—how she tells the truth, sets terms, and refuses the labels men hand her—and why that was a seismic move for representation. Mars brings laughter, Greer brings mirrors and control, Jamie brings tenderness that curdles into entitlement. The dynamics aren’t neat, and that’s the point.

We follow the craft choices that make the story hit harder: still photographs of Brooklyn that feel like memory; Bill Lee’s jazz score that turns rooms into confidences; Ernest Dickerson’s cinematography that gives texture to skin, sweat, and subway light. The lone color sequence—Jamie’s birthday surprise—works like a portal, a Wizard of Oz moment that floats on romance and telegraphs the fall. It’s spectacle with subtext, a dance that quietly scripts ego, apology, and the cost of wishing on a trick candle.

We also go straight at the film’s most difficult turn: the assault. Language from the era blurs it; our reading does not. Spike Lee has since called that scene a regret, and we explore how it complicates the movie’s legacy while not erasing its breakthroughs. Therapy becomes a counter-voice that validates Nola’s sexuality and nudges the conversation toward love, boundaries, and mental health—territory too often dismissed in black communities at the time. Even the much-debated Thanksgiving scene, wild in premise, is rich in composition: who’s in the bed, who’s at the foot, who’s exiled to a chair—an image that says more than a speech.

By the end, we score the film high for originality, craft, music, and cultural impact, while calling out the stumble that still stings. If you care about black cinema, gender politics, or how tiny budgets can reshape a medium, this one’s essential. Listen, share your take—did the movie’s boldness age as powerfully for you? Subscribe, leave a review, and tell a friend who argues about movies as hard as you do.

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We revisit New Jack City with Relly & Delly to explore how a quotable crime saga doubles as a sharp look at addiction, power, and community. Style meets substance as we debate bad policing, a killer soundtrack, and a final act that still stings.

Go check out the Relly and Delly Podcast to find part two of our our collab. You can find them on YouTube and anywhere else you listen to podcasts.

www.youtube.com/@RellyAndDellyPodcast

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